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Chapter Text

The snow fell softly, blanketing Winterfell in an eerie stillness that Sansa had grown accustomed to. It was the kind of cold that settled deep in her bones, not merely from the ice and wind, but from the hollow ache within her heart. She stood by the window in her chambers, watching the soft flurries swirl in the air, her breath fogging the glass as she exhaled. Winter had always felt like home, but now, it only reminded her of all that was lost.

A pile of unopened letters sat on her desk, their wax seals unbroken, their promises left unread. Suitors from all over Westeros clamored for her hand, eager to align themselves with the Queen of the Northern Kingdom. They sent words of courtship, of alliances, but none of them knew her. None of them saw her.

None of them were Jon.

Her fingers brushed the worn edge of the windowsill, and she closed her eyes, allowing herself, for just a moment, to imagine his face. Aegon Targaryen, or as most of Westeros still referred to as Jon Snow, with his brooding gaze and quiet strength. Jon, who had stood beside her when no one else would. Who had saved her from the hell that was Ramsay Bolton. He had been her protector, her sword and shield, her heart; and she had betrayed him.

Her thoughts spiraled back to that moment, the moment when she had told Tyrion the truth of Jon’s parentage. She had believed it was necessary, had convinced herself it was for the greater good. She had wanted to protect the North, to secure their future, to solidify her position. But in doing so, she had shattered the only true bond she had left. Jon’s trust, his love; she had destroyed it all for a crown that now felt as heavy as the snow on Winterfell’s battlements.

A knock at the door broke her reverie, and she turned to see Maester Wolkan standing in the doorway, his expression neutral, as it always was.

“Another letter, your grace,” he said quietly, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. He stepped forward, placing the sealed parchment on her desk with the same care he always did.

Sansa nodded, her voice catching in her throat. “Thank you, Maester Wolkan.”

He bowed slightly and left her alone once more, the door closing behind him with a soft click. She stared at the letter, her stomach twisting. It was the same dance every time; a lord seeking her hand, promising her a future of power and stability. But none of it meant anything. Not anymore.

Slowly, she picked up the letter, turning it over in her hands. The seal was unfamiliar, but the sentiment behind it was undoubtedly the same. She traced the edges with her thumb before walking to the hearth, the warmth of the fire barely touching the chill inside her. Without hesitation, she tossed the letter into the flames, watching as the parchment curled and blackened, consumed by the fire, just as her heart had been consumed by regret.

“Sansa…”

The voice was faint, barely a whisper, but it echoed in her mind. She could hear Jon, the way he had said her name when they were alone, his voice filled with quiet understanding. But that was before. Before the war. Before the betrayal. Before everything had fallen apart.

Her chest tightened, and she wrapped her arms around herself, trying to hold in the emotions threatening to overwhelm her. She had made her choice, and now she was living with the consequences.
________________________________________
Far to the north, at the edge of the world, Jon stood at the top of the Wall, the biting wind whipping through his cloak as he stared out into the vast, white emptiness beyond. The North had always felt like home to him; its cold, unyielding harshness suited him. But now, it felt as though the cold had seeped into his very soul.

A raven landed at the rookery below, its black wings a stark contrast to the snow-covered stones. Jon’s eyes followed it, knowing before he even saw the seal that it was another letter from Winterfell. Another letter from her.

He sighed heavily, his breath misting in the frozen air. How many had she sent now? Five? Six? He had stopped counting after the third. Each one had been the same, filled with apologies, with regret, with words he no longer had the heart to read.

As he made his way down the steps, the familiar weight of Ghost padded silently beside him, the direwolf’s presence grounding him, even as his mind swirled with thoughts of the past. Of her.

He reached the raven just as one of the stewards picked up the letter. The boy handed it to Jon without a word, and Jon stared at the familiar seal; Winterfell’s direwolf pressed into the wax.

Sansa…

His gloved fingers hesitated as they brushed the edge of the letter, but he couldn’t bring himself to open it. What could she possibly say that would make a difference now?

“Burn it,” he muttered, tossing the letter toward the brazier without a second thought.

The steward blinked, uncertain. “My lord?”

“I said, burn it.” His voice was harder than he intended, and he turned away before he could see the boy follow his orders. The flames consumed the letter just as they had all the others, leaving nothing but ashes and the faint scent of burning parchment.

Jon clenched his fists, trying to shove the memories of her away. But no matter how far he had traveled, how many battles he had fought, he could never seem to rid himself of the one person who had been both his greatest strength and his deepest wound.

Ghost whined softly at his side, and Jon reached down to stroke the wolf’s thick fur. “I know, boy,” he whispered. “I know.”

But even Ghost’s presence couldn’t chase away the ache in his chest.
________________________________________
That night, Sansa sat by the fire, her fingers tracing the outline of the Stark sigil carved into the stone mantelpiece. The flames flickered and danced, but their warmth was a cruel mockery of the cold inside her.

“Jon,” she whispered to the empty room, her voice trembling. “Why won’t you answer me?”

She had never felt so alone. Winterfell had always been her home, her fortress, but now it felt like a prison, its stone walls pressing in on her with the weight of her decisions. She had thought she was strong enough to bear the crown, strong enough to lead the North. But in doing so, she had lost the one person who had ever loved her without condition.

The door creaked open, and Brienne of Tarth stepped inside, her face unreadable beneath the flickering light. “Your grace,” she said, her voice steady, though concern softened her gaze. “Are you alright?”

Sansa forced a small smile. “I’m fine, Brienne. Just… thinking.”

Brienne stepped forward, her armor clinking softly with each step. She studied Sansa for a moment before speaking. “Jon will come around,” she said quietly. “He’s hurt, but he’ll come around.”

Sansa shook her head, her smile fading. “I don’t think he will,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “Not this time.”

Brienne stood silently for a moment, as if unsure how to respond. Then, with a slight bow, she excused herself, leaving Sansa alone once more.

The fire crackled, casting long shadows across the room, and Sansa felt the weight of her choices pressing down on her like never before. She had wanted to be strong. She had wanted to protect her family, her home. But in the pursuit of that strength, she had lost the one thing that truly mattered.

She had lost Jon.

And now, she feared it was too late to bring him back.

________________________________________

The moon hung low over Castle Black, casting a cold, pale glow across the endless expanse of snow and ice. Jon stood on the edge of the Wall, his breath misting in the frozen air as the wind whipped around him, biting at his skin like a thousand needles. It was a cold he had grown accustomed to, a reminder of his place in this world of exile, far removed from the chaos of kings and queens, thrones and betrayals. Here, the world was quiet, vast, and empty, free of the burdens he had carried for so long.

But not even the icy stillness of the North could quiet the turmoil inside him.

The snow stretched endlessly before him, a blank canvas of nothingness. Jon found an odd comfort in it. There were no titles here, no destiny, no burdens of bloodlines or thrones. Only the wind, the snow, and the silence. Yet even in this desolation, there was no escaping her name. The memory of her face.

Sansa.

Jon’s grip tightened on the cold stone of the Wall, his breath heavy as the weight of her name settled deep within him. Her auburn hair, those sharp, clever Tully blue eyes that had seen through every deception, every mask; he had trusted her, more than anyone. And yet she had betrayed him. She had told Tyrion the truth of his parentage, unleashing a storm of chaos, blood, and death.

He could forgive her for the betrayal, perhaps. He understood politics, the weight of duty. But it wasn’t the betrayal that gnawed at him in the long, cold nights. It was something deeper. The loss of something precious, something irreplaceable—the bond they had shared. The trust he had placed in her, the love he had felt, had been shattered in a way he didn’t know how to mend.

The sound of heavy footsteps interrupted his thoughts, and Jon turned to see Tormund Giantsbane trudging through the snow, his broad frame illuminated by the pale moonlight. The man’s wild red beard was dusted with frost, his grin as wide as ever despite the cold.

“King Crow,” Tormund called out, his booming voice echoing against the night. “Brooding again, I see. What is it with you and staring into the great white nothing?”

Jon managed a weak smile, but didn’t respond. Tormund always had a way of breaking through the silence, but even his wild energy couldn’t penetrate the darkness clouding Jon’s thoughts tonight.

Tormund studied him for a moment, his grin fading slightly. “You’ve got that look on your face again,” he said, stepping closer. “The one where you’re thinking too much. Bad for your health, you know.”

Jon let out a long breath, shaking his head. “It’s nothing.”

Tormund crossed his arms over his chest, his breath visible in the icy air. “Nothing, eh? I’ve known you long enough to know when you’re lying, Jon Snow. What’s eating at you this time? Still thinking about the red-haired one, aren’t you?”

Jon didn’t have to ask who Tormund meant. He always referred to Sansa as “the red-haired one,” and though it was said with no ill will, the words still stirred something painful inside Jon.

“Another raven came today,” Jon admitted, his voice barely more than a whisper. “From Winterfell. Another letter from her.”

Tormund’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Ah, so that’s it. She’s been sending those ravens for months now, hasn’t she?”

Jon nodded, the weight of his silence settling between them like a wall. “I haven’t read a single one.”

Tormund’s expression twisted into one of confusion. “Haven’t read them? Why the bloody hell not?”

Jon turned away, staring out over the expanse of snow that stretched far beyond the Wall. “Because there’s nothing she could say that would change what happened. I trusted her, Tormund. And she… she betrayed me.”

Tormund grunted, as if mulling over Jon’s words. “Aye, maybe she did. But you’ve done worse things in the name of family, haven’t you? You killed your queen. Killed the woman you loved. And yet here you are, still breathing. Still brooding.”

Jon flinched at the mention of Daenerys, the memory of her death still raw, a wound that hadn’t yet healed. “That’s different,” he muttered, his voice thick with guilt.

“Is it?” Tormund asked, his voice hardening. “You did what you thought was right. So did she. You can’t fault her for that.”

“I didn’t betray her,” Jon countered, the bitterness in his tone sharp enough to cut through the cold.

Tormund’s gaze softened, though his words remained blunt. “No, but you did something worse. You walked away. And sometimes, that’s a worse kind of betrayal.”

The words hit Jon like a blow to the chest, and for a moment, he couldn’t speak. Tormund’s blunt honesty cut through the fog of his thoughts, laying bare the truth he had been avoiding for months.

“You loved her, Jon,” Tormund said, his voice quiet now. “Not in the way people think, but in the way that matters. I’ve seen the way you two look at each other. That kind of bond doesn’t just disappear.”

Jon swallowed hard, his throat tight. “I don’t know if it matters anymore.”

Tormund raised an eyebrow, his expression softening with something akin to sympathy. “Matters? Of course it matters, you bloody idiot. If it didn’t matter, you wouldn’t be standing here, looking like your soul’s been ripped out.”

Jon’s gaze fell to the snow-covered ground, the weight of Tormund’s words pressing down on him like the unrelenting cold. The truth was, he had never stopped caring about Sansa. Even after everything, after the betrayal, the loss, the chaos that had followed—she still mattered. More than he wanted to admit.

Tormund clapped him on the back, his grin returning. “You’ve got a choice, Jon Snow. You can keep brooding up here in the cold, burning all her ravens and pretending it doesn’t hurt. Or you can go down there, read the damn letter, and face whatever it is you’re afraid of.”

Jon remained silent, his mind racing. He had been running from the truth for so long, from his feelings, from everything. But the thought of facing Sansa again, of reading her words, terrified him more than any battle he had ever fought.

Tormund gave a final pat to Jon’s shoulder before turning to leave. “Well, if you’re going to stand here and freeze, I’ll leave you to it. But remember, Jon Snow; if she didn’t care, she wouldn’t be writing. And if you didn’t care, you wouldn’t still be thinking about her.”

With that, Tormund walked away, his heavy footsteps crunching through the snow. Jon watched him go, the man’s words lingering in the frigid air long after he had disappeared into the shadows.

For a long moment, Jon stood alone, the wind howling around him, the cold biting at his skin. His eyes drifted to the brazier nearby, where the latest letter from Winterfell lay, the Stark seal unbroken. The flames flickered and cast long shadows across the stone walls, dancing like ghosts.

His hand hovered over the letter, but this time, something stopped him from tossing it into the fire. Something inside him, perhaps Tormund’s words, or perhaps the part of him that had never let go of Sansa, wouldn’t allow him to destroy it.

With a slow, deliberate motion, Jon reached for the letter. His fingers traced the edges of the parchment, the familiar shape of the direwolf seal pressed into the wax. It felt heavier than it should, as if the weight of everything that had been left unsaid was contained within.

And then, for the first time in months, Jon broke the seal.

The wax cracked with a quiet snap, and Jon unfolded the parchment with trembling hands. His heart pounded in his chest as his eyes scanned the words written in Sansa’s elegant, deliberate script.

Jon,

I don’t know if you will ever read this, or if it will meet the same fate as the others, but I have to try again. I have to say what I haven’t been able to say since you left. Even if you never read it, even if it falls on deaf ears—I need you to hear this, somehow.

I know I betrayed you. I know what I did hurt you more than anything else that has happened between us. And I know that nothing I say will change that, or undo what has been done.

But Jon, I never meant to betray you. I thought I was protecting the North. I thought I was protecting you. I’ve always known that your sense of duty would lead you down a path that would take you away from us—from me. And when I told Tyrion the truth, I was trying to ensure that the North would remain strong, that we would not lose everything. But I didn’t understand then what it would cost. I didn’t understand that I was losing you.

I miss you, Jon. I miss the man who saved me, the man who stood by my side when the world was falling apart. I’m sorry—gods, I’m so sorry.

Please come back. Please forgive me, if you can. I need you here, Jon. Winterfell isn’t home without you.

Sansa

Jon’s hands trembled as he held the letter, the words sinking into him like the cold wind that cut through the night. He could almost hear her voice as he read the letter, the emotion behind the words echoing in his mind. She hadn’t written to justify her actions, to make excuses. She had written to say what he had been waiting to hear for so long.

She was sorry.

For months, he had been running from the pain, from the anger, from the betrayal. But as he stood there on the Wall, holding Sansa’s letter in his hands, something shifted inside him.

Perhaps it wasn’t too late to mend what had been broken.

________________________________________

Back in Winterfell, Sansa paced her chambers, her heart heavy with worry. She had sent another raven to Jon that morning, praying that this time he would answer, that this time he would read her words. But as the hours passed, the silence grew louder, and her hope dwindled further.

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its warmth doing little to ease the cold that had settled in her bones. Brienne of Tarth stood by the door, her steady presence a source of comfort, though even Brienne couldn’t dispel the doubt gnawing at Sansa’s heart.

“What if he never responds?” Sansa asked quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Brienne stepped forward, her armor clinking softly. “He will. Jon is stubborn, but he’s also honorable. He’ll come around.”

Sansa shook her head, her hands trembling as she clasped them together. “I betrayed him, Brienne. I told Tyrion about his true parentage. I thought I was doing the right thing, but all I did was push him away. I don’t know if he’ll ever forgive me.”

Brienne’s gaze softened, her voice gentle but firm. “You did what you thought was best for the North. Jon understands that.”

“But at what cost?” Sansa whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of her guilt. “I may have lost him forever.”

Brienne stepped closer, her tone filled with quiet determination. “You haven’t lost him yet, your grace. Give him time. He’s been through more than most, but he’s strong. And he cares for you, Sansa. More than you know.”

Sansa nodded, though the doubt still gnawed at her. She walked toward the window, staring out at the snow-covered courtyard below. The North was hers now, but it felt emptier than ever without Jon beside her.

“I just hope,” she murmured, her breath fogging the glass, “that I haven’t already lost him.”

And far to the north, as the flames flickered in the darkness, Jon Snow stood on the Wall, her letter still clutched in his hands. The words echoed in his mind, stirring something inside him that he thought had been lost to the cold.

For the first time in months, he didn’t feel quite so alone.

Chapter Text

Jon stood atop the Wall, the cold biting deeper into his skin than usual, but for once, it didn’t feel as unbearable. Sansa’s letter weighed heavily in his hands, not because of its physical heft, but because of what it represented. For months, he had buried his bitterness and anger under layers of snow and silence, pretending it didn’t matter. But now, with her words dancing before his eyes, that facade began to crack.

He read the letter again, slower this time, each word pressing harder into his soul. Please come back. Please forgive me, if you can. I need you here, Jon. Winterfell isn’t home without you.

The wind howled through the stones of Castle Black, but all Jon could hear was the soft murmur of her voice in his mind. He closed his eyes and could almost see her, standing in front of him, blue eyes pleading, a faint tremble in her lips.

"Jon," she had said his name with such familiarity, like they were all that remained of the world. He had heard that voice in his dreams—both in anger and in forgiveness—but now it felt real.

Ghost padded silently up to him, nudging his hand as if sensing the shift in Jon’s mood. Jon crouched beside the wolf, burying his fingers into the thick fur of his companion. The coldness in his chest began to thaw. He had been angry, yes, furious at the betrayal, at how she had played a game he never wanted to be a part of. But Tormund was right—he wasn’t angry just because of what Sansa had done; he was angry because it had hurt more than anything else.

"Maybe you were right," Jon murmured to Ghost. "Maybe I’ve been running."

The direwolf nuzzled him in response, his warm breath forming small clouds in the frigid air. Jon stood, gazing out over the endless expanse of the North. He wasn’t a king. He never wanted to be a Targaryen, never wanted the titles, the power, the expectations. But Winterfell—that had been his home. Sansa had been his home. And as much as the wound of her betrayal still throbbed, maybe it wasn’t too late.

He looked down at the letter again, his resolve hardening. There was something unspoken in her words, a plea that went beyond apologies. She wasn’t just asking for forgiveness—she was asking for him to return. To be the Jon Snow she remembered, the brother, the protector, the one person who understood her. He had failed Daenerys, failed her vision of the world, but he could still be there for Sansa.

"Jon!" a voice called from below. The rider was small against the dark snow, but Jon recognized him. A steward with a letter in hand.

Jon made his way down the steps, the cold air biting his cheeks as the steward handed him the sealed missive. He tore open the wax with practiced fingers, expecting another report from the North, but as his eyes scanned the parchment, his heart skipped a beat.

By the decree of Bran the Broken, King of the Six Kingdoms, Jon Snow, born Aegon Targaryen, is hereby absolved of all crimes against the realm and is invited to return to Winterfell, where the lordship of Dragonstone awaits him, should he accept it.

Jon stared at the words, disbelief rushing through him. He looked again. Freed from exile? The lordship of Dragonstone? It didn’t feel real. Was this some twisted game, another scheme by those in power to use him as a pawn?

But the seal was unmistakable. Bran had sent it himself, and Jon knew his brother wouldn’t play such games. His breath hitched, his mind spinning. Dragonstone. Freedom. It all came with a heavy price—he would no longer be Jon Snow, the man who had chosen the Wall over power. He would be forced back into the web of politics, into the deadly dance of thrones and crowns.

But he would be near Sansa. And the thought of her waiting at Winterfell, alone, weighed more heavily than anything else.

---------

Sansa paced back and forth in the Great Hall of Winterfell, her heart pounding. The feast preparations were in full swing, the halls adorned with northern banners, and the kitchens bustled with activity. It was not yet her nameday, but the council was already planning a grand feast to be held in her honor. The idea of it made her stomach turn.

The hall smelled of roasting meats, fresh bread, and spices, but the air felt suffocating to her. She knew the council had arranged this celebration not only to honor her but as a thinly veiled excuse to parade suitors in front of her. Lords from the Vale, the Riverlands, and even as far south as the Reach had been invited, and she knew they came with one goal in mind—to secure her hand in marriage.
"Your grace," Maester Wolkan said softly as he approached. "The bannermen from the Manderly household have arrived. Shall I have them escorted to their chambers?"

"Yes, thank you, Maester," Sansa replied, her voice tight.

The maester bowed and left, leaving her standing alone in the middle of the hall. Her fingers absently twisted the silver ring on her hand, a gift from Jon before he had left for the Wall. She had been avoiding these suitors, ignoring their letters, hoping they would grow bored and move on. But no, here they were, ready to parade themselves before her. And she hated it.

"They think I’m a prize," she muttered under her breath. "Another marriage to secure their power."

Sansa turned sharply and made her way to her chambers, eager to escape the constant questions, the pressures. As she passed through the halls, Brienne of Tarth joined her, as vigilant as always.

"They’ll try to push you into a decision tonight, you know," Brienne said, her voice low and steady.

Sansa nodded, her jaw set. "I won’t be swayed. Not by them. I won’t make the same mistake twice."

Brienne cast her a sidelong glance. "You’re thinking of Jon."

Sansa stopped, her hand resting on the bannister of the stairwell. "I think of Jon every day. I think of how I pushed him away, how I thought I could protect the North by betraying him. I’ve sent letters, Brienne, but he never answers."

"He will," Brienne replied, her voice filled with a certainty Sansa wished she shared. "Jon’s heart is slow to heal, but it heals. He’ll come back."

Sansa wanted to believe her. She wanted to believe that Jon could forgive her, that they could rebuild the bond they had once shared. But every raven unanswered felt like a door being shut, locking her further into a future she hadn’t chosen.

A knock on her chamber door broke her thoughts. Sansa exchanged a glance with Brienne before opening it. A servant stood there, holding a new letter, the seal not of a suitor, but of the Crown.

"Your grace, a raven from King Bran," the servant said.

Sansa’s breath caught in her throat as she tore open the letter. Her eyes skimmed the page, and she felt the world tilt.

Jon is coming home.

Her hands trembled as she read the words again. Bran had released Jon from his exile and had named him the Lord of Dragonstone. He was coming home.

For the first time in months, Sansa felt something she had thought lost forever—hope.

---------

The snow crunched under Jon’s boots as he trudged alongside Tormund Giantsbane, the vast, white landscape stretching endlessly ahead of them. The Wall was now far behind, and Winterfell lay somewhere to the south, awaiting his return. Ghost padded silently beside him, his large paws making no sound as the wind howled around them. Jon’s breath formed thick clouds in the cold air, and despite the biting chill, there was a strange warmth in knowing he wasn’t making this journey alone.

Tormund’s deep laughter broke through the sound of the wind. He was cradling his baby girl, a tiny bundle wrapped tightly in furs, while Brenda, his wife, walked beside him, her eyes sharp and vigilant, ever-watchful of the wilds around them.

“You know,” Tormund said, his voice booming despite the cold, “I never thought I’d be taking this path again, Jon Snow. Going south, back to the world of castles and lords. But here I am—dragging my family with me to Winterfell.”

Jon glanced over at Tormund, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You didn’t have to come, Tormund. Winterfell’s not a place for wildlings. You could’ve stayed in the True North, kept to your people.”

Tormund snorted, shifting his daughter in his arms. “And leave you to brood your way through the snow alone? No chance of that, King Crow. Besides,” he added with a mischievous grin, “Brenda’s been itching to see what all this ‘civilized life’ nonsense is about. She wants to see if the meat’s as tender as they say.”

Brenda, who had been quiet so far, chuckled softly. “Don’t let him fool you. I’m only coming because he can’t be trusted not to lose his way without me.”

Tormund laughed again, and Jon couldn’t help but feel a surge of gratitude. It was moments like these—rare glimpses of joy in the harshness of their world—that reminded him why he valued Tormund’s friendship so much. Jon had spent months alone at Castle Black, brooding in his anger and pain, but Tormund, with his loud presence and stubborn loyalty, had been a lifeline he hadn’t known he needed.

“Thank you,” Jon said quietly, his voice almost lost to the wind. “For coming with me. I know it’s not easy, especially with a baby.”

Tormund looked at Jon, his blue eyes softer than usual. “You’re family, Jon Snow. And wildlings don’t turn their back on family. Besides, I figure this one—” he lifted his daughter a little—“should see the world. No better place to start than Winterfell.”

Jon nodded, but his thoughts began to drift. He hadn’t spoken much about what lay ahead, about what Winterfell meant to him now, after everything that had happened. He still wasn’t sure what kind of home it would be. Not after all the betrayal, not after the pain of leaving.

He glanced at Ghost, who stayed close to his side, silent and watchful. Even Ghost seemed to sense the unease in him.

Tormund, always one to pick up on Jon’s silences, nudged him with his elbow. “You’re thinking too much again, Jon Snow. You’ve got that look—like someone’s about to stab you in the back.”

Jon huffed a humorless laugh. “Not far from the truth, is it?”

Tormund raised an eyebrow. “You still angry about what happened? About the whole king thing? The girl with the dragons?”

Jon’s jaw tightened. “I’m angry about a lot of things. Not just Daenerys.”

Tormund fell silent, waiting for Jon to continue. They walked a few more paces before Jon spoke again, his voice colder than the wind around them.

“I’m angry at Sam.”

Tormund shot him a surprised look. “The fat one? Tarley?”

Jon nodded, his gaze fixed on the snowy path ahead. “He’s the one who told me. About who I really was—who I’m supposed to be. My… parentage. He said he was doing it to help, but all he did was use me.”

Tormund frowned. “I thought he was your friend. Isn’t that what friends do? Tell you the truth?”

Jon shook his head, his hands balling into fists. “He didn’t do it out of friendship. He did it because he thought it was the right political move. He wanted me to claim the throne. He thought I was the better option. And in doing that, he destroyed everything. He turned me into a weapon, like everyone else. I wasn’t his friend, Tormund. I was a tool.”

The words hung In the cold air, bitter and sharp. Jon hadn’t realized how deep the anger ran until now. Samwell Tarly—his oldest friend, the man who had stood by him through so much—had used him like everyone else had. Daenerys, Tyrion, even Sansa in her own way. All of them had seen him as something more than Jon Snow, something he never wanted to be. And Sam, of all people, should have known better.

“I trusted him,” Jon continued, his voice low. “And he did what everyone else did—he made me something I’m not. I’m not Aegon Targaryen. I never wanted that.”

Tormund was quiet for a moment, his brow furrowed. “Aye, I see it now. Sam’s a clever one, always thinking too much. But maybe he didn’t mean to hurt you, Jon. Maybe he was just trying to help in the only way he knew how.”

“Maybe,” Jon muttered, though the words did little to ease the bitterness in his heart. “But it doesn’t change what he did. I can’t look at him the same way anymore.”

Tormund’s eyes softened as he looked at Jon, his usual boisterous energy replaced with something more thoughtful. “You’ve had a lot put on your shoulders, Jon Snow. You’ve been used by a lot of people, aye. But you’re still here. You’ve still got those who care about you—who see you for who you really are. Not what your name says, not what your blood says. Just you.”

Jon swallowed, the weight of those words sinking in. For so long, he had felt like a pawn in a game he never wanted to play, torn between loyalties, names, and titles he despised. But here, walking beside Tormund, Brenda, and his baby girl, with Ghost by his side, he felt something close to peace. These people didn’t care about his name. They didn’t see Aegon Targaryen or the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. They saw Jon Snow—their brother, their friend, their family.

“I’m grateful for that,” Jon said softly, glancing at Tormund. “For you. For all of this.”

Tormund grinned, the light returning to his eyes. “Ah, don’t go getting all sentimental on me now, Jon Snow. You’ve still got a long road ahead of you before we reach Winterfell. Save your thanks for when we’re sitting by a warm fire with a mug of ale in our hands.”

Jon chuckled, a rare sound in the cold northern winds. “I’ll hold you to that.”

As they continued south, toward Winterfell, Jon felt a flicker of something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Not anger or bitterness, but a quiet hope. A hope that, perhaps, when he reached Winterfell, he could begin to mend what had been broken—not just with Sansa, but with himself.

---------

Sansa stood by the window of her chambers, her breath fogging the glass as she stared out into the snow-covered courtyard below. The crisp air inside felt colder than usual, despite the fire burning brightly in the hearth. Her heart thudded heavily in her chest, a mix of excitement and nervousness tightening her stomach. Jon was coming home.

After all this time, after all the letters, the unanswered ravens, the silence that had stretched on like a bitter winter, Jon was returning to Winterfell. But with him came a flood of uncertainties she wasn’t prepared to face.

Would he forgive her?

Sansa’s hand trembled slightly as she pressed it against the cool glass. She had betrayed him in a way she hadn’t even fully understood at the time. Telling Tyrion about Jon’s parentage had felt necessary, like a strategic move to secure the North’s future. But in doing so, she had shattered the fragile trust between them. And she hadn’t realized just how much she had depended on that bond—on him—until he was gone.

Now he was returning, but under a new shadow: Bran’s offer. Aegon Targaryen, the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, the Lord of Dragonstone. Jon had never wanted power, but would he be able to resist this? Would he take Bran’s offer and become Aegon Targaryen, far away from Winterfell? Far away from her?

A part of her longed for him to accept Bran’s offer. It would free him from the exile he never deserved. He wouldn’t be bound to the Wall, to the harsh, cold life of Castle Black. He would have a title, land, power—the things she once thought every Stark needed to secure their place in the world. But the thought of Jon as the Lord of Dragonstone—far across the sea, living a life away from her—twisted her heart painfully.

If Jon left, who would she have? Winterfell felt colder and lonelier without him, the suitors pressing in around her, eager to use her as a pawn in their own games of power. The council wanted her married, and the grand feast they were planning had become a veiled courtship display. They thought of her future, the future of the North, but none of them cared about what she truly wanted.

But what did she want? Sansa’s thoughts spun, torn between the duty she had upheld for so long and something deeper—something she had been too afraid to admit to herself. She wanted Jon to stay. Not as Aegon Targaryen, the Lord of Dragonstone, but as Jon Snow, her brother, her protector—perhaps even more.

A knock on her chamber door startled her, and Brienne of Tarth stepped inside, her face steady and unreadable as ever. The flickering firelight cast shadows across her armor, but her eyes softened when they met Sansa’s.

"Your grace," Brienne said, her voice low. "You asked for me."

Sansa nodded, turning away from the window and moving toward the warmth of the hearth. She wasn’t sure how to begin. Brienne had always been her most loyal protector, the one who stood by her side when the world was at its darkest, but this was different. This was about Jon—about family. And about choices Sansa wasn’t sure how to make.

"Jon is coming back," Sansa began, her voice quieter than she intended. "Bran has freed him from his exile."

Brienne nodded, her eyes watching Sansa carefully. "I heard. And he’s been offered Dragonstone."

"Yes." Sansa bit her lip, her emotions swirling. "That’s what worries me."

Brienne tilted her head slightly, the question clear in her eyes. Sansa took a deep breath before continuing.

"I don’t know what Jon will choose. He could take the title, the land… it would give him a place in the world again, outside the Wall. He could be free of all of this. But if he does…" Sansa hesitated, her heart tightening. "If he does, he’ll be far away from Winterfell. Far away from me."

Brienne’s brow furrowed in thought. "You think he would leave you behind?"

Sansa let out a heavy sigh. "I don’t know. That’s the thing—I don’t know how he feels about me anymore. I haven’t seen him since he left, and the last time we spoke… things were different. I betrayed his trust."

"He was hurt," Brienne agreed softly. "But Jon is not one to hold grudges. He’s forgiven worse things before."

Sansa glanced up, meeting Brienne’s gaze. "But does he still care for me? Would he even want to stay here in Winterfell? Or does he want to go as far away from me as possible?"

Brienne stepped closer, her tall frame casting a protective shadow over Sansa. "He cares about you, your grace. That much is certain. Jon has always cared about his family, and you’re his family. He may be angry, but that doesn’t mean he’s stopped loving you."

The word love hung in the air between them, and Sansa’s heart gave a small, painful twist. Did Jon still love her? Not just as his sister, but something more? Did she love him that way? The lines had always been blurred between them—what was duty, what was affection, and what was something deeper. But now, faced with the possibility of losing him forever, Sansa realized that she didn’t want Jon to be Aegon Targaryen, Lord of Dragonstone. She wanted him to stay with her in Winterfell. She wanted him to help her fight off the unwanted marriages, to stand by her side like he had before.

"I could find a way for him to stay," Sansa whispered, more to herself than to Brienne. "If he stays, he could help me… save me from this. The lords want me married off, but if Jon were here…"

Brienne’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Are you suggesting… marriage?"

Sansa felt her cheeks warm, though she wasn’t sure why. "I don’t know. Maybe. It would keep him here, wouldn’t it? It would stop the suitors, secure the North. And Jon—he’s the one person I know I could trust. Completely."

"You want to choose love this time," Brienne said, her voice steady. "Not duty."

Sansa met her gaze, her heart pounding. "Yes. But is it too late? Does Jon still love me? Could he even forgive me for what I did?"

Brienne’s expression softened, and she placed a gentle hand on Sansa’s shoulder. "You won’t know until you face him. But if Jon Snow has anything left in him, it’s the capacity to forgive those he loves. You should tell him how you feel, Sansa. Before it’s too late."

Sansa nodded, though her heart still wavered with uncertainty. She would choose love this time, but did Jon feel the same? Would he stay in Winterfell, or would he accept Bran’s offer and take the path that led him far away from her?

Before she could say anything else, there was a knock at the door. One of the servants entered, bowing slightly.

"Your grace, the first lords have arrived for the feast."

Sansa straightened, her mind snapping back to the present. The feast—another reminder of the duty she had been shackled to for so long. The lords would come, and they would look at her as a prize to be won. But she wasn’t a prize, and she wasn’t going to be married off like some pawn in a political game.

She glanced at Brienne, determination flaring in her eyes. "I will face them. But Jon’s return… that changes everything."

Brienne gave a small nod of approval. "He’ll be here soon, your grace. And when he does, you’ll know what to do."

Sansa inhaled deeply, straightening her back. The lords may have come for a feast, but what they didn’t realize was that Sansa Stark was no longer playing by their rules. The only question that remained was whether Jon would stand with her or if she would have to face the world alone.

Chapter Text

Sansa

The Great Hall of Winterfell was a cacophony of sound, an orchestrated symphony of laughter, music, and the rhythmic clinking of goblets. Sansa Stark sat at the high table, gazing out at the sea of lords and ladies who had gathered from all corners of Westeros. The smell of roasted meats and hearty stews filled the air, mingling with the scent of pinewood smoke from the blazing hearths. Above the revelry, Stark banners fluttered in the drafts that whispered through the hall, their direwolf sigil illuminated by flickering candlelight.

Yet despite the grandeur, there was a sense of unease buried deep within her chest. Each laugh and cheer sounded hollow to her ears, the weight of the evening’s purpose pressing down on her. The feast was a celebration, or so it was named, but Sansa knew better. This gathering was about politics, power, and her future as Queen of the North. Every man here sought her favor, but she could see it in their eyes, the hunger, the ambition. To them, she was a prize, not a person.

She took a sip of her wine, the rich, dark liquid doing little to ease her tension. Her eyes wandered over the faces in the hall, familiar yet distant. Lords from the Vale, the Riverlands, and even the Reach had come, their banners displayed proudly as their courtiers mingled with Northern lords. And though she knew the importance of alliances, of solidifying her rule, the thought of choosing one of these men, of tying herself to someone for the sake of politics, twisted her stomach into knots.

A flicker of movement caught her eye, and her attention shifted. Gilly was standing near the far wall, cradling her child in her arms, her eyes scanning the room as if searching for something or someone. Sam stood beside her, his familiar face breaking into a wide smile as he spotted Sansa. He made his way toward her, threading through the crowd with his usual gentleness, his robes swaying as he walked.

Sansa felt a warmth in her chest at the sight of Sam. Of all the people in the hall, he was one of the few whose presence brought her any comfort.

“Your Grace,” Sam said with a broad smile, dipping into a slightly awkward bow as he approached her. “It’s been too long.”

Sansa stood, returning the smile. “Sam, it’s good to see you. I didn’t know you’d be coming for the feast.”

“We didn’t intend to,” Sam admitted, glancing fondly at Gilly. “But Gilly insisted we come. She’s been wanting to see Winterfell again, and… well, we thought it would be nice to visit. And, of course, to see you.”

His words warmed her heart, and for a moment, she allowed herself to relax. “I’m glad you did,” she said. “Winterfell has missed you.”

Sam’s smile widened, and he gestured to the tall man standing just behind him. “May I introduce Lord Reynold Hightower, my childhood friend from Oldtown? He traveled with us for the feast.”

Sansa turned her gaze to Lord Reynold, and her breath caught for a moment. He was tall, lean, and strikingly handsome, with dark hair and sharp features. His eyes, a deep blue, sparkled with amusement as he stepped forward, bowing low in front of her.

“Your Grace,” Reynold said, his voice smooth and polished. “It’s an honor to meet the Queen of the North. Sam has spoken highly of you, though I must admit, his words don’t do you justice.”

There was a charm in his tone, an ease with which he carried himself, that caught Sansa off guard. She had grown so used to the grim, battle-hardened men of the North, their rough edges and blunt manners, that Reynold’s polished grace felt almost foreign.

“You flatter me, my lord,” Sansa replied, offering him a polite smile, though she felt a flicker of unease at the way his gaze lingered.

“Not at all, your grace,” Reynold said, his grin widening. “I simply speak the truth. Perhaps, if it pleases you, we could share a dance later? I promise not to step on your toes.”

Sansa hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to respond. There was something about Reynold that was undeniably charming, but the timing of this, of everything, felt wrong. Before she could speak, however, Gilly stepped forward, her smile as warm as ever.

“Your Grace,” Gilly said, her voice soft and sweet, “it’s good to see you. The little one’s grown since you last saw him.”

Sansa’s heart lightened at the sight of Gilly, and she reached out to gently touch the little Sam's cheek. “He has. He’s grown strong. Just like his mother.”

Gilly beamed at the compliment, and for a moment, the tension Sansa had been carrying all evening seemed to lift. The conversation drifted to light pleasantries, and Sansa found herself laughing softly at Sam’s stories of Oldtown and their journey to Winterfell.

---

Jon

The cold bit at Jon’s skin as he approached the gates of Winterfell, the wind howling around him as if to remind him of the distance he had traveled. Ghost padded silently at his side, his white fur blending with the snow, his presence grounding Jon even as his thoughts churned.

Winterfell loomed before him, a place that had once been his home but now felt foreign, almost distant. The familiar towers and battlements were unchanged, but the weight of his exile, of the decisions he had made, cast a shadow over everything. He had left Winterfell behind, had left behind the people he loved, and now, as he returned, it felt as if he were intruding into a world that had moved on without him.

He gripped the reins of his horse tighter, his mind racing. Sansa’s letter had been with him for months, a constant reminder of what had been lost. Her words had stirred something deep within him, something he hadn’t wanted to face. She had written of regret, of longing, of the need for him to return, but could he? Could he truly forgive her for what she had done?

He had trusted her above all others. He had loved her in a way that transcended titles, family, and duty. She had been his anchor when the world was falling apart, and yet, she had betrayed him. She had revealed his parentage to Tyrion, igniting a chain of events that had led to the destruction of everything they had fought for.

And now, after all this time, she wanted him to come back.

He wasn’t sure if he could.

The gates of Winterfell creaked open, and Jon urged his horse forward. The warmth of the hall beckoned him, but it did little to ease the cold that had settled in his bones. The noise of the feast reached his ears as he dismounted, handing the reins to a stable boy. Ghost followed close behind, his breath misting in the cold air.

As Jon stepped into the Great Hall, the warmth hit him like a wall, and for a moment, he was overwhelmed by the noise, the laughter, the clinking of goblets, the music. It was a world away from the silent, frozen wilderness he had been living in for months. He stood at the entrance, his eyes scanning the room, searching for the one person who mattered most.

And then he saw her.

Sansa stood in the center of the hall, laughing softly as she danced with a young lord. Her auburn hair caught the light of the candles, and her blue eyes sparkled with amusement. She looked… happy. At peace. It was a sight Jon hadn’t seen in years, and for a moment, he felt a pang of something he couldn’t name.

But then his eyes flicked to the man beside her. The young lord’s hand rested lightly on her waist, his gaze fixed on her as if she were the only person in the room. Jon’s breath caught in his chest, and something cold and hard settled deep inside him. His fists clenched at his sides as he watched them dance, the scene unfolding before him like a mockery of everything he had lost.

The warmth that had briefly stirred in his chest when he saw her faded, replaced by a bitter chill. Sansa had moved on. While he had been exiled to the ends of the earth, she had found comfort in the company of another man. Her laughter, her ease with the young lord, it stung more than Jon cared to admit.

He stood frozen in the doorway, his eyes locked on them, feeling as though the very ground had shifted beneath him. For months, he had nursed his anger, his sense of betrayal, convincing himself that returning to Winterfell was a mistake. And now, seeing her like this, so at ease in someone else’s arms, only confirmed his darkest thoughts.

Jon stepped further into the hall, the heavy wooden doors creaking behind him. The sound cut through the revelry, and all at once, the room grew quiet. Lords and ladies turned to look at him, their eyes widening as they realized who had entered. Sansa stopped in mid-turn, her smile fading as her gaze met Jon’s.

She froze, the color draining from her face as she took in the sight of him. For a moment, neither of them moved, the silence between them stretching impossibly thin.

"My apologies for being late," Jon’s voice echoed through the hall, cold and sharp. His words dripped with sarcasm, a biting edge to them that made Sansa flinch. "Please, continue with your feast."

His gaze flickered to Lord Reynold Hightower, who had also stopped mid-dance, looking slightly confused by the sudden shift in the room’s atmosphere. The young lord glanced at Sansa, then back at Jon, a faint smirk playing on his lips as if he had suddenly grasped the tension between them.

Without another word, Jon turned as if to leave the hall, his back stiff with barely contained anger. But before he could disappear into the shadows, Sansa stepped forward, her voice shaky as she called out to him.

"Jon, wait."

He paused, though he didn’t turn to face her. The hall was deathly silent now, the eyes of every lord and lady in attendance fixed on them, waiting to see what would happen next.

"Please," Sansa said, her voice softer now, almost pleading. "Stay."

For a moment, Jon didn’t move. The weight of her request hung in the air between them, thick with the unspoken past. When he finally turned, his face was hard, his eyes cold and distant. "As you wish, your grace," he said, his tone flat and formal.

The title felt like a slap to Sansa’s face, as though he were drawing a line between them that she could never cross. She swallowed hard, feeling the sting of tears at the back of her eyes, but she forced herself to remain composed. "Thank you," she whispered, though her voice barely carried.

---

Jon (continued)

Sitting at the high table beside Sansa felt like a cruel twist of fate. The hall around them buzzed with conversation and laughter once more, but Jon could barely hear any of it over the thundering of his own heart. He could feel Sansa’s presence beside him, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at her.

He had once thought of Winterfell as home, but now, sitting here among these lords and ladies, it felt like a stranger’s house. The walls, the familiar banners, the faces, they were all the same, yet everything felt different. The warmth that had once defined Winterfell for him was gone, replaced by a coldness that settled deep in his bones.

He kept his eyes fixed on the far end of the hall, his jaw clenched as he tried to tamp down the anger rising in his chest. He hadn’t wanted to come back here. He hadn’t wanted to face Sansa again. And now, seeing her with that young lord, seeing her smile, laugh, and move on as if nothing had happened, it had cracked something inside him.

"How was your journey?" Sansa ventured after what felt like an eternity, her voice soft and tentative.

Jon’s fingers tightened around his goblet. "It was cold," he replied flatly, not bothering to look at her.

Sansa shifted beside him, clearly unsettled by his coldness, but Jon couldn’t bring himself to care. He didn’t owe her anything. Not anymore. She had made her choice when she betrayed him. She had chosen power, a crown, and alliances over their bond. And now she wanted to act as if none of it mattered.

"I’m glad you’ve returned," she said after a pause, her voice strained. "Winterfell hasn’t felt the same without you."

Jon set his goblet down with more force than necessary, the sound of it hitting the table making a few nearby lords glance in their direction. He still didn’t look at her when he spoke. "Winterfell is as it’s always been. It doesn’t need me."

The words hung in the air between them, heavy and final. Sansa flinched at the bluntness, her hands twisting in her lap as she struggled to find something to say. But before she could, the sound of approaching footsteps drew their attention.

Samwell Tarly stood before them, his face lighting up with a broad smile as soon as his eyes met Jon’s. "Jon! It’s good to see you again. I was hoping you’d come to…"

"Grand Maester," Jon interrupted, his tone cold and distant. He didn’t look at Sam, and the use of the formal title instead of his name made Sam falter.

"Ah, yes," Sam stammered, clearly taken aback by the abruptness. "I just wanted to…."

"Later," Jon cut him off, dismissing him with a nod. He couldn’t bring himself to engage with Sam right now. His presence only reminded Jon of how deeply he had been betrayed by those he had once considered friends.

Sam’s smile faltered, but he nodded and stepped back, clearly unsure of what to do. The tension in the air thickened as Sam retreated, and Jon could feel the eyes of the room on him once again. He hated it, the way they all looked at him, as if he were something fragile or dangerous.

And then, before he could even gather his thoughts, Lord Reynold Hightower approached.

---

Sansa

Sansa felt her heart clench as Sam retreated, his face clouded with confusion and disappointment. She knew Jon’s coldness wasn’t just directed at her. It was directed at everyone who had played a part in the chaos that had unfolded. And while Sam had been trying to help, Jon had clearly not forgiven him for revealing the truth of his parentage.

But before Sansa could say anything to ease the tension, Lord Reynold Hightower approached the table, his ever-present grin still in place. She could feel Jon stiffen beside her as the young lord bowed low, his gaze flicking between them with an almost amused air.

"Lord Snow," Reynold said smoothly, "it’s a pleasure to finally meet the man I’ve heard so much about."

Jon’s gaze slowly shifted to Reynold, his expression unreadable. "And what have you heard, Lord Hightower?" His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it, a warning.

Reynold chuckled, seemingly unfazed. "Tales of bravery, of course. Though, I must admit, I’ve been curious; how was it during the Battle of King’s Landing? Or the Long Night, for that matter?"

The question, though posed lightly, carried a weight that made Sansa’s stomach twist. She could see the tension building in Jon’s posture, could feel the storm brewing just beneath the surface. Before she could intervene, Reynold pressed on, his tone becoming sharper, more pointed.

"I mean, I can only imagine what it must have been like for you, Lord Snow. Fighting alongside your family… well, your aunt, at least. Though I suppose there’s always the risk, isn’t there?" His smile grew darker. "Targaryens, after all, do have a tendency to… lose themselves."

Sansa’s blood ran cold. She could feel the entire hall grow still, the weight of Reynold’s words hanging in the air like a sword waiting to fall. The music faltered, conversations died away, and all eyes turned to Jon, waiting for his reaction.

Tormund, who had been seated nearby, leaned forward, his voice a low growl. "You’d best watch your tongue, boy, or I’ll…"

Jon raised a hand, silencing Tormund before he could say another word. Slowly, deliberately, Jon rose from his seat, his movements calm but filled with a cold fury that made Sansa’s heart race.

He stepped toward Lord Hightower, standing eye to eye with him. For a long moment, the two men stared at each other, the tension between them crackling like lightning.

"Tell me, Lord Hightower," Jon said, his voice steady but laced with venom, "how does a man who’s never set foot on a battlefield question the honor of those who have? Have you ever fought for anything? Have you ever bled for your family? Or are you content to let others do the fighting for you while you sit in comfort?"

The Northern lords around them burst into laughter, their amusement at Reynold’s discomfort clear. Reynold’s face flushed with embarrassment, but Jon’s gaze never wavered, his smirk cold and condescending.

---

Sansa (continued)

Sansa sat frozen beside Jon, her breath caught in her throat. Jon's words cut through the hall with the same cold sharpness that had defined his return. Around them, the laughter of the Northern lords filled the space, their booming voices echoing off the stone walls of Winterfell's Great Hall. She wanted to speak, to defuse the situation, but the air between Jon and Lord Reynold crackled with tension. To intervene now would only risk deepening the divide between them.

Lord Reynold, though clearly embarrassed, forced a tight smile as he met Jon’s gaze. "You speak of honor, Lord Snow, but I would remind you that words and history have long told of the blood that runs in your veins." His tone was measured, though the challenge in his words was unmistakable. "Perhaps we should all be more mindful of what the Targaryen madness has done to Westeros. After all, even you were forced to kill your queen to keep her from the throne, weren’t you?"

The hall went deathly silent once more, the weight of the accusation hanging like a shroud over the feast. Even the flickering flames in the hearth seemed to dim as the room held its collective breath.

Sansa’s heart raced, and she saw the flicker of pain in Jon’s eyes, though his face remained impassive. That single moment, the death of Daenerys,was something Jon had never spoke of, but she had a feeling the wound ran deeper than anyone could imagine. To bring it up so carelessly, so cruelly, was a calculated move on Lord Reynold’s part, an attempt to undermine Jon in front of the Northern lords.

Before Jon could respond, Tormund let out a low growl, rising to his feet with a menacing glare. "Watch yourself, boy," he rumbled, stepping closer to Reynold. "You know nothing of what Jon Snow has sacrificed. Nothing."

Jon raised his hand again, this time placing it on Tormund’s shoulder to calm him. "It’s fine, Tormund," he said quietly, though his voice carried across the room. His eyes remained fixed on Reynold, his expression unreadable.

"You're right," Jon said, his voice eerily calm. "I did kill my queen." He stepped closer to Reynold, his presence towering over the young lord. "But it was not for power. It was not for madness. It was for..." he briefly looked at Sansa, before looking back at Reynold "...the good of the realm, for the people who would have been destroyed if I hadn’t acted. And I would do it again if I had to."

The words hung in the air, heavy with conviction. Reynold’s bravado faltered, his face paling as Jon’s calmness pressed down on him.

"And you," Jon continued, his tone turning sharp, "what have you done? What battles have you fought in? Where were you during the Long Night when the dead marched on Winterfell? Or during the Battle of King’s Landing when the city burned? You speak of honor and bravery, but all I see is a man who hides behind words, who lets others fight and bleed while he sits in safety."

The Northern lords erupted into laughter once more, their roars echoing throughout the hall. Reynold’s face reddened with humiliation, but there was no way for him to recover. Jon had cut him down with the same precision he once wielded on the battlefield.

Sansa’s heart sank as she watched the scene unfold. While part of her agreed with Jon, Reynold had spoken out of turn, and his arrogance was grating, she could not allow such open disrespect toward a guest. It put her in an awkward position as Queen of the North. She had to uphold decorum, no matter her personal feelings.

She rose from her seat, her eyes darting between Jon and Reynold. The room quieted once again, waiting for her to speak. "Lord Hightower," she said, her voice steady but cold, "Winterfell welcomes its guests with respect. But that respect must be mutual. I trust you understand that."

Reynold bowed his head, though his jaw clenched with the effort. "Of course, your grace," he said through gritted teeth. "I meant no offense."

Jon gave a sharp nod, his smirk gone, replaced by a hardened mask of indifference. He turned away from Reynold and returned to his seat, though he did not look at Sansa as he did so.

The tension in the hall began to ease as the lords and ladies returned to their conversations, though the air between Jon and Sansa remained thick with unspoken words. Sansa sat down beside him once more, her heart heavy. The rift between them, the coldness that had settled since his return, only seemed to deepen with every passing moment.

She wanted to say something, anything, to break through the wall he had built around himself. But every attempt she made was met with silence, with distance. The Jon she had known, the man who had fought for her, who had stood with her against all odds, felt like a ghost now, a shadow of the man who sat beside her.

---

Jon

Jon stared at his plate, though he had no appetite for the food in front of him. His mind churned with thoughts he couldn’t quiet, the echoes of Reynold’s words replaying in his head.

I killed my queen.

The truth of it was something he had accepted long ago, but hearing it spoken aloud, in such a public setting, stirred the guilt he had tried so hard to bury. Every decision he had made; every life he had taken, was for the realm, for the greater good. But that didn’t mean the blood on his hands was any less real.

His gaze flicked briefly to Sansa, who sat stiffly beside him, her expression unreadable. He had hurt her tonight, he knew that much. He had been cold, distant, and every time she tried to reach out to him, he had shut her down. But the bitterness inside him, the anger he still felt over her betrayal, made it impossible for him to act any other way.

He had loved her once. In a way that was difficult to explain, but no less powerful for it. She had been his anchor, his constant in a world that had been torn apart by war and death. But when she had revealed his parentage to Tyrion, she had destroyed something between them that he wasn’t sure could ever be repaired.

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face as the noise of the feast swirled around him. He didn’t belong here anymore. Not in this hall, not in Winterfell. The North had moved on without him, and so had Sansa.

A faint tug on his sleeve broke through his thoughts, and he turned to see Ghost sitting quietly at his side, his large red eyes watching him with silent understanding. Jon reached down, his fingers threading through the direwolf’s thick fur. Ghost had always been there for him, a silent companion through every battle, every loss.

"At least you haven’t changed," Jon muttered, his voice too low for anyone but Ghost to hear.

He felt a flicker of warmth in his chest as Ghost nudged his hand in response, but it was quickly overshadowed by the weight of everything else. He didn’t want to be here, surrounded by people who looked at him like he was either a savior or a threat. He didn’t want to sit at this high table, pretending to be something he wasn’t. He just wanted to leave, to disappear into the cold and never look back.

But he couldn’t. Not yet.

He owed Sansa something, even if he wasn’t sure what it was. A conversation, perhaps. A reckoning. Whatever it was, he couldn’t run from it. Not now.

---

Sansa

The feast continued around her, but Sansa felt as though she were drifting through a haze. The tension between her and Jon was almost unbearable, and no matter how many times she tried to speak to him, his responses were clipped, distant. He had built a wall around himself, and she couldn’t find a way to break through it.

The warmth of the room, the laughter of the lords, the clinking of goblets, all of it seemed distant, as though she were watching it unfold from afar. She glanced at Jon again, her heart aching at the sight of him. He was still the same in many ways, the same man who had fought for the North, who had stood by her side through the worst of it. But something had changed in him since he had left, something deeper than just the pain of Daenerys’s death.

She longed to speak to him, to explain everything she had done, to ask for his forgiveness. But every time she opened her mouth, the words died in her throat. How could she explain something that even she wasn’t sure she understood? How could she make him see that her actions, however misguided, had been for the North, for him?

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a goblet being set down with a soft clink. She looked up to see Lord Reynold Hightower standing before her once again, his smile slightly strained but still present.

"Your Grace," Reynold said with a bow, though his earlier confidence seemed to have dimmed. "I wanted to apologize if I overstepped earlier."

Sansa forced a polite smile, though the tension from his earlier remarks still lingered in the back of her mind. "There’s no need to apologize, Lord Hightower," she said. "But I would remind you that respect is expected of all our guests here in Winterfell."

"Of course," Reynold replied quickly, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. "I meant no disrespect to Lord Snow or to you."

Jon said nothing, his eyes fixed on the far end of the hall, though Sansa could feel the tension radiating from him. She wanted to say something to ease the situation, to diffuse the discomfort between them, but Reynold had already taken a step back, bowing once more before excusing himself.

Sansa watched him go, her thoughts racing. She knew she should have said more, should have stood up for Jon more forcefully, but the delicate balance of politics and power in the North made everything more complicated. She couldn’t afford to alienate any of the southern lords, even if their presence grated on her.

She turned back to Jon, her heart heavy with the weight of everything that had been left unsaid between them. She reached out, placing a hand on his arm gently. "Jon," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the noise of the feast. "Please… talk to me."

For a moment, Jon didn’t move. Then, slowly, he turned to look at her, his eyes still filled with the same cold distance that had been there since he had returned.

"I’m tired, Sansa," he said quietly, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "I’m tired of this… all of it."

Sansa’s heart clenched at his words, and she tightened her grip on his arm, desperate to keep him from pulling away from her completely. "Jon, please. I know I hurt you. I know what I did, telling Tyrion about your parentage it was wrong. But I thought I was protecting you. I thought I was protecting the North."

Jon closed his eyes for a moment, as if steeling himself against the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. When he opened them again, there was no anger, no bitterness, only sadness.

"You weren’t protecting me, Sansa," he said softly. "You were protecting yourself."

The words hit her like a blow, and for a moment, she couldn’t breathe. She had been prepared for anger, for fury, but not for this. Not for the quiet resignation in Jon’s voice.

"I was trying to protect our family," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I didn’t want to lose you."

Jon’s gaze softened, but the distance between them remained. "You didn’t lose me, Sansa." he paused for what felt like an eternity to her, before speaking once more "You gave me away."

With that, Jon rose from his seat, his movements slow and deliberate. He gave her one last, lingering look before bowing and walking away, Ghost following silently at his heels.

Sansa watched him go, her heart shattering with every step he took. She had thought she could fix this, that she could make things right between them. But now, as Jon disappeared into the shadows of Winterfell, she realized that some wounds were too deep to heal.

The feast continued around her, the lords and ladies oblivious to the storm that had just passed between the two of them. But for Sansa, the noise, the laughter, and the warmth of the fire felt cold and distant.

She was alone once more.

Chapter Text

Sansa

The morning light filtered gently through the frost-dusted windows of Winterfell’s hallways, casting long beams across the cold stone floors as Sansa made her way outside. The air was crisp, holding the promise of snow, and her breath misted as she exhaled. Winter was at its height, and every part of the North felt wrapped in an unbreakable silence, a waiting calm. She had barely left her chambers lately, confined to a relentless loop of council meetings and political decisions, each one weighing heavier than the last.

But today, as she entered the castle gardens, Sansa felt a small sense of relief. The garden was a rare sanctuary, with its silent trees and snow-covered hedges, a place where she could slip away from the burdens of the North, even if just for a few minutes.

“Your Grace,” a voice greeted her softly, pulling her from her thoughts.

She turned, and there was Lord Reynold Hightower, his dark eyes warm and watchful, his smile an easy curve that never seemed forced. Unlike most of the suitors who had appeared in her court, Reynold’s presence wasn’t grating or overbearing; he held himself with a certain quiet confidence, a Southern grace that was somehow calming. Sansa felt a flicker of warmth in her chest, one she had come to associate with him, a softness she rarely allowed herself to feel.

“Lord Reynold,” she acknowledged with a polite nod. “You’re up early.”

“The North’s beauty is best seen in the early hours,” he replied smoothly, walking alongside her as they strolled through the garden paths, his hand grazing the frost-bitten hedge as if feeling out the textures of a new world. “I envy you, to have grown up among such steadfast surroundings.”

Sansa raised an eyebrow, a slight smile on her lips. “I doubt you’d find much to envy about Northern winters, my lord.”

He chuckled, a warm sound that seemed to echo softly in the stillness around them. “Perhaps not the winters themselves. But there’s a resilience here. It’s in the air, in the way people move. It makes sense, of course. A land like this requires a certain strength to endure.” He turned to her, his gaze steady. “And you, Your Grace, have that strength.”

The compliment caught her off guard, and Sansa felt her cheeks warm despite the cold. “I do what I must,” she replied, her tone measured. She had grown accustomed to flattery, but Reynold’s words didn’t feel like mere courtly niceties. He spoke as if he genuinely saw her strength, and for a moment, it was both unnerving and comforting.

Reynold’s smile softened. “You do more than that. I’ve seen leaders who command out of duty, but few inspire as you do. The North is lucky to have you as its queen.”

They continued to walk, their boots crunching softly over the snow-covered path. The quiet stretched between them, but it was a comfortable silence, one that Sansa found she didn’t mind. In his presence, her defenses felt less necessary, as if she could allow herself, even briefly, to ease the weight on her shoulders.

“What was it like growing up in Oldtown?” she asked, a genuine curiosity coloring her tone. She knew so little about the Reach and its people; their politics were often overshadowed by their alliances, by the reach of their influence.

“It’s a world of knowledge, more than any other I’ve known,” Reynold replied, his gaze growing distant. “The Citadel dominates Oldtown’s skyline, and in its shadow, every house feels that pursuit of knowledge. We learn early that knowledge is power, every secret, every letter, every whisper. It has a way of finding you, even if you’d rather not hear it.”

His words stirred something in her. The Reach was different, yes, yet the power of knowledge, of secrecy and influence, was something she understood intimately. Hadn’t she been raised on whispers, secrets, hidden glances across rooms thick with tension? Hadn’t she, too, learned that to survive, you needed to know more than anyone else?

“Is that why you came here?” she asked, half-teasing, half-curious. “For knowledge?”

Reynold’s eyes met hers, a glint of something unreadable within them. “Perhaps I came for something greater than that,” he replied softly. His gaze lingered on her a moment longer before shifting, looking out toward the snowy horizon. “Or perhaps I’m merely drawn to things I admire.”

The subtle implication of his words settled in the space between them, and Sansa felt her heart quicken, a brief flash of warmth rising within her. She had long forgotten what it was like to be seen, to be admired, not as a pawn or a queen, but as herself. Yet here was Reynold, with his quiet attentions, his steady gaze, offering her something she hadn’t realized she craved, companionship.

They stopped at a small stone bench near the edge of the garden, overlooking the forest that stretched beyond Winterfell. Reynold motioned for her to sit, and she did so, her gaze falling to the snowy ground as he took his place beside her.

“May I be honest, Your Grace?” he asked after a moment, his voice quieter, as though he didn’t want the winter air itself to overhear.

Sansa glanced at him, intrigued. “Of course.”

Reynold took a breath, his gaze focused on the distant trees. “When I first arrived here, I thought I would find a land cold and harsh, its queen even more so. But I was mistaken.” He turned to her, his expression earnest. “I see now that you are neither cold nor harsh. You are… strong, yes, but also compassionate. I find myself drawn to that, perhaps more than I should be.”

His words surprised her. She looked away, feeling a rush of emotions she hadn’t expected. “You speak kindly, Lord Reynold. But kindness can be deceptive.”

“Only if the kindness is empty,” he replied, his voice firm. “But I mean what I say. Sansa, I know I’ve been little more than a guest here, but I see you. I see the way you carry the North on your shoulders, the way you care for its people. And I only wish…” He hesitated, his gaze softening. “I only wish to share that burden, if you’d allow it.”

The sincerity in his words struck her, and for a moment, Sansa let herself imagine it, having someone beside her, someone who understood the weight she bore, who was willing to stand at her side, not just for power, but for companionship.

“Reynold…” she began, her voice barely a whisper, a flicker of something vulnerable in her tone.

He smiled, a faint, hopeful curve of his lips. “You don’t have to say anything now, Sansa. Just… know that I am here. If you ever wish to take that step, to share even a part of this burden, I’ll be here.”

The wind rustled through the trees, carrying their unspoken thoughts into the morning air. Sansa felt the world shift around her, just slightly, as if a door had opened somewhere in the distance. For the first time in years, she allowed herself to consider the possibility of letting someone else in.

The thought left her feeling both comforted and deeply conflicted as she looked back toward Winterfell’s towers, where Jon’s distant form could be seen walking along the ramparts, a solitary figure in the endless expanse of snow and stone.

Jon

Jon swung the training sword in a hard, fast arc, the sound of it cutting through the frigid air of Winterfell’s training yard. The weight of it in his hand was satisfying, almost grounding. He hadn’t slept much, and the dark rings under his eyes felt like bruises that stretched deeper than his skin. Outside, the snow fell in a steady drift, but he didn’t feel the cold. He didn’t feel anything except the sting of every emotion he was trying to beat back.

From behind him came the crunch of boots on packed snow, but he didn’t turn. Only one person walked with that kind of deliberate purpose, like every step was a calculated move in a battle. He swung the sword again, hard enough that his shoulders ached.

“You’ve been out here since dawn,” Brienne’s voice cut through the silence, steady and without judgment.

Jon lowered the training sword but kept his back to her. “The quiet helps me think.”

Brienne didn’t reply at once. She took a few steps closer, her gaze watchful, assessing him the way she might assess an opponent. “Does it?” she asked eventually, her tone calm. “Or are you out here to avoid thinking?”

Jon let out a long, slow breath, watching it cloud in the freezing air. He knew she wouldn’t leave without an answer. That was one of the reasons he had come to trust Brienne, not because she always agreed with him, but because she always expected the truth from him, even if he wasn’t ready to face it himself.

“I don’t know,” he admitted finally, voice low and rough. “Maybe both.”

Brienne stepped closer, her armor clinking softly as she moved. “What is it you’re trying to escape, Jon? You’ve been... different since your return.” Her tone softened, losing its edge as she continued, “You seem more troubled than before. The North needs you, but I think it’s clear you need something too.”

Jon closed his eyes briefly, feeling the weight of her words settle over him. How could he put into words the mess of emotions he carried? It was easier to fight, to let the pain slip away with each swing of the sword, than to confront what lay beneath.

“I’m not sure you’d understand,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

Brienne’s gaze remained steady. “Try me.”

Jon’s grip tightened on the hilt of the sword. Part of him wanted to tell her to leave it be, but another part, the part that trusted Brienne, the part that was so tired of holding it all in, felt a small, almost desperate need to confide in her. He took a long breath, finally setting down the sword.

“It’s Sansa,” he said, each word feeling like it scraped something raw inside him. He turned to look at Brienne, expecting a flicker of judgment, but her face remained impassive, a pillar of quiet strength.

“She hurt you,” Brienne said simply, but there was a hint of empathy in her tone.

“Aye, she did.” Jon’s voice was rough, almost a whisper. “But it’s more than that. I… I don’t think I can forgive her.”

“Why?” Brienne asked, the word gentle but probing.

Jon swallowed hard, feeling the familiar burn of anger and something even deeper, something he tried so hard to keep buried. “Because if I forgive her… I’ll lose myself. I’ll lose the only way I know to protect myself.”

Brienne tilted her head, her gaze sharp. “Jon, forgiveness doesn’t mean you let go of everything that’s happened. It doesn’t mean forgetting.”

“I know that.” His voice was harsh, and he looked away, back at the frost-covered walls of Winterfell. “But it’s not just about what she did. It’s…” He hesitated, struggling with the words, the admission that felt too close, too painful. “It’s that I love her. I’ve loved her since we took back Winterfell.”

The confession hung in the air, heavy and vulnerable, and Jon felt his chest tighten as he finally said it aloud. He didn’t dare look at Brienne, afraid to see judgment or pity, but he heard her quiet intake of breath, the brief silence as she absorbed his words.

“She doesn’t know, does she?” Brienne’s voice was soft, understanding.

Jon shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping him. “How could she? She’s a queen, and I’m… just me. I’ve tried to be what she needs, to put the North first, but every time I see her, I can’t forget. I can’t forget that she didn’t trust me enough to tell me her plans. She made a choice that broke everything between us.” His hands clenched into fists. “And now, if I forgive her, if I let myself feel… it’ll destroy me.”

Brienne watched him, her expression thoughtful, almost sad. “Jon, carrying this anger, it won’t keep you safe. It’ll only eat away at you until there’s nothing left.”

“Maybe that’s the price I have to pay,” he said bitterly, voice barely a whisper. “Maybe that’s the only way I can survive this.”

Brienne stepped forward, placing a firm hand on his shoulder, forcing him to look at her. “That’s not survival, Jon. You’re not living if you’re trapped by your own bitterness. Sansa is your family, and despite everything, you love her. Don’t let that love become a prison.”

Jon shook his head, his jaw tight, his heart aching. “I can’t let her know. I can’t let her see how much I care; she’s already hurt me once. I can’t give her that power again.”

Brienne’s gaze softened, and she squeezed his shoulder, a silent show of understanding. “Then let me carry this with you, Jon. Let me help you, even if it’s just to hold your confidence. But I’ll say this: you can’t keep this secret forever. Love like that… it will find a way to show itself, one way or another.”

Jon swallowed, the tightness in his chest making it hard to breathe. For a moment, he thought she might argue further, push him to tell Sansa. But instead, Brienne gave him a single, solemn nod.

“I’ll keep your confidence,” she said quietly, though her eyes held a glint of reluctance. “But I hope, one day, you’ll find the strength to tell her.”

“Thank you, Brienne,” he replied, his voice rough. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

She smiled faintly, a look of quiet pride and unwavering loyalty. “You’d manage, Jon. You always do. But even you deserve to let someone in.”

Jon nodded, the weight of the conversation pressing down on him. As Brienne turned and walked away, leaving him alone in the training yard once more, he remained, wondering if he could ever heed her advice.

Sansa

The warmth of the library was a welcome contrast to Winterfell’s icy corridors, and Sansa wrapped her cloak tighter around herself as she entered. Shelves of books stretched from floor to ceiling, an endless source of knowledge that had become her haven. Here, she could lose herself in the histories and stories, escape the heavy questions looming over her future. But today, it wasn’t the comfort of books she looked for.

“Your Grace.” Samwell Tarly stood up from his seat by the fire, a gentle smile on his round face. He was more accustomed to the cold than when he first came to Winterfell, but his cheeks were still flushed pink from the chill outside.

“Tormund!” Sansa greeted as she noticed him sprawled out in a chair opposite Sam, a mug of ale in his hand. He gave her a toothy grin, clearly pleased to be indoors, where the fire crackled in the hearth and the smell of parchment filled the air.

“Kissed by fire!” Tormund bellowed, waving her over with his free hand. “Join us! The cold has already taken enough out of your cheeks.” He squinted at her, as if the color returning to her face were a feat worth celebrating.

Sansa managed to have a faint smile as she took a seat beside them, glancing at Sam. She respected his insight, but it was Tormund’s loyalty to Jon that made her feel at ease. Between the two of them, she hoped to find some clarity.

“I need your advice,” she said, folding her hands in her lap, her gaze shifting between them. “It’s about Jon. And Lord Reynold.”

Tormund leaned forward; his brows rose in interest. “Jon and that Reach lord, eh? Didn’t know there was a competition going on.”

Sansa chuckled softly. “I wouldn’t call it that. But Lord Reynold has made his intentions clear. He’s asked me to consider… a future with him.” She glanced down, feeling the weight of her words. “And I don’t know what to do. Jon has been distant, and I feel like, well, I don’t know if we’ll ever truly mend what’s been broken.”

A silence settled over them, broken only by the crackle of the fire. Tormund took a long gulp of his ale before slamming the mug down, making Sam flinch.

“Listen to me, Queen,” Tormund said, his voice gruff but earnest. “That southern lord may say pretty words, but he doesn’t know the North. He doesn’t know you. And he certainly doesn’t know Jon Snow like we do.” He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “Jon’s been through hell and back, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care. That lad would burn himself alive before he let any harm come to you.”

Sam nodded thoughtfully, adjusting his spectacles as he looked at her. “Tormund’s right about Jon’s loyalty. But Sansa, Lord Reynold has shown a genuine interest in you. He seems to understand the weight you carry as Queen. He could offer you stability, a future where you wouldn’t have to face everything alone.”

Sansa pressed her lips together, nodding slowly. “I know. And he’s been… truly kind. Attentive. I won’t deny that it’s comforting.” She looked up, her eyes meeting Sam’s. “But Jon… there was a time when I thought he and I could stand side by side. As family, as allies, maybe even as something more. But every time I try to reach out, he pulls away.”

Tormund snorted, shaking his head. “That sounds like Jon, all right. That boy’s heart is as guarded as the Wall. But don’t think for a second that he doesn’t care. He’s just…” Tormund trailed off, searching for the right word, “afraid, I think. He’s afraid of losing more than he’s already lost.”

“Afraid?” Sansa’s voice softened, her heart twisting at the thought. “I suppose I never considered that.”

Tormund shrugged, his expression turning uncharacteristically solemn. “The boy’s been through a lot. He’s lost friends, family, a lover, his place in the world. All of it, gone like smoke. Maybe he’s afraid that if he lets you in, he’ll lose you too.”

Sam reached out, placing a gentle hand on Sansa’s. “You know, Jon’s sense of duty is perhaps his greatest strength, and his greatest burden. But he’s not the only one who needs to find peace, Sansa. You must decide what you want, what you truly need. Reynold might not have the same history as Jon, but he could be the fresh start you’ve been waiting for.”

Sansa considered Sam’s words, her mind drifting back to Reynold’s gentle kindness, his steady gaze, the warmth he exuded even in the cold of Winterfell. His presence had been a balm, a reminder that there were other paths available to her. She didn’t need to hold onto the past; she could forge a new future, one unburdened by old wounds.

“But don’t let a southerner worm his way into your heart just because he says the right things,” Tormund added, crossing his arms. “If he wants you, he’d better be ready to bleed for you like Jon did. That’s how you know he’ll stand by you, no matter what.”

Sansa looked at him, her heart squeezing with a mixture of gratitude and unease. “So, you both think… that I should decide between them based on who can offer the most loyalty?”

Sam smiled softly, shaking his head. “I think what Tormund and I are saying is that you need to listen to your heart, Sansa. If it’s Reynold, then trust that choice and let Jon go. But if there’s even a part of you that wants Jon to be at your side, then give him that chance. Otherwise, you may end up regretting a decision made too quickly.”

The fire crackled, filling the silence as Sansa absorbed their advice. She had spent so long strategizing, considering alliances, weighing each decision for its political merit, that she’d almost forgotten what it felt like to consider her own happiness.

Tormund leaned forward, his gaze piercing. “Queen or not, Sansa, you’re still a Stark. And we northerners don’t settle for anything less than the truth, no matter how hard it is. You want loyalty, but you also want love. You deserve both. Don’t let that southern lord or Jon Snow tell you otherwise.”

Sansa gave a small smile, feeling a strange sense of calm settle over her. “Thank you, both of you. This isn’t easy, but you’ve helped me see things a little more clearly.”

As she rose to leave, Tormund held up his mug in a salute. “Remember, Queen, you don’t need someone to tell you how strong you are. You already know that. Just make sure you choose someone who does too.”

Sam smiled at her as she nodded, stepping back into the cold corridor. Their words echoed in her mind as she made her way through the castle, each step feeling a little heavier than the last. The future she wanted, the life she could have, it was all so close, and yet she could feel it slipping away with every beat of her heart.

Sansa sighed, her breath a misty cloud in the chilly air. No matter which path she chose, she knew it would demand a part of her heart she wasn’t sure she was ready to give.

Jon

The training yard buzzed with activity as Jon tightened his grip on his sword, eyes focused on the dummies ahead. He had tried to clear his mind, to drive away the tangled web of thoughts and emotions, but each swing of his sword seemed only to fan the flame. The morning was crisp, the air thick with the scent of snow and woodsmoke, and the men training around him moved through their drills with practiced precision.

But Jon hardly noticed them. His thoughts were elsewhere, on a woman he couldn’t seem to forget and on a betrayal he couldn’t forgive.

A shadow crossed his line of sight, and Jon looked up to see Reynold Hightower approaching with a casual, confident stride, his armor gleaming even in the muted winter light. Jon felt a familiar flicker of irritation tighten in his chest. He had tried to avoid the man since his return, but Reynold’s presence in Winterfell had become almost inescapable. Wherever Jon turned, there he was, his polished charm and Southern grace a stark contrast to the raw, weathered faces of the North.

“Lord Snow,” Reynold greeted him, inclining his head slightly, his tone just a touch too friendly. “I thought I might find you here. The men say you train harder than any of them.”

Jon gave a curt nod, his expression unreadable. “I do what needs to be done.”

Reynold’s smile didn’t falter. “Of course. Duty, I imagine, must run thick in your blood. The Starks have always been known for their loyalty to the North.”

Jon’s jaw tightened, catching the slight edge in Reynold’s words. “And we don’t take kindly to those who question it.”

“Question?” Reynold laughed softly, as though they were sharing a private joke. “Far be it from me to question the loyalty of the Starks. I’m only here to serve Queen Sansa and the North, as I’m sure you understand.”

The mention of Sansa’s name was enough to set Jon’s teeth on edge. He forced himself to breathe, to keep his composure. “And how, exactly, do you intend to serve her?” he asked, his tone cool, wary.

Reynold’s eyes glittered, and for a moment, Jon saw something hard and calculating beneath the man’s practiced charm. “Why, however she asks, of course. I am loyal to her; in every way a man can, be. The Reach has always been an ally to the North, and I would be honored to strengthen that alliance.” He paused; his gaze unwavering. “Through marriage, if that is her wish.”

Jon felt the words like a punch to the gut. He had known Reynold’s intentions, everyone in Winterfell had seen the way he hovered around Sansa, his smooth charm and easy words a stark contrast to Jon’s own restrained distance. But hearing it spoken aloud, so casually, stirred something dark and primal within him.

Reynold’s gaze remained steady, assessing. “You, of course, would understand. She needs someone strong at her side, someone who knows how to navigate the world of politics and alliances.”

Jon tightened his grip on his sword, forcing himself to stay still. “And what would you know of her strengths and weaknesses?” he asked, his voice low, dangerous. “She’s been through more than you could ever imagine.”

Reynold raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “I know enough to see that she needs stability, not the weight of a fractured legacy. The North is her home, yes, but Winterfell has seen enough bloodshed caused by House Targaryen to last a lifetime.”

The insinuation was clear, and it struck Jon like a blow. His hand flexed around the hilt of his sword, his heart pounding in his chest. “You know nothing about what she needs,” he replied, his voice cold. “The North isn’t won with charm and flattery. It’s won with action, with sacrifice. And I don’t recall you shedding an ounce blood for your lands and especially not for her.”

Jon’s restraint finally snapped. Without another word, he swung his sword in a sharp arc, just enough to send a warning, but Reynold was quicker than he appeared, stepping back just in time avoiding the first blow. He raised his own sword, his stance defensive but steady.

“Careful, my lord,” Reynold murmured, his smile returning, though it was sharper now, more dangerous. “We wouldn’t want a friendly spar to turn into something… regrettable.”

“Then don’t test my patience,” Jon growled, his voice a low, simmering threat.

They circled each other, the training yard suddenly quiet as onlookers gathered, their eyes wide with curiosity and anticipation. It had been some time since Winterfell had seen a duel, even a sparring match of this intensity, and the tension in the air was palpable.

Here's the revised version with Reynold being more slyly insulting, belittling Sansa, and Jon utterly outmatching him in the fight:

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Reynold struck first, a quick, controlled slash aimed at Jon’s shoulder, but Jon parried it easily, his movements swift and precise. They exchanged blows, the sound of steel ringing out across the yard as they clashed, each swing more aggressive than the last. Reynold’s technique was polished, his strikes measured and calculated, but there was no true fire behind them—no desperation, no instinct sharpened by survival. Jon, however, fought with something raw and unyielding, a predator’s focus honed by war and hardship.  

“You’ve got a sharp swing, I’ll grant you that,” Reynold sneered, sidestepping a strike. “Must be all those years swinging at wildlings and shadows, hoping someone might call you a real knight for it.” His sword lashed out, but Jon deflected it effortlessly, forcing him back.  

Jon’s jaw tightened. “This isn’t the South,” he growled. “You don’t earn respect with empty words and a name.”  

Reynold laughed, the sound light but laced with derision. “A name?” he echoed, feinting before slashing high—Jon dodged easily. “You mean the one you borrowed? Or was it stolen? Targaryen, Snow—it hardly matters. You’re a bastard playing at being a prince, and a Northern mutt at that.” He smirked. “And let’s not pretend Sansa isn’t aware of it. She’s clever, but she’s always been in need of proper guidance, hasn’t she? A pretty thing, but naïve.”  

Jon’s vision blurred red.  

His next strike came faster, harder—too fast for Reynold to fully block. The force sent the man stumbling, his balance wavering. Jon pressed forward, relentless now. The blade in his hand felt like an extension of himself, each swing precise and devastating. Reynold’s confident footwork faltered as he struggled to keep up, and then—  

A brutal strike knocked Reynold’s sword clean from his grasp. It clattered to the ground, forgotten, as Jon’s boot collided with his chest, sending him sprawling into the mud. Blood dripped from Reynold’s split lip, his breath ragged as he glared up at Jon with humiliated fury.  

Jon leveled his blade at the fallen man, his voice cold as steel. “You can insult me all you like. But speak about Sansa that way again, and I’ll carve the words from your tongue.”  

Reynold wiped the blood from his mouth, his smirk returning, though it was shakier now. “A savage’s promise,” he muttered.  

Jon lowered his sword only slightly, eyes dark with warning as he whispered. “Stay away from her,” he said, his tone quiet but lethal. “Or next time, I won’t stop at your sword.”  

He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Reynold sitting in the dirt, beaten, breathless, and thoroughly put in his place.

Reynold’s expression shifted; a flicker of fear quickly masked by a forced smile. “You’re making a mistake, Jon. She deserves better than a man haunted by ghosts.”

Jon didn’t respond. He turned, his jaw clenched, and stalked away, leaving Reynold standing alone in the center of the training yard, his expression hardening as he watched Jon’s retreating figure.

But as Jon reached the edge of the yard, he saw a flash of auburn hair, a familiar figure hurrying toward Reynold. Sansa knelt beside him, her hand resting gently on his shoulder as she murmured something Jon couldn’t hear. Her gaze flickered toward Jon, her expression unreadable, and in that moment, he felt a sharp, bitter pang in his chest.

Without another word, Jon turned and walked away, the image of Sansa tending to Reynold seared into his mind, fueling the decision he’d been resisting for far too long.

Sansa

The echo of Jon’s retreating footsteps lingered as Sansa knelt beside Reynold, her hand resting gently on his shoulder. The training yard, once filled with the noise of clashing swords and murmuring onlookers, had fallen into a tense silence. Reynold’s face was flushed, a thin trickle of blood from a cut on his temple staining his pale skin. His gaze followed Jon’s form, eyes narrowed with a mixture of resentment and wounded pride.

“Are you hurt?” Sansa asked, her voice soft as she took in his bruised knuckles and the cut marring his otherwise flawless appearance.

Reynold grimaced, his hand brushing against the cut. “Not as much as my pride, I assure you.” He forced a chuckle, though the bitterness in his tone was unmistakable. “It seems your Lord Snow has quite the temper.”

“Jon can be… protective,” Sansa murmured, averting her gaze as she felt a mix of frustration and sympathy twist within her. “But he shouldn’t have let it get this far. I’ll speak to him.”

“No need,” Reynold replied quickly, raising a hand to wave her off. “I wouldn’t want to put you in an uncomfortable position. I understand Jon’s hostility well enough.” He shifted, lowering his voice to a murmur. “Men like him, they feel threatened by those who challenge them.”

Sansa frowned slightly, glancing at him. “Jon isn’t threatened by you, Reynold. He’s just… complicated.”

“Ah, yes, complicated,” Reynold echoed, an edge to his words. “If you’ll forgive my saying so, Sansa, you deserve better than a man who can’t let go of his own bitterness.” His gaze softened, and he placed his hand gently over hers. “You deserve someone who respects you enough to see you as an equal, not just as someone to protect.”

A flush of warmth spread across Sansa’s cheeks as she looked down, momentarily caught off guard by his words. In so many ways, he was right. She’d spent years feeling like she had to prove herself, like she had to be stronger, wiser, better, just to stand beside Jon. And yet here was Reynold, who offered her warmth without condition, a place beside him that needed no sacrifice of her pride.

Reynold shifted closer, lowering his voice. “You’ve led Winterfell through darkness, Sansa. You’ve held the North together when others would have let it fracture. I see your strength, your intelligence… and I admire it. More than you know.”

Sansa’s gaze lifted, meeting his, and for a moment, she allowed herself to consider the world he painted, one in which she could move forward, untethered from the weight of the past. Reynold’s presence was soothing, his attentions genuine. And yet, a quiet voice within her reminded her of the man who had just walked away, anger and heartbreak etched across his face.

“Reynold…” she began, but her words trailed off as she heard the approach of hurried footsteps behind her. She turned, her heart sinking as she saw Brienne striding toward her, her face grave.

“My lady,” Brienne said, her voice low, a touch of urgency beneath the usual calm. “There’s someone at the gates, a guest requesting your presence.”

“Who is it?” Sansa asked, reluctantly pulling her hand from Reynold’s shoulder and standing to face Brienne. She caught a glimpse of Reynold’s wounded expression, a silent plea in his eyes.

“Ser Davos Seaworth,” Brienne replied, her gaze flicking briefly to Reynold, as if assessing the man’s reaction to the interruption. “He arrived moments ago and specifically asked for Jon as well.”

Sansa’s chest tightened at the mention of Davos, the man who had been Jon’s closest advisor and confidant in the most difficult moments of his life. She glanced at Reynold, a silent apology in her eyes, before nodding to Brienne.

“Tell them I’ll be there shortly,” she said, her voice steady, though her mind was swirling with questions. “And find Jon. He needs to know.”

Brienne gave a curt nod and turned to carry out her orders, leaving Sansa alone with Reynold once more. She looked back at him, noting the frustration flickering in his expression, the disappointment that had replaced his earlier warmth.

“Perhaps we can continue this conversation later,” she offered, a soft smile trying to mend the moment.

Reynold’s expression softened as he gave her a rueful smile. “I’d like that,” he said, his voice gentler, though there was a hint of sadness in his tone. “Just… remember what I said, Sansa. You deserve someone who stands beside you willingly, not out of obligation.”

Sansa felt his words linger, filling the silence between them with an uncomfortable truth. She nodded, whispering a quiet goodbye before heading toward the gates, her thoughts a tangle of loyalty, guilt, and longing. Davos’s arrival could only mean one thing, Jon’s world was shifting, perhaps irrevocably. And with it, her own.

Jon

Jon waited at the gates; his mind was still raw from his encounter with Reynold. The man’s words had cut deeper than he’d expected, exposing the vulnerabilities he fought so hard to hide. But as he spotted Davos’s familiar figure appearing from the early morning mist, his anger ebbed, replaced by a surge of relief and an overwhelming sense of gratitude.

“Davos!” he called, his voice rough, and before he could stop himself, he crossed the threshold and pulled the older man into a tight embrace.

Davos chuckled, clapping Jon on the back. “I didn’t think I’d ever see the day when Jon Snow greeted someone like that.”

Jon pulled back, his face softening with a rare smile. “It’s good to see you. I thought…” He hesitated, words failing him. He had thought so much, had questioned everything and everyone in his life, but seeing Davos here, in Winterfell, felt like seeing solid ground for the first time in a long while.

“Thought I’d left you, did you?” Davos asked, his expression was both amusing and serious. “You know better than that, lad. I’ve left Bran’s service to come here, and I mean to stay.”

Jon’s brow furrowed in surprise. “You left Bran’s service?”

Davos nodded, his voice growing solemn. “I did. Bran doesn’t need me anymore, but I think you do.” He clasped Jon’s shoulder. “You’ve always had my loyalty, Jon. And whatever road you decide to take from here, you won’t walk it alone.”

The weight of Davos’s words hit Jon harder than he anticipated, and he nodded, swallowing against the tightness in his throat. “Thank you, Davos. Truly.”

They were interrupted by the approach of others, Sansa, Brienne, Tormund, and Sam, all gathering near the gates, their expressions a mixture of relief and curiosity. Sansa’s gaze lingered on Jon, a hint of something unreadable in her eyes. But Jon quickly looked away, his attention drawn back to Davos.

“It’s good to see you here, Ser Davos,” Sansa greeted, her voice warm. “Winterfell could use friends in these times.”

Davos inclined his head respectfully. “It’s an honor, Your Grace. I’m here to help, in whatever way I can.” He looked back at Jon, a glint of determination in his eyes. “And I’ll help Jon, too. Whatever he decides.”

Jon felt the silent encouragement in Davos’s gaze, a reassurance he hadn’t known he needed. It was as if, in that moment, Davos had given him permission to choose his own path, to leave Winterfell, to pursue whatever future lay ahead of him.

Sansa’s gaze flickered between them, her expression carefully controlled, but Jon could sense the unease in her posture. She knew what this meant, knew that Davos’s arrival might be the final push Jon needed to leave.

Jon looked at her, a bitter sadness settled over him as he made his decision. This would be the last time he’d stand here as Winterfell’s reluctant lord.

Sansa

Sansa walked briskly through the dim corridors of Winterfell, the faint glow of torches casting flickering shadows on the ancient stone walls. Her conversation with Davos lingered in her mind, filling her with a sense of foreboding that seemed to grow with each step she took. Davos’s arrival had stirred something in Jon, and though she couldn’t be sure, she sensed that he was preparing to leave Winterfell once more. The thought left her with a hollow ache that only intensified as she rounded a corner and found herself facing Reynold’s chambers.

She hesitated, her hand hovering above the door, wondering if she should turn back. But a part of her felt a pull, a need for clarity, for reassurance, perhaps even a sense of direction. She drew a deep breath, steadied herself, and knocked.

“Enter,” came Reynold’s voice from within, his tone warm and inviting.

Sansa pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside, finding Reynold seated near the hearth, his gaze lifting as she entered. He rose immediately, his face lighting up with a genuine smile as he moved to greet her.

“Sansa,” he said, his voice softer, dropping the formal title he usually used in public. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

“I wanted to see how you were feeling,” she replied, her voice quieter than she intended. Her gaze shifted to the bandage on his temple, a faint reminder of his sparring match with Jon. “That cut… it seems to have healed well.”

He chuckled, touching the bandage lightly. “A small price to pay for defending your honor, I suppose.” There was a glint of amusement in his eyes, but it was quickly replaced by something deeper, something earnest. “Though, if I’m honest, I would have preferred if it hadn’t come to blows.”

Sansa offered a faint smile, stepping closer. “Thank you for your… patience with Jon,” she said carefully. “He can be protective. Sometimes overly so.”

Reynold nodded, his expression growing more serious. “I understand, Sansa. Family bonds run deep, especially in the North. But I want you to know…” He paused; his gaze intense as he searched her face. “I want you to know that I have no intentions of challenging Jon, or anyone else, for my place in your life. I only want to be by your side.”

Sansa felt her heart race as his words sank in, an unexpected warmth filling her chest. He took her hand gently, his thumb tracing soft circles across her knuckles, and she didn’t pull away.

“Sansa, I know my time here has been brief, but in these weeks, I’ve come to respect you more than any woman I’ve ever known,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent. “I see your strength, your resilience, your wisdom. And I find myself wishing that I could be the one to stand with you, not just as an ally, but as something more.”

Sansa’s breath caught; her gaze locked on his. “Reynold…”

He drew a breath, steeling himself. “Sansa, if you would have me, I would be honored to be your husband. I would stand beside you through every storm, every hardship. You would never be alone. I would be yours, in every way that a man can be.”

His words hung in the air between them, a heartfelt confession that left Sansa both moved and uncertain. She felt a strange mixture of relief and hesitation, a desire for the stability Reynold offered, coupled with the persistent ache of unresolved feelings for Jon. Could she truly give her heart to Reynold, knowing that part of it was still bound to the man who seemed determined to distance himself from her?

“Reynold, I…” she began, struggling to find the words. She felt his hand tighten around hers, a silent encouragement, but before she could continue, a loud knock sounded at the door, echoing through the chamber with a sense of urgency.

Reynold’s hand slipped from hers as he turned toward the door, a frown crossing his face. “Who is it?”

The door opened, and Brienne entered, her usual stoic expression softened by a touch of apology as she looked between them. “Forgive the interruption, but Sansa, you’re needed in the Great Hall.”

Sansa’s heart quickened at the seriousness in Brienne’s tone. “What’s happened?”

“It’s Ser Davos, my lady,” Brienne replied. “He wishes to speak with you and Jon.”

Sansa nodded, casting a quick glance at Reynold. “I’m sorry, I have to…”

Reynold lifted a hand, giving her a small, understanding smile. “Of course. Duty calls, as always.” He paused, his gaze lingering on her face, a trace of something vulnerable flashing in his eyes. “But please… think about what I said.”

“I will,” Sansa promised, her voice barely a whisper. She gave a reassuring smile before stepping back, her heart pounding as she followed Brienne out into the hallway.

The cold air bit at her skin as they made their way toward the Great Hall, the silence between her and Brienne charged with unspoken questions. Sansa’s mind raced, her thoughts a blur of Reynold’s proposal, her unresolved feelings for Jon, and the unexpected arrival of Davos. It was as if the weight of every decision she had been avoiding had come crashing down at once, demanding her attention, her loyalty.

“Is Jon already there?” she asked Brienne as they approached the hall.

“Yes, he arrived shortly after Davos,” Brienne replied, glancing at her with a look of quiet concern. “He seemed… different. Resolute.”

Sansa swallowed, a knot forming in her throat. She knew what Brienne meant. Jon’s decision to leave had been brewing for weeks, his silence around her growing colder, more distant. If Davos’s arrival was the push Jon needed to make his decision final, then she might be running out of time to convince him otherwise.

As they entered the Great Hall, Sansa spotted Jon and Davos standing near the head table, deep in conversation. Jon’s face was set, his posture rigid, but there was an unguarded familiarity in the way he spoke to Davos, a warmth she hadn’t seen in him for some time. It hurt, seeing that side of him again, knowing it was a part of him she had once known and cherished.

“Jon,” she called softly as she approached, her voice steady but filled with a plea she couldn’t hide.

He looked up, his expression momentarily softening as he met her gaze. For a fleeting second, Sansa saw the Jon she remembered, the man who had fought beside her, who had risked everything to protect her. But then his expression closed off, his walls rising once more, and the distance between them seemed insurmountable.

“We’re going to need more than words this time,” Davos said, breaking the silence and looking pointedly at them. “The North faces threats on all sides. It’s time to decide where each of you stands.”

The weight of Davos’s words settled over them, heavy and final. Sansa glanced at Jon, her heart racing with a mixture of hope and fear. She needed to know, now, more than ever, if he would stay, if he could let go of the past. But as she looked into his eyes, she saw only the certainty of a man preparing to leave everything behind.

And with that realization, Sansa felt the first cracks of something deeper, something she wasn’t sure she could mend.
 

Jon

The chill of night settled over Winterfell, casting long shadows along the stone corridors as Sansa hurried through the castle. The light of the torches flickered, casting a wavering glow on the walls, and each step she took echoed softly, a reminder of how empty the halls felt at this hour. Her heart pounded, her thoughts racing faster than her feet as she made her way toward Jon’s chambers. She knew, with a heavy certainty, that this might be her last chance to reach him.

She had felt the distance growing between them for weeks, an unspoken tension hanging over every meeting, every moment. But hearing it in Davos’s voice, “It’s time to decide where each of you stands.”, had made it real. Jon was preparing to leave, and if she didn’t act now, he would slip away from her, perhaps forever.

Reaching his door, she took a deep breath, gathering her resolve, and knocked. There was a pause, and she feared he wouldn’t answer. But then the door creaked open, and Jon stood before her, his face shadowed in the dim light of the room beyond. His expression was unreadable, guarded, as if he had already locked himself away somewhere she couldn’t reach.

“Sansa,” he greeted, his voice a low murmur. He glanced down the corridor behind her, then back at her, a faint line of tension in his brow. “It’s late.”

“I know,” she replied, her voice steadier than she felt. She met his gaze, her heart aching at the sight of the familiar, stoic set of his face. “But I need to speak with you, Jon. Please… let me in.”

Jon hesitated, his gaze searching hers, but finally, he stepped aside, allowing her to enter. Sansa stepped into his chambers, her eyes briefly taking in the sparse furnishings, the packed bag by the bed, the unmistakable signs of a man preparing to leave. She felt a pang in her chest, a fresh wave of urgency.

“You’re leaving,” she said, barely above a whisper. She turned to face him, her eyes searching his face. “You really mean to go, don’t you?”

Jon nodded, his expression hardening. “I don’t belong here, Sansa. I tried. But Winterfell… it’s not my home anymore. I thought I could return and find a place here, but…” He shook his head, his voice trailing off. “I can’t stay.”

Sansa swallowed, feeling a rush of frustration and sadness. “You don’t belong here?” she echoed, her voice trembling. “Jon, you are a Stark as much as I am. Winterfell is your home as much as it is mine. The North needs you. I need you.”

Jon’s gaze softened for a moment, and he looked down, as though her words had struck a place he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge. “You don’t need me, Sansa,” he replied, his voice quieter. “You have lord Reynold's now. He’ll be here, by your side. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

Sansa felt the sting of his words, a defensive anger rising within her. “Is that what you think?” she asked, her tone sharper than she intended. “That I could just replace you with a southern lord who barely understands what it means to be here? I didn’t ask for Reynold’s love or loyalty, Jon. I only ever wanted yours.”

Jon’s eyes flashed, and he took a step toward her, his hands clenched at his sides. “My loyalty?” he demanded, his voice rough with anger and hurt. “I gave you my loyalty, Sansa. I gave you everything I had, and you threw it away when you…”

Sansa recoiled as if struck, her heart twisting with guilt and regret. “I made a mistake, Jon. I was trying to protect you, to protect the North.”

“And yet it feels like I’m the one who has to keep paying for your protection,” Jon shot back, his voice rising. “You chose your duty, Sansa. You chose the North over me. And now you want me to stay? To just forget everything?”

Her throat tightened, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I thought I was...”

“…doing what was best for all of us.” Jon said and let out a bitter laugh, turning away, his shoulders tense. “That’s the difference between us, Sansa. You think about what’s best for everyone else. And I… I thought we could be more than duty. That we could be family. That maybe…” He trailed off, swallowing hard.

Sansa took a tentative step toward him, her hand reaching out as if to touch him, though she stopped herself short. “Jon, I…”

“Don’t,” he interrupted, his voice rough with barely held emotion. He turned back to face her, his gaze hard and unyielding. “Don’t ask me to stay when you’ve already chosen someone else.”

She felt the truth of his words settle over her, a heavy, undeniable weight. He was right, in his way. She had chosen duty over him, repeatedly, always believing it was for the best. And yet, in doing so, she had lost the one person who had truly been hers.

“Is there nothing I can do to change your mind?” she asked, her voice a whisper, filled with a desperation she couldn’t hide.

Jon’s face softened, but his expression remained resigned. “I wish there was, Sansa. But there’s nothing left here for me, not anymore.” He looked at her, his gaze filled with a sorrow so deep it nearly broke her. “Not even you.”

The words shattered something inside her, and she felt her strength waver, the tears slipping free despite her efforts to hold them back. “So that’s it, then?” she asked, her voice shaking. “You’re just… leaving?”

Jon nodded, a faint, bitter smile on his lips. “Yes. I’m leaving.” He turned away from her, his hand resting on the packed bag by his bed, his gaze fixed on the door as if it were his only salvation.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke, the silence heavy with everything left unsaid. Sansa felt the last remnants of her pride crumble, replaced by a raw, aching pain she could no longer hide.

“Then go,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, her heart breaking with each word. “If you truly believe there’s nothing left for you here, then go.”

Jon’s shoulders slumped slightly, as if the finality of her words had struck him just as deeply. He turned, his gaze lingering on her for a moment, filled with a sadness that mirrored her own.

“Goodbye, Sansa,” he said quietly, and before she could respond, he walked past her, out of his chambers and into the cold, unyielding night.

Sansa

Winter had fallen over Winterfell in earnest, blanketing the castle in thick layers of snow, muting sound and sight alike. Days had passed since Jon’s departure, and the once-bustling corridors felt quieter, as though a piece of the castle’s heart had left with him.  

Sansa sat by the fire in her solar, the warmth doing little to chase away the lingering chill in her bones. She traced idle patterns along the embroidery in her lap, though her mind was far from the delicate stitches. Across from her, Brienne stood, ever watchful, her steady presence a comfort Sansa had come to rely on.  

“I think I have made my decision,” Sansa said at last, breaking the silence between them. She lifted her gaze to Brienne’s, searching for a reaction before continuing. “  have decided to accept lord Reynolds proposal of marriage.”  

Brienne’s expression didn’t change at first, but Sansa saw the flicker of something in her eyes—concern, perhaps, or merely surprise. “Does this sit well with you, my lady?” Brienne asked carefully.  

Sansa hesitated, just for a breath. “It is what must be done,” she answered, her voice softer now. “For Winterfell’s future.”  

Brienne did not nod. Instead, her brows furrowed, and she shifted her weight slightly, the subtle movement betraying her unease. “Are you certain this is the right course, your grace?” she asked, her voice measured but firm.

Sansa turned to face her fully, surprised by the question. “You disapprove?”

Brienne hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “I only wish to be sure that you are not doing this out of duty alone. Lord Reynold… he speaks well, but words can be deceiving. I do not know if he has your best interests at heart.”

Sansa’s fingers curled slightly around the fabric of her gown. “You think he means to use me?”

Brienne hesitated, her mouth opening slightly as if to speak, but she closed it, her expression torn. After a moment, she finally spoke, her tone careful. “Sansa… I know he has shown you kindness, and interest, but I’m not certain his true interest align with yours.”

Sansa frowned, her voice softening. “You don’t think he’s sincere?”

Brienne hesitated again, her eyes flickering toward the fire. “It’s not that, exactly. But I think he sees you as a means to an end. There were… things said, during his spar with Jon. Things that suggested he holds little to no respect for the people of the North, or for those close to you.” She paused, choosing her words with care. “He…he insulted Jon’s Targaryen blood, mocked his loyalty to you.”

A flash of anger flared within Sansa, mingling with a strange, sharp sense of guilt. “Why didn’t Jon tell me?”

“Jon wouldn’t burden you with it,” Brienne replied, her voice steady. “He wanted to protect you, even if it meant standing alone.”

Sansa’s heart clenched at the thought of Jon, standing in the training yard, enduring insults in silence, holding back his hurt for her sake. She opened her mouth to respond, but Brienne continued, a strange hesitance in her tone.

“And I think, your grace… I think he hoped, on some level, that you would see him and notice his hurt. That you would understand without him having to say it.” Brienne’s gaze flickered with something unspoken, something guarded, and Sansa could feel the weight of it.

“Brienne…” Sansa began, a note of warning in her tone.

But Brienne shook her head, regret in her eyes. “Forgive me, your grace. I spoke out of turn.” She looked down, drawing something from her pocket, a folded piece of parchment, sealed with wax. “Jon left this for you. He asked me to give it to you after you announced your decision.”

Sansa took the letter, her hands trembling slightly as she broke the seal. Her eyes scanned the lines, each word filling her with a complex mixture of sorrow, relief, and longing.

 “Sansa,

If you’re reading this, I’m already on my way south. I won’t ask for forgiveness; I’ve made my peace with the choices we both had to make. But I want you to know that I don’t leave out of anger. I leave to protect you, to keep Winterfell safe from the threat that grows across the sea.

My supposed brother, Aegon Targaryen, has returned to Westeros, or so the rumors say. I can’t stay and risk him setting his sights on Winterfell, on you. I am going to Dragonstone, to face this supposed brother of mine, to keep his attention far from the North.

You are the Queen in the North, Sansa. The North will follow you, as will I, no matter where I go. My loyalty to you is not conditional; it was never a matter of choice. It simply is.

Take care of yourself, Sansa. I pray you find happiness, even if I am not the one who can give it to you.

Yours,

Jon”

Sansa’s fingers tightened around the letter, her vision blurring as she reread the words, each line driving home the depth of his loyalty, his willingness to sacrifice everything, even his own safety, for her sake. He had left, not out of anger, but to protect her. To keep her safe from a threat she hadn’t even known existed.

Brienne watched her, silent, her expression a mixture of sympathy and regret. “I’m sorry, your grace,” she said quietly.

Sansa looked up, her voice barely above a whisper. “He left to face his brother alone. And he didn’t even ask for anything in return.”

Brienne’s expression softened, and she reached out, resting a comforting hand on Sansa’s shoulder. “He did what he believed was best, Sansa. He wouldn’t want you to regret your choices. He simply wanted you to be safe.”

Sansa felt a tear slip down her cheek, followed by another, until they blurred her vision completely. She clutched Jon’s letter to her chest, her heart aching with a mixture of gratitude and regret that threatened to consume her.

“I thought he hated me,” she whispered. “I thought he would never forgive me.”

Brienne shook her head, her voice gentle. “He loves you, Sansa. He might not have said it, but everything he did was proved he does. Even leaving.”

Sansa looked down at the letter, feeling the weight of her decision settled over her like the snow outside. She was about to choose Reynold, to choose duty, and stability, the path that seemed safe and logical. And yet, reading Jon’s words, she couldn’t ignore the hollowness that lingered, the bitter realization that she might have sacrificed something irreplaceable.

Brienne’s hand dropped, but her gaze remained steady, filled with unspoken support. “Whatever you choose, Sansa, remember this, Jon will never truly leave you. Not in spirit. His loyalty to you, his love for you… that’s something he took with him, wherever he goes.”

Sansa nodded, silent, as the weight of everything crashed down on her, leaving her standing alone by the fire, clutching the letter of the man who had left not out of bitterness, but of love.

Chapter Text

Sansa

Sansa's solar was quiet, save for the faint crackling of the hearth fire. The cold stone walls of her chamber stood as silent witnesses to her turmoil, but Sansa barely noticed. She sat by the window, her hands resting on the edge of a folded letter, Jon’s letter. His final words felt as though they had been etched into her skin, an inescapable reminder of the path he had chosen. A path that took him further away from her, from Winterfell, from everything they had rebuilt together.

She traced the worn parchment with the tip of her finger, her mind a battlefield between love and duty. She had long accepted that love was a luxury rarely afforded to those in power, yet, in the quiet hours of the night, she couldn’t help but wonder, was it truly impossible? Could she ever have both?

A gentle knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts. She straightened, composing herself in the way a queen must. “Enter.”

A soft knock at the door broke her thoughts, and Lord Reynold Hightower entered, carrying a silver goblet. The rich scent of spiced cider drifted toward her as he approached, his deep blue eyes warm, his movements practiced and graceful.

“My queen,” he greeted, inclining his head in a perfect bow. “You missed supper. I thought something warm might ease the chill.”

Sansa hesitated but nodded, gesturing for him to approach. “You are kind, my lord.”

“It is no kindness,” he said with a charming smile. “It is my duty.”

She took the goblet, wrapping her hands around the warmth of the metal, studying him carefully as he settled into the seat across from her. Reynold had been nothing but attentive since his arrival in Winterfell. He had proven himself invaluable to her council, had spoken of his devotion to the North, and yet… something inside her remained wary. He was perfect, perhaps too perfect.

“You’ve grown close with my lords,” she said lightly. “They seem to value your insight.”

“The North is strong, but it has been isolated for too long,” Reynold replied, watching her closely. “The world is shifting. A Targaryen prince lands in Dorne, whispers of war reach our halls, and still, Winterfell stands alone.”

She stiffened. “Jon is handling the Targaryen matter.”

Reynold’s expression didn’t change, but his voice took on a thoughtful air. "Jon Snow has left the North many times before. For the Wall, for the Free Folk, for war. And now, for his brother. He follows his own path, and yet, the North waits for him. But I wonder… does he still see himself as a Stark at all? Or does he embrace his true name, his true blood? The son of Rhaegar Targaryen, perhaps his heart has always belonged to them, not to the North."

Sansa’s spine stiffened, her fingers gripped the goblet harder. "Jon’s loyalty has never been in question," she said, her voice cool but firm. "Not to the North. And certainly not to me. He may have Targaryen blood, but his heart has always been Stark."

Reynold studied her for a moment, and something flickered in his deep blue eyes, curiosity, perhaps even suspicion, but it vanished as quickly as it came. He inclined his head with practiced humility, his smile smooth. "Forgive me, my queen. I only speak out of concern. I would never wish to offend."

Sansa held his gaze for a long moment before finally nodding. "See that you don’t."

His words struck deeper than she cared to admit. The lords had murmured of Jon’s absence before, and though she defended him at every turn, doubt was a creeping thing. She wanted to believe Jon would return to her, to the North, but with every passing day, the uncertainty grew heavier.

“You carry this burden alone,” Reynold continued, his voice gentle. “But you don’t have to.”

Sansa exhaled slowly, already knowing where this conversation was leading. "You’ve made your stance clear before, my lord. And I assume you’re here to do so again?"

He smiled, the firelight casting soft shadows across his dark brown hair. "Strength comes from alliances, my queen, but it is not only strategy, it is trust, companionship. A union of not just houses, but of two people standing side by side. You deserve that, Sansa. A partner who will fight for you, who will put you above all else. With me, you would never be alone in the burdens of ruling, in the weight of leadership."

His voice softened, his deep blue eyes searching hers. "The Targaryens will not stop with Dorne. You and I both know this war is only beginning. Winterfell is strong, but standing alone, it is vulnerable. Together, the North and the Reach would be unbreakable. You would have all the resources; all the power you need to secure your people’s future. A future you and I could build together, one that is not clouded by ghosts of the past."

She had once been open to this, had once seen the sense in it with clear eyes. A marriage to Lord Reynold Hightower would be a brilliant move for the North. The wealth and resources of the Reach would bolster their defenses, ensuring Winterfell never stood alone against the coming storms. It was stability, security, everything she had worked for, everything she had promised to her people.

And yet, Jon’s letter had changed everything. It had reopened the door she thought closed.

She had thought herself pragmatic, resigned to the idea that love had no place in a ruler’s choices. But the moment she read his words, she had felt the shift, the undeniable weight of something deeper than duty. She had tried to push it away, to rationalize it, but the ache remained.

She loved Jon. That much she could no longer deny.

But love did not always win. Perhaps, with time, she could learn to love Reynold instead. Perhaps he could take that place in her heart, one day.

And yet, her heart resisted.

She glanced at Reynold, his easy smile, his confidence, the way he made everything sound so simple. He would make a fine husband, a fine king in the North. But he was not Jon.

Jon, who never sought power, never played these games. Jon, whose love was never expressed in words but in the way he stood beside her when no one else would, in the way he had shielded her from the worst of the world when she thought no one would ever protect her again. Jon, who had left her with `nothing but a letter and the ache of unfinished words.

She forced herself to meet Reynold’s gaze, her voice composed. “It is a generous proposal, my lord. One that would benefit the North greatly.”

He leaned forward slightly, his tone reassuring. “It would benefit us both, Sansa. You would never have to bear this weight alone.”

Sansa swallowed. Duty or love. Security or longing. Her mind knew the answer, but her heart remained caught between two shadows.

She set the goblet down. When she spoke, her voice was composed, but there was an undercurrent of something more, resolve, perhaps, or longing carefully concealed. "I do not dismiss your offer, nor do I take it lightly. You have made a compelling case, my lord, and I see the wisdom in it. The North must think beyond itself, beyond tradition, if it is to endure."

She exhaled softly, her gaze steady. "You have been nothing but thoughtful, kind, and endlessly patient, my lord. Your offer is generous, and I do not deny that our union would bring great strength to the North. A partnership built on mutual respect and strategy is far better than one built on mere obligation."

Her fingers traced the rim of the goblet as she continued. "But I have learned not to rush into marriage, no matter how beneficial it may seem. My past marriages were not of my choosing, and I know too well the dangers of being bound to the wrong man. If I accept your proposal, it will not be out of fear or necessity. It will be because I am certain it is the right choice, for my people, and for myself."

She met his gaze with quiet resolve. "Winterfell does not yield easily, nor do I.""

Reynold stood as well, studying her for a moment before bowing his head. "Take your time, my queen. These decisions are not made in haste, nor should they be. But I hope that when the time comes, you will see that what I offer is not just strategy, it is loyalty, devotion. You would never have to bear this weight alone."

He smiled once more, bowing slightly before departing. As the door shut behind him, Sansa let out a slow breath, her hands tightening around the folds of her dress. She knew the game he was playing, planting seeds of doubt, offering security wrapped in charm and reason. And perhaps, part of her wanted to accept, wanted the clean slate he represented. With him, there would be no history weighed down by loss, no scars that ran deeper than words. No betrayals, no ghosts of what could have been.

But she could not forget what Brienne had told her.

“… he insulted Jon’s Targaryen blood, mocked his loyalty to you,”

“Jon wouldn’t burden you with it...He wanted to protect you, even if it meant standing alone.”

Sansa swallowed hard, her jaw tightening. It was so like Jon to bear the weight of things in silence, to carry wounds she never even knew existed. And Reynold had known exactly what he was doing. Playing at admiration, at devotion, all while quietly driving a wedge between them.

How foolish she had been. She had rushed to Reynold’s side that day, tending to the wounds he’d earned after sparring with Jon, not knowing, and not realizing, that Reynold had provoked him. That his words had cut deeper than any blade. And Jon had seen her choose another above him. Again.

She could still picture the way he had looked at her then, the hurt flashing in his dark eyes before it was hidden behind that cold, unreadable mask. And she had ignored it. She had thought Jon was simply brooding, as he always did, never once questioning what had caused that pain. A single tear slipped down her cheek before she quickly wiped it away. Foolish.

But perhaps there was still time to make things right.

The thought unsettled her more than she cared to admit. She turned toward the fire, watching the flames flicker and dance, consuming the wood beneath them. Was she truly considering tying herself to a man who sought to turn her against the one person who had always stood by her?

She and Jon had not been on the best of terms when he left. Too much unspoken, too much unresolved. And yet, no matter how difficult things had been between them, she knew in her heart of hearts, she would always defend him; she would always choose him. She just needed to prove it with her actions if the gods allowed them the time.

She exhaled sharply. Was she a fool for holding onto something tangled in so much pain? Or would she be a fool to let it go?

The fire crackled, spitting embers into the dimly lit chamber. She sighed, her fingers balled into fists at her sides. Love or duty.

Which would she allow to consume her first?

Jon

The ship rocked gently beneath Jon’s feet, the waves lapping against the hull in a rhythmic, steady pulse. Dragonstone loomed in the distance; a shadowy silhouette etched against the pale gray of the horizon. Its jagged spires pierced the sky like the talons of some ancient beast, dark and foreboding even as the sun struggled to pierce the dense clouds that hung low over the sea.

He stood at the prow, his gloved hands resting on the cold wood of the railing. The salty spray of the sea misted his face, but he barely noticed. His eyes were fixed on the island ahead, his thoughts swirling like the restless waves below. The closer they drew, the heavier his chest felt. He wasn’t sure if it was the weight of duty, regret, or something deeper that he couldn’t name.

“Not much of a welcome, is it?” Asher Forrester’s voice broke through the silence. The young lord of Ironrath stepped beside Jon, his broad shoulders and wild grin a sharp contrast to the somber figure beside him. Asher’s eyes followed Jon’s gaze toward the grim silhouette of Dragonstone. “You’d think they’d light a few torches or hang some banners for the great Aegon Targaryen.”

Jon’s lips twitched into a faint smirk, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not here for a welcome,” he said quietly. “I’m here because I have to be.”

“Hmm,” Asher replied, leaning against the railing. “Sounds like something a man says when he’s not sure he’s doing the right thing.”

Jon’s grip tightened on the railing, his knuckles whitening beneath his gloves. The truth of Asher’s words stung more than he cared to admit. Was he doing the right thing? Or was he simply running, running from the ghosts of Winterfell, from the memories of what he’d lost, and from the person he’d once been?

“You’ve got a way of cutting to the heart of things, my lord,” Davos said, his voice gruff but warm as he joined them at the railing. The sea breeze tugged at his gray cloak as he glanced between the two men. “But not everything’s so black and white. Sometimes, the right thing and the hard thing are the same.”

Jon exhaled slowly, his breath misting in the cold air. “It’s not just the right thing I’m questioning,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper. “It’s whether I… whether I can ever allow myself to be selfish. Whether I deserve to be.”

Davos’s sharp gaze flickered toward him, understanding dawning in his weathered face. “Ah,” he said softly. “This isn’t just about duty, is it? There’s someone you’re thinking of. Someone you’ve left behind.”

Jon didn’t answer, but the silence was telling enough. Asher cocked an eyebrow, his grin fading into something more thoughtful. “You don’t have to say it, Snow,” he said. “I’ve seen that look before. It’s the same look my brother had before he married his wife. Torn between what he thought he should do and what he wanted to do.”

Jon hesitated for a moment, then said, “There’s more to it. I’m here because of the rumors… about my…brother. If they’re true, if he’s alive, I need to know what he plans for Westeros.”

Asher raised an eyebrow. “Ah, yes another Aegon. Funny how your father decided to name both of you the same thing. Rhaegar must’ve had a strange sense of humor.”

Jon’s lips tightened, but he didn’t reply. The comment lingered in the cold air, a faint unease settling over the three men.

“Anyways, wanting and doing are different things,” Jon muttered after a pause, his voice tinged with bitterness. “I’ve spent my life doing what I thought was right. And it… it cost me everything. Maybe this time I should…” He trailed off, shaking his head as if dismissing the thought.

Davos placed a steadying hand on Jon’s shoulder. “Sometimes, wanting something doesn’t make it selfish,” he said gently. “It makes it human. And you, lad, you’ve earned the right to be human.”

Jon’s jaw clenched, but he nodded slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. Asher, sensing the weight of the moment, clapped him on the back with a grin that was equal parts mischief and sincerity. “Whatever your reason, Snow, just remember: if you’re doing it for someone, they’ll understand. And if they don’t… well, screw ‘em.”

A faint chuckle escaped Jon, surprising even himself. “I must agree with Davos, you’ve definitely got a way with words.”

“It’s a gift,” Asher replied with a wink.

The ship’s horn sounded, and the crew sprang into motion as Dragonstone’s rocky harbor came into view. As they approached the dock, two figures stood waiting, one tall and imposing, the other lean and sharp-eyed.

“Lord Monford Velaryon and Aurane Waters,” Davos murmured. “Looks like we’ll be having a welcoming party after all.”

Jon stepped off the ship, his boots crunching against the damp wood of the dock. Monford inclined his head stiffly, his expression unreadable. “Lord Snow,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of formality. “Welcome back to Dragonstone.”

“Thank you, Lord Velaryon,” Jon replied, his tone equally measured.

Aurane stepped forward with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Or should we say, Aegon Targaryen? It’s an honor to meet the man of so many names.”

Jon’s gaze hardened, but he kept his voice steady. “I’m here as a servant of the North, not a claimant to the throne.”

Aurane’s grin widened, as though Jon’s answer was exactly what he’d expected. “Of course, of course. A man with no interest in power. That’s what they all say, isn’t it?”

“That's enough, Aurane,” Monford said sharply. He turned to Jon. “The castle is prepared for you and your company. If you’ll follow me, we’ll see you settled.”

Jon nodded and followed; his companions close behind. As they ascended the winding path toward the castle, the weight of Dragonstone’s history settled over him. The wind howled through the narrow pass, carrying whispers of the past, of dragons, fire, and blood.

And as Jon stepped through the towering gates of Dragonstone, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was walking into a chapter of his story he hadn’t yet chosen to write.

Sansa

The late afternoon sun filtered through the tall windows of Winterfell’s library, casting golden streaks across the rows of ancient books. The scent of parchment and candle wax filled the air, mingling with the warmth of the hearth in the corner. Sansa stepped inside, her fur-lined cloak trailing softly behind her, and her gaze immediately landed on the very person she was looking for. He who was hunched over a pile of open tomes, his expression deeply focused.

“Sam,” she said, her voice breaking the quiet of the library.

He startled slightly, looking up with wide eyes. “Your Grace,” he said quickly, his face flushing as he scrambled to close one of the books. “I didn’t see you come in.”

Sansa gave him a soft smile as she approached the table. “Please call me Sansa, when it’s just us.”

Sam hesitated, then nodded with a shy smile. “Alright… Sansa.”

“What are you researching today?” she asked, her tone light as she gestured to the array of books spread before him.

“Oh, this and that,” Sam replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “I keep finding myself drawn to the histories, you know? They always seem to hold something useful. Or at least interesting.”

Sansa lowered herself into the chair across from him, her fingers brushing idly against the surface of the table. “It’s a quiet place to think,” she said, her voice tinged with a note of understanding. She studied him for a moment before adding, “Have you heard any word from Jon?”

Sam’s face softened at the mention of his friend, but a shadow of regret flickered across his features. “No,” he admitted. “though, I think about him often."

He exhaled, his fingers tensing around the edge of his book. "At the feast, I tried to speak to him. Walked up to him. But he just... looked through me." His voice dipped lower. "Not angry. Not cruel. Just distant. Cold. Like I was no different than the rest of them. Like he had already decided I wasn’t worth speaking to." Sam swallowed hard. "He called me 'Grand Maester,' Sansa. Not my name. Just a title. I should have known better than to expect anything else, not after what we did, or better yet, what we didn’t do."

Sansa exhaled softly, her hands folding in her lap. "He hadn't spoken to you since?"

Sam shook his head. "Not since that first night. And I don't blame him. After everything that's happened... I should have stood up to them when they sent him away. I should have fought harder for him."

Sansa studied him for a long moment before offering a small, sad smile. "You’re not the only one who wishes they had done things differently. If I could go back, there are things I would change too. Words I would say that I never did."

Sam let out a soft, rueful laugh, shaking his head. "I suppose we all have our burdens to carry. Just like Jon has had all his life. But he’s always been stronger than me, braver than I could ever be. He never hesitated to stand alone if he had to."

Sansa’s lips quirked into a small, knowing smile. “Brave, yes. But also stubborn to a fault when it comes to his duty.”

Sam chuckled, the sound lighter this time. “That he is. But it’s part of what makes him Jon.”

They sat in companionable silence for a moment.

Then, Sansa tilted her head. "You know, Sam, Lord Reynolds... he’s impressive, but he’s not Jon."

Sam let out a thoughtful hum. "No, he’s not."

Sansa studied his face. "You said he was your childhood friend?"

Sam nodded slowly. "We were, back before I was sent to the Wall. After that, we lost touch. It wasn't until after King Brans coronation, and I remained in Kingslanding, that we reunited. He said he’d been looking for me for years."

Sansa’s brows lifted slightly. "Looking for you? Why?"

Sam hesitated just long enough for doubt to creep into Sansa’s mind. "He said he wanted to reconnect. That he wanted to support me. I suppose it was meant to be a kindness."

Sansa’s fingers tapped lightly against the wooden table, her mind turning over this new information. Something about it didn’t sit right. But she only nodded, offering Sam a small smile. "Perhaps."

Sam returned the smile but said nothing more. The unspoken thoughts between them hung in the air, lingering like shadows in the firelight.

Later during the day, Sansa walked alongside Brienne along the edge of the training yard, watching as Lord Reynolds sparred with one of Winterfell’s guards. The crisp northern air nipped at her cheeks, but she hardly noticed. Reynolds glanced up mid-swing, catching sight of her. He wiped the sweat from his brow before offering her a grand smile. She returned the gesture, though her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Brienne, ever observant, noticed. Before she could comment, Tormund approached, Ghost padding beside him. The direwolf moved straight to Sansa’s side, pressing his great head against her hand. She ran her fingers through his thick fur, comforted by his presence.

Tormund let out a bark of laughter. "Hah! Look at him prancing around like he’s won a bloody war. Bet he wouldn’t last a day on a real battlefield." He grinned at Sansa. "You’ve seen Snow fight. Tell me, little red wolf, could that one fill his boots?"

Sansa huffed a small laugh, shaking her head. Brienne smirked as well, but it was Sansa’s own thoughts that caused her breath to hitch. She thought back to Jon in the thick of battle, covered in dirt and blood, fists slamming into Ramsay’s face with unrelenting fury. He had looked savage, terrifying… and undeniably handsome. The memory sent warmth coursing through her before she forced herself back to the present.

Brienne glanced at her; eyes filled with quiet understanding. "What are your thoughts on his proposal?" she asked, her voice low.

Tormund, in the middle of taking a swig from his horn, choked, coughing before spitting his ale onto the ground. "What proposal!?" His wide eyes flicked between them in shock. "You’re telling me that, that prancing peacock asked you to marry him!?"

Sansa shot him a look. "Keep your voice down," she hissed. "This is not public knowledge. And I expect you to keep it that way."

Tormund scowled but nodded. "Aye, fine, fine. But what’s this all about?"

Sansa exhaled, glancing down at Ghost before answering. "Lord Reynolds has proposed a marriage alliance. The Reach and the North, joined under one house."

Ghost gave a low rumble, pressing closer to her. Tormund smirked. "Even the beast doesn’t approve. Smart wolf."

They turned back to the training yard just as Reynolds disarmed his opponent, sending the man’s sword clattering to the ground. A round of applause erupted from the gathered onlookers, and Reynolds basked in it, lifting his arms slightly in acknowledgment.

Brienne frowned. "Jon is a much better swordsman. And yet he never cared for the attention."

Tormund nodded. "Aye, he fights to protect, not for show. And definitely not for claps and cheers."

Sansa found herself smiling, watching Reynolds but thinking only of Jon. Of how effortlessly he wielded Longclaw, of how he had always led by action rather than words. She realized with a small pang that she was comparing them more than she should.

She turned to Tormund, her voice quiet, almost hesitant. "Tormund… do you think Jon loves me?"

Tormund smirked, folding his arms. "More than he’ll ever admit, little red wolf. More than he probably even knows. A man doesn’t fight, bleed, and face death as many times as that Crow has, just for duty. You’re in his heart, whether he says it or not. But you knew that already, didn’t you?"

Sansa’s cheeks flushed slightly, but she didn’t deny it. Instead, she allowed herself a moment of quiet reflection before nodding. “Thank you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

That evening, Sansa sat in Maester Wolkan’s chambers, the crackling of the fire providing a comforting backdrop as she sought his counsel. The aged maester adjusted his spectacles as he glanced over a parchment before looking up at her.

“You’ve been thoughtful of late, your grace,” Wolkan observed, his voice gentle. “What troubles you?”

Sansa sighed; her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “I wanted to discuss Lord Reynolds. If I were to marry him, what would the benefits be for the North? And what of the risks?”

Wolkan nodded thoughtfully, setting the parchment aside. “Lord Reynolds is a powerful man in the Reach. A union with him would strengthen ties between the North and the southern kingdoms, ensuring trade and mutual defense. His lands are fertile, his armies well-supplied. It would be a strong political match.”

“And the risks?” Sansa pressed.

Wolkan’s expression grew more serious. “The North is proud and fiercely independent. Some may see an alliance with a southern lord as a betrayal of that independence. And…”

He hesitated before continuing. “A political marriage is rarely without its sacrifices, your grace. You would need to consider whether the alliance is worth the cost to yourself.”

Sansa’s gaze dropped, her fingers tightening around each other. She drew in a deep breath before asking quietly, “And what about marrying another?”

Wolkan’s lips curved into a knowing smile. He tilted his head slightly, his voice gentle but teasing. “And who would that be, your grace?”

Sansa’s cheeks flushed, but she didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. Wolkan’s grin widened slightly before he returned his attention to the parchment, leaving her alone with her thoughts and the flickering firelight.

As the flames danced and cast shadows against the stone walls, Sansa’s thoughts lingered on Jon, his honor, his strength, and the quiet love he had always carried, even if he rarely voiced it.

Perhaps some choices were worth waiting for after all.

Jon

The great hall of Dragonstone loomed before them; its vaulted ceiling lined with ancient dragon carvings that seemed to shift in the flickering torchlight. Jon Snow entered with Davos and Asher flanking him, their boots echoing against the cold stone floor. Lord Monford and Aurane moved ahead of them, their strides purposeful as they approached the long table at the center of the room. The air smelled faintly of brine and smoke, an ever-present reminder of the castle’s isolation.

“I’m sure you remember this famous room, my prince,” Monford said, his voice steady and formal, with an edge of pride. He gestured broadly to the room, as if presenting the very legacy of House Targaryen.

“Dragonstone stands as it always has, a bastion of House Targaryen, unyielding and eternal.”

Jon’s steps slowed as he took in the ancient hall, every shadowed corner and carved surface reminding him of the bloodline he’d only recently claimed as his own. The title ‘Prince’ landed heavily on his shoulders, and though his expression betrayed little, it unsettled him. “And what of your loyalty?” he asked quietly, his voice steady but laced with curiosity.

Monford’s expression didn’t falter. “Our loyalty is to House Targaryen, as it always has been.” But as to which Prince of House Targaryen? Their respective actions, moving forward, will dictate my loyalty towards either you, your brother or both.”

Aurane, leaning casually against the edge of the table, let out a soft chuckle. “Strange, isn’t it? Two Aegons… what are the odds?” He smirked, the gleam in his eyes both amused and pointed. “Rumor has it that your brother has landed in Dorne with an army at his back. If the stories hold true, he’s already gathering banners for something ambitious. Prince Trystane and Princess Arianne, of course, would waste no time throwing their support behind his claim.” He chuckled again, clearly entertained by the tension his words created.”

Jon’s jaw tightened as he absorbed Aurane’s words, his chest tightening with a conflict he couldn’t shake. Would his brother see him as kin or as a rival, another threat, as Daenerys had? The memory of her cold gaze sent a shiver down his spine. He forced himself to speak, his voice firmer now as he masked his unease.

“As I said before, we stand with House Targaryen,” Monford interjected sharply, silencing Aurane’s smirk with a glance. “But which Targaryen leads us remains to be seen.”

Before Jon could respond, the heavy doors of the hall groaned open, their iron hinges protesting as a gust of wind rushed through the room. A figure stepped inside, her crimson robes billowing as though stirred by the very flames she served. Kinvara moved with deliberate grace, the flickering torchlight bending toward her, casting long, sinuous shadows across the stone walls. Her piercing gaze locked on Jon immediately, as if she had been waiting for this moment.

“The prince who was promised,” she greeted, her voice smooth and resonant, cutting through the air like the hiss of embers in a dying fire. The flickering torchlight seemed to dance in her dark, knowing eyes. A faint, enigmatic smile curved her lips, one that promised more questions than answers. "The Lord of Light has not yet unveiled a secret concealed within the shadows.”

Jon blinked, his muscles tensing at the weight of her words. They hung in the air, wrapping around him like smoke, intangible but impossible to ignore. “What are you suggesting?” he asked, his voice low but edged with suspicion, the unease curling in his chest like a distant rumble of thunder.

Monford stiffened, his irritation visible in the way his hands gripped the back of a nearby chair. “Kinvara,” he said curtly. “Your presence here was neither requested nor required.”

Aurane chuckled lightly, his gaze sweeping over Kinvara with a mix of amusement and admiration. “Oh, let her stay. She does have a knack for making things… dramatic.” He grinned. “And who wouldn’t want a priestess of the Lord of Light gracing their hall?”

Kinvara ignored both men, her focus entirely on Jon. She stepped closer, her movements deliberate, her presence commanding the room. “The flames have shown me many things,” she said, her voice softer now, tinged with reverence. “Shall I show you what they revealed?”

Jon’s eyes narrowed, his instinctive caution warring with his curiosity. He thought of Melisandre, of the flames that had once whispered truths to her, truths that had cost men their lives. He had seen what fire could show, and what it could twist. Was this a path he should walk? Or was he being led into yet another prophecy that demanded more of him than he could give? His jaw tightened, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. But then, with a slow breath, he steadied himself. He needed to know. Finally, he gave a slight nod. “Aye, show me.”

She led Jon to the large brazier at the center of the hall, its flames dim and smoldering. She raised her hands slowly, whispering words in a language that seemed to resonate with the stones themselves. The fire roared to life, casting the room in hues of gold and orange. The flames danced unnaturally, twisting and coiling as though alive, until images began to form within their depths.

Jon’s breath caught as the flames shifted, their glow surrounding him and pulling him into an otherworldly stillness. The great hall of Dragonstone faded from view, replaced by a field of golden light that stretched endlessly in all directions. He found himself standing before two figures, familiar and yet distant, like a memory he had never known but always carried.

The man stood tall and regal, his silver hair gleaming like polished steel, his violet eyes piercing and full of conviction. Beside him stood a woman with dark brown hair cascading down her back, her stormy grey eyes mirroring Jon’s own, her face warm yet resolute, a quiet strength radiating from her. They both turned to face Jon, their expressions softening into pride and sorrow as they looked at him.

His breath hitched as recognition settled over him like a weight. "Father. Mother," he whispered, his voice trembling and breaking under the weight of the moment. He took a tentative step forward, his heart pounding as the figures became clearer. Rhaegar’s gaze met his, filled with unspoken words, while Lyanna’s lips curled into a gentle, bittersweet smile.

He stood frozen, his chest tightening as his father stepped forward. "My son," Rhaegar said softly, his voice carrying both strength and gentleness. "You have walked a path of pain and sacrifice, but you have not faltered. We are so proud of the man you have become."

His knees nearly buckled under the weight of the words. He shook his head, his voice breaking. "Proud? How can you be proud? I have failed so many times. I couldn’t save Daenerys from herself; I couldn’t save the people who believed in me. I abandoned the North, and now… I don’t even know who I am."

Lyanna stepped forward, her presence calm and soothing. "You are our son," she said, her voice steady but filled with emotion. "And you have carried burdens no one should bear. Yet you stand here, still fighting, still seeking what is right. That is no failure, my dragonwolf."

Rhaegar nodded, his voice softening. "Your mother is right, the burden you carry is great, but it does not diminish your worth. Take it from the man who nearly caused our house to end. Your failures don’t define you, son."

Lyanna’s expression turned tender, but there was steel beneath her words. "And do not give up on love, my son. Whatever shit this world has given you, remember this, you were born of love and are deserving of love."

Jon’s throat tightened as her words struck deep. His mind, unbidden, turned to Sansa. Her face, her voice, her steadfast presence in his life. A part of him had pushed the thought of her aside, convinced it was selfish to hold on to such feelings while the world demanded so much of him. But here, now, the thought of her felt like a lifeline.

Rhaegar looked at Lyanna, his violet eyes softening with something that could only be described as devotion. "And if she’s already claimed your heart," Rhaegar said, his voice filled with certainty, "then it is worth going to war against anyone for. Love is the reason we fight, not the cost of it."

He could no longer hold back his tears, as they began to flow freely down his face, his voice shaking as he spoke. "But what if I fail her too? What if I’m not enough?"

Lyanna stepped closer, her hand brushing his cheek in a gesture so tender it made him shudder. "You are more than enough, my dragonwolf. You always have been. If she loves you, she will understand your burdens. Do not run from it. Do not let fear keep you from what your heart wants."

His father placed a firm hand on Jon’s shoulder. "The blood of old Valyria and the First Men flows through you, uniting worlds that were never meant to meet. That strength is not just for others, it is for you as well."

Jon’s breath hitched as Rhaegar’s words resonated within him. The overwhelming emotions surged through him, leaving him trembling yet strangely at peace. His tears fell freely, but there was a quiet comfort in the presence of his parents, something he had never known but had always longed for.

His mother’s voice softened, her hand still resting against his cheek. “Listen to me, you are more than the sum of your burdens. You are the hope for a better world, not just for others but for yourself as well. Love is what gives that hope meaning. Without it, all the battles, all the sacrifices, they are hollow.”

Jon's voice cracking as he whispered, “I don’t know if she’ll wait for me. There’s so much left I must do. My brother… the North… there’s too much.”

His father smiled faintly, his eyes glinting with quiet wisdom. “If she truly holds your heart, then she will wait. But remember, love is not something to delay or set aside. It is a fire that needs tending, even in the darkest of times.”

Lyanna nodded in agreement, her eyes filled with love and conviction. “You must fight for her. Fight for her as much as you fight for your people. She is your equal, your anchor. Do not lose sight of that.”

Jon couldn't help but low his head, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. His parents’ words felt like a salve to old wounds, healing cracks in his heart he hadn’t realized were there. Slowly, he looked up at them, his grey eyes glistening with determination and something else, hope.

“Thank you,” Jon whispered. “For everything.”

“We will always be with you. In the blood that flows through your veins, in the strength of your choices, and in the love you carry.”Rhaegar gave him a proud nod, his hand still resting on Jon’s shoulder.

“You are not alone, my son. Never forget that.” His mother said with a loving smile.

As the golden light began to dim, Jon felt their presence fading. He reached out instinctively, but they remained calm, their expressions serene.

“We love you, Jaehaerys,” Lyanna said, her voice a soft melody that lingered even as she disappeared into the light.

“Always,” Rhaegar added, his voice echoing in the stillness.

The golden field dissolved around Jon, and he found himself on his knees back in the great hall of Dragonstone, the brazier’s embers glowing faintly. His cheeks were damp with tears, his heart heavy yet strangely light. He straightened, brushing his face with a trembling hand, and exhaled deeply.

For the first time in what felt like years, he felt certain of what he needed to do. But first, he had to face his brother, and after that, he would fight for Sansa, for love, and for the life he had been told he deserved, if the gods allowed it.

Finally, he spoke, his voice hoarse yet unwavering.

"I saw my father and mother. My name isn’t Aegon... it's Jaehaerys," Jon said, never taking his eyes off the brazier, even after the flames had gone out.

Silence hung in the hall, thick and suffocating. Even Monford and Kinvara, both steady forces in their own right, seemed momentarily caught off guard. The weight of the name settled over the room like a shroud, ancient and undeniable.

Aurane, ever the opportunist, let out a low whistle and leaned back against the table with a lazy smirk. "Well, at least we won’t be having another Dance of the Dragons over two Aegon’s. Last time that happened, dragons ate each other, brothers killed brothers, and half the realm burned. But hey, who knows, maybe history won’t repeat itself?" He flashed a grin and shook his head as he chuckled, clearly enjoying the absurdity of the situation and his own remark."

His words cut through the tension like a blade, breaking the spell that had fallen over the room. Asher snorted, shaking his head, while Davos shot Aurane a look that was somewhere between exasperation and reluctant amusement.

Jon exhaled sharply, the ghost of a breathy chuckle escaping him despite himself. He finally looked up from the brazier, his stormy grey eyes still carrying the weight of what had just happened. "It would seem so."

 "Well, Prince Jaehaerys, let us pray you live up to weight of that name.” Aurane shrugged.

Jon ran a hand down his face, grounding himself in the moment. The weight of his true name settled in his chest, not as a burden, but as a truth that had always been waiting to be spoken. He had not been Aegon. He had not been just Jon Snow. He had been Jaehaerys all along.

He let out a steady breath. "What happens next?"

Kinvara’s knowing gaze met his, her expression unreadable. "That, my prince, is up to you."

The brazier flickered once more, as if the flames themselves approved of the path ahead.

His throat tightened as he looked up at her. “My brother?” he asked, his voice raw.

Kinvara’s expression darkened slightly. “Aegon… has landed in Dorne, he is rallying bannermen under a golden dragon, his path is paved with ambition and blood. But your paths are not separate. You are bound to him, as fire is bound to ice. Together, you will shape the fate of Westeros.”

The hall fell silent, the weight of her words settled over the group like a shroud. Monford’s irritation was palpable, but he said nothing, his lips pressed into a thin line. Aurane, though clearly unnerved, masked his discomfort with a faint grin.

Kinvara stepped back from the brazier, her gaze returning to Jon. “There is one more truth you must know,” she said softly. “King Bran is not who he once was. The boy you knew no longer exists. He is the Three-Eyed Raven now, a creature of memory and shadow. The letter he sent to you; was the last remnant of Brandon Stark you will ever know.”

Jon stared at her, his mind racing to piece together what she had revealed. The firelight flickered in his eyes, reflecting the storm of uncertainty brewing within him.

Kinvara’s crimson robes trailed behind her as she turned to leave, her voice echoing through the ancient hall. “Welcome to Dragonstone, Prince Jaehaerys,” she called over her shoulder. “The answers you seek will burn you, but the flames will show the way.” And with that, she disappeared into the shadows, leaving him to grapple with the weight of his newfound identity and the truths yet to come.

"I need to send a raven," Jon muttered, his voice heavy. "There's something I need to take care of first."

Chapter Text

Sansa

The morning sun, bathed Winterfell in golden light, casting long, warm shadows across the castle grounds. For the first time in what felt like ages, Sansa allowed herself to hope. She had felt lighter since that day, weeks ago. Brienne’s unwavering support, Tormund’s blunt honesty, Sam’s quiet understanding, and even Maester Wolkan’s knowing smile had given her something precious: clarity. The doubts that once consumed her no longer held the same weight, and for the first time in a long while, she allowed herself to feel at peace.

Yet, in the back of her mind, a thought lingered, one that made her smile despite herself. Had she and Jon ever truly hidden their love from the world, or only from each other? It seemed everyone else had seen it before they had, and now, when it mattered most, it was finally clear.

Wrapped in a deep blue cloak lined with fox fur, she moved through the courtyard with a rare lightness in her step. The clang of steel rang from the training yard, stable hands busied themselves tending to the horses, and the scent of fresh bread and roasted meat wafted from the kitchens. She greeted the weavers, praising their progress on the new cloaks for the soldiers, and checked on the winter stores, pleased to see them well stocked.

Winterfell was thriving, and for once, she felt like she was exactly where she was meant to be. The people of Winterfell had noticed, too. There was a warmth to their greetings now, a quiet joy in their faces that mirrored her own. The lingering ice in their queen had begun to thaw, much like the early touch of spring creeping over the North. The way the guards stood a little straighter, the way the servants whispered with smiles instead of worry, even the weavers’ shared glances amongst themselves as she praised their work, it was clear.

They had seen her sorrow, and now they saw something else: hope.

She had let herself believe in it. She had let herself dream of a future where Jon came back, where things would be as they were always meant to be. Because he would come back.

He always comes back.

That sense of calm lasted until she heard Maester Wolkan’s voice behind her.

"Your Grace."

She turned to see him swiftly approaching a scroll clutched in his hands. There was something about his expression that made her pulse quicken.

"Two ravens arrived for you this morning," he said, offering them to her. "One from King’s Landing and another from Dragonstone."

Sansa took them carefully, her eyes landing on the seals. The first bore the Three-Eyed Raven’s mark, Bran’s sigil. The second had the unmistakable imprint of a three-headed dragon.

Her breath caught.

Jon.

She traced the wax seal with her thumb, her heartbeat loud in her ears. He had written to her. After all this time, he had written to her. How many nights had she lain awake, wondering if he was safe? How many days had she spent glancing toward the horizon, hoping for word of him? And now, here it was, an answer, a message in his own hand.

But as warmth spread through her chest, another thought surfaced, casting a shadow over her relief. Aegon. Jon’s half-brother. She had almost forgotten, foolishly allowed herself to think only of Jon when greater dangers lurked. Her fingers tightened around the parchment. What did this new Targaryen mean for Jon? For her? For the North?

She scolded herself for the lapse. It was easy to get lost in thoughts of Jon, to let herself hope. But she had learned long ago that hope could be dangerous. She would not be caught unprepared.

"Thank you, Maester," she said, her voice softer now. "I’ll read them in my solar."

Wolkan nodded, stepping away, but she remained still, staring down at the scrolls in her hands.

Duty or heart?

Taking a steadying breath, she turned and walked toward her chambers, bracing herself for whatever words awaited her inside those letters.

Once inside her solar, she placed both scrolls on the polished wooden desk, her fingers lingering over the one marked with the Three-Eyed Raven. The flickering fire in the hearth cast shifting shadows across the stone walls, mirroring the storm of emotions brewing within her. She hesitated for only a moment before breaking the seal on Bran’s letter first.

Unraveling the parchment, her eyes skimmed over the words, her breath slowing as she absorbed them. His message was brief, written in his usual precise, measured script:

Sansa, you are needed in King’s Landing. Come at once.

That was all. No explanation. No warmth. Just a command.

She exhaled sharply, frustration curling through her. Bran had always been distant since he had become the Three-Eyed Raven, but this? This was different. Something about it unsettled her, gnawed at the edges of her thoughts. Was it truly Bran writing to her, or was it whatever he had become? The more she thought about it, the more she realized, Bran never 'needed' anything. So why now?

A sharp knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts. Sansa straightened, smoothing the front of her dress before calling, "Enter."

Lord Reynold Hightower stepped inside, his dark brown hair neatly combed, his deep blue eyes warm as they met hers. He carried himself with effortless charm, his presence commanding yet never overbearing. "Your Grace," he greeted with a small bow, his smile easy. "I wanted to speak with you before I take my leave."

Sansa gestured for him to sit, but he remained standing, his expression thoughtful. "You're preparing the Reach?"

Reynold nodded. "The situation in the South grows more uncertain. Aegon gathers support, and the tides are shifting. I must ensure my house and lands are fortified before war touches the Reach."

Sansa studied him, considering his words. After a brief pause, she said, "Then perhaps we should travel together. I have just received a summons to King’s Landing. My brother requests my presence."

Reynold raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised. "King Bran has called for you? Did he say why?"

Sansa shook her head. "No, only that I am needed.".

His smile grew. "Then I shall consider it a privilege."

The flickering fire cast golden light across his face, accentuating the depth of his deep blue eyes and the ease of his smile. There was something effortless about Lord Reynold, his presence always measured, always warm.

He exuded confidence and charm without force. And in that moment, he simply looked at her as though there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

"I imagine your days have been filled with much," he mused lightly, his voice carrying the smooth ease of familiarity. "You seem well, your grace. Happier than when I first arrived. That is a good thing."

Sansa offered a small smile. "Winterfell is thriving. That is enough to bring anyone peace."

Reynold studied her for a moment before a teasing smile curved his lips. "Winterfell is thriving, you say? Perhaps it's only a reflection of its queen. You seem... lighter than before. So, what has changed?"

Sansa hesitated, her mind immediately drifting to Jon. But she did not say that. Instead, she straightened slightly, offering a composed smile. "I have hope that good things are to come."

Reynold chuckled, shaking his head. "Then I can only hope I am part of those good things."

Before she could respond, his gaze flickered briefly to her desk. To the scroll bearing the three-headed dragon.

If he recognized it, he said nothing. He merely looked back at her, his expression as pleasant as ever, and dipped into a bow. "Until our journey south, Your Grace."

She watched as he exited, something uneasy lingering in the air long after he had gone.

Sansa set the letter down carefully, her fingers brushing against the second scroll.

She reached for it with more care than before, as though the parchment itself was something fragile. Unraveling it, her breath caught at the familiarity of his handwriting. His words were simple, but they carried a weight that settled deep in her chest:

Sansa,

Dragonstone is not what I expected. The wind never stops howling through the cliffs, and the sea stretches on forever. The people here watch me with wary eyes, calling me 'Your Grace,' though it still does not feel like a title that belongs to me. They are good people, hardworking, strong, but they do not know me, not truly. I am learning what it means to govern, to be more than just a sword in the field. I may never be a king, but I can be something else. I can help them.

The whispers of my brother, Aegon, are growing. Word has reached me that he has landed in Dorne, gathering banners, though I do not know yet if he is friend or foe. I do not know what he wants or what he will make of me when we meet. If we meet.

But through all of it, I find my thoughts drifting north more often than I care to admit. To you.

I think of Winterfell, of the snow falling gently in the godswood, of the way you looked that last night before I left. I wish I had found the words to say then. I wish I had not let my own stubbornness push you further away. I have spent my life carrying burdens alone, but I should have known by now that you would have helped me carry this one too. If I have ever made you feel like you were anything less than the most important thing in my life, then I am sorry for that. Truly.

Tell Sam I’m sorry as well. And thank Brienne and Tormund for trying to knock sense into me. Even if I was too thick-headed to listen.

I don’t know what will come next, Sans. But if there is anything I am sure of, it is that I miss you. More than I have words for.

There is more I wish I could say. More I should say. But I will leave it at this for now.

Jaehaerys.

A soft, breathy laugh escaped her, though it was tinged with unshed tears. She could picture him as he wrote it, brow furrowed, struggling with every word. It was so like Jon to believe he had to bear everything alone.

She read it again, more slowly this time, taking in every line. He was reaching out, not just as a man seeking forgiveness but as someone longing for connection. And Sansa? She had long since given him a place in her heart, whether she admitted it aloud or not.

But then, something else caught her eye. The way he signed the letter.

Jaehaerys.

Her breath stilled. Her fingers curled around the parchment.

Jaehaerys? Not Jon.

Sansa set Jon’s, Jaehaerys,’ letter down carefully, her fingers lingering over the name at the bottom. Her mind swirled with questions; the warmth she had felt moments ago now tangled with unease. Why? Why would he call himself that? Why would he not use the name she had always known him by? Her pulse quickened, her thoughts spinning back to Aegon, to Bran, to the secrets that had unraveled before.

Her gaze drifted back to the other letter, the one from King’s Landing. With a steadying breath, she broke the seal and unraveled the parchment, her eyes scanning the precise, measured script.

Sansa, you are needed in King’s Landing. Come at once.

That was all. No explanation. No warmth. Just a command.

She exhaled sharply, frustration curling through her. Bran had always been distant since he had become the Three-Eyed Raven, but this? This was different. Something about it unsettled her, gnawed at the edges of her thoughts. Was it truly Bran writing to her, or was it whatever he had become? The more she thought about it, the more she realized, Bran never 'needed' anything. So why now?

Sansa sat back, gripping the arms of her chair, her mind racing between the two letters. One full of longing, regret, and the whisper of something deeper; the other cold, demanding, and shrouded in mystery. But for now, she wanted to hold onto Jon’s words, the warmth they carried, the sincerity woven into each line.

She called for Sam, Brienne, and Tormund, waiting anxiously until they arrived. As they settled into her solar, she handed Jon’s letter to Sam first, her fingers hesitating before letting go. "Read it," she said softly.

Sam took the parchment, his expression one of quiet reverence as his eyes scanned Jon’s words. Brienne leaned over his shoulder, her sharp gaze flickering between the lines, while Tormund stood to the side, arms crossed but listening intently.

As the words filled the space between them, a hush fell over the room. Sam's lips pressed together, his fingers tightening around the edges of the parchment. Brienne exhaled, her gaze softening. Even Tormund, usually full of sharp remarks, nodded solemnly.

"He misses us," Sam murmured. "He misses you, Sansa."

She swallowed the lump forming in her throat and nodded. "I know."

Brienne’s voice was gentle but firm. "And he regrets how he left things. That much is clear."

Tormund scoffed, but there was no real bite to it. "Of course, he does. The boy broods worse than anyone I’ve ever met. But this? This is different. He ain’t just brooding. He’s trying."

Sansa let out a shaky breath, allowing herself the smallest moment of relief. "He is."

Sam offered her a reassuring smile. "And that means something. He’s still him. He’s still Jon."

A silence settled between them, warm and unspoken, as they sat in the quiet of Sansa’s solar, absorbing Jon’s words.

Tormund was the first to break it, letting out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "I never thought I’d see the day he actually admitted to being thick-headed. Took long enough."

Brienne allowed herself a rare smile. "It’s good to see that he’s learning."

Sansa ran her fingers over the parchment, tracing the ink, a wistful expression on her face. "He’s always carried too much alone. Even now, he tries to make amends from across the sea."

Sam nodded solemnly. "That’s who he is. Always thinking he must bear the weight of the world himself. But he’s reaching out now, Sansa. That means something."

She swallowed the lump in her throat, feeling the warmth of their shared understanding settle around her. "It does."

Tormund smirked, nudging her arm playfully. "And you, little red wolf, do you miss him as much as he misses you?"

Sansa sighed, but there was no hiding the truth from them, not from these people who knew her too well. "Of course, I do."

Brienne placed a hand on her shoulder, reassuring and steady. "Then perhaps there’s still time to set things right."

A moment passed before Sam’s gaze flickered back to the letter. His breath hitched as he reached the end.

"Jaehaerys," he murmured under his breath, as though testing the name.

Brienne frowned. “That’s not…”

“His name,” Sansa finished for her. “No. Not the one Bran said it was. But it's the name he should have had all along.”

A tense silence settled over the room, thick with unspoken questions. Sam’s brow furrowed as he lowered the letter, his eyes flickering with unease. “Why would Bran lie about something so important?”

Brienne crossed her arms, her expression grave. “Bran rarely says anything without reason. But this… it’s hard to understand.”

Tormund leaned back against the wall with a grunt, crossing his arms. “Whatever the reason, it stinks worse than a dead mammoth.”

Sansa’s fingers curled tightly around the edge of the desk. “He should have told Jon the truth from the beginning. Jon deserved that much.” Her voice dropped, steadier but filled with emotion. “If his name was meant to be Jaehaerys, it was for a reason. Bran changed that. But why?”

No one answered, the silence hanging heavy around them.

Then Ghost, lying near the window, suddenly rose to his feet. His red eyes narrowed, his ears flattening back as a low growl rumbled in his chest. The fur along his back bristled as he stared out into the darkening horizon, pointing south.

A long, mournful howl echoed through the room, sending a chill down Sansa’s spine. She stepped toward the window, her breath fogging the glass as she stared into the distance, her pulse quickening.

“Jon…” she whispered, barely audible, her heart twisting painfully in her chest.

Outside, a raven with milky-white eyes sat perched on the battlements, its gaze unblinking as it watched the keep.

Jaehaerys

A moon had passed since Jaehaerys arrived on Dragonstone, and while the weight of his new title still felt unfamiliar, it no longer suffocated him. The blackened stone walls of the ancient castle, steeped in history and haunted by the whispers of his ancestors, had grown less daunting, transforming from a foreboding stronghold into a thriving sanctuary. The island’s craggy cliffs and winding paths had become familiar, and with each passing day, the people of Dragonstone had begun to embrace him not as an outsider, but as one of their own.

Jaehaerys had thrown himself into the task of governing, determined to earn their trust through action rather than words. He had overseen the repairs of the fishing docks, personally working alongside the villagers to rebuild storm-battered structures.

New trade agreements had been secured with nearby Free Cities, ensuring a steady supply of goods that had once been scarce. He had organized the training of a local militia to protect the island from potential threats and doubled the watch on the shores after hearing rumors of increased pirate activity in the Narrow Sea.

He opened the castle’s granaries to ensure no family went hungry, distributing rations during a particularly lean week when the catch had been poor. The village square, once quiet and subdued, now buzzed with life as merchants displayed wares from distant lands, and children played without fear.

Jaehaerys had personally visited the infirmary to check on the sick and injured, learning the names of the afflicted and offering words of encouragement that carried more weight than he realized.

The fishermen had taken to calling him "The Watchful Prince," a title that spread quickly through the village. Marei, the sharp-tongued overseer of the docks, had once told him with a rare smile, "It’s been a long time since we’ve had a lord who looked at us as more than just numbers on a ledger. You’re different. You care."

These small victories had brought him a sense of purpose that he hadn’t expected. Though it would never be Winterfell, Dragonstone had slowly begun to feel like something more than just a fortress. It was becoming a home, a place where he could build something lasting, not just for himself, but for the people who now looked to him for guidance.

Jaehaerys walked the cobbled streets of the village alongside Ser Davos and Aurane, the morning sun casting a golden light over the cobblestones. The villagers greeted them warmly now, their cautious nods and smiles growing more confident with each passing day. Some paused to offer respectful bows, while others waved, their hands dusted with flour or calloused from fishing nets. Children darted past, their laughter echoing in the crisp air, bringing life to streets that had once been hushed and wary.

"You’ve made quite an impression here," Davos said as they passed a group of merchants unloading fresh goods from the harbor. "They speak of you as if you’ve been their prince for years."

"I’m just a man trying to do what’s right," Jaehaerys replied, his gaze following the children as they ran past, laughing. "Titles don’t matter as much as actions."

"Spoken like someone who understands what leadership truly means," Davos said, clapping him on the shoulder. "But don’t forget, you’re not just any man anymore."

Jaehaerys paused to speak with Roderic, an old fisherman with a limp who knew every tide and rock on the island. "How’s the catch today, Roderic?"

"Better than expected, Your Grace," Roderic said with a grin. "The sea’s been kind to us this week."

"Good," Jaehaerys nodded. "Let me know if you need anything for the boats before the colder months settle in. We’ll make sure you’re ready."

Roderic nodded his thanks as Marei’s sharp voice cut through the bustle of the square. "If you lot spent half as much time working as you do getting into trouble, we’d have these nets untangled before midday!" she barked at a group of boys struggling with a pile of fishing gear.

Jaehaerys chuckled and continued down the street, pausing to kneel beside Garren, a young boy tying knots under Marei’s watchful eye. "You’ve improved," he said, inspecting the boy’s handiwork. "A strong knot can mean the difference between a full net and an empty one. Keep at it."

The boy beamed, nodding eagerly. "Thank you, Your Grace!"

"The people love you more than you realize," Davos said quietly as they walked on. "And love is a rare thing for a ruler. Don’t take it for granted."

"I won’t," Jaehaerys replied, his voice soft but firm.

The warmth of the people and the simplicity of their lives grounded him in a way he hadn’t expected. He spent time speaking with merchants, listening to their concerns about trade and the rumors of piracy. He made mental notes of everything they needed, already planning how to improve security and ensure the village thrived.

As they approached the keep, the clanging of swords drew their attention. In the training yard, Asher was overseeing a sparring session with a group of young soldiers, his movements precise and powerful. He barked commands, adjusting their stances and correcting their techniques with unrelenting intensity.

"Well look who finally decided to grace us with his presence!" Asher called, pausing his training to give Jaehaerys a broad grin. "Thought you’d forgotten what a sword looks like."

"Aye, it’s been a while since I’ve had time for sparring," Jaehaerys admitted, crossing his arms. "But I recon I could still take you down, Asher."

"Big words," Asher said with a chuckle, wiping sweat from his brow. "Care to back them up, your grace?"

"Careful, Asher," Aurane chimed in, his eyes glinting with amusement. "He’s got that Valyrian steel. Not exactly fair play."

"Fairness is for fools," Asher retorted with a smirk. "Come on, your grace, show me what you’ve got."

They exchanged lighthearted jabs as the sparring continued, the tension of the past few weeks lifting in the camaraderie of friends. The bonds they had forged since Jaehaerys’ arrival were no longer born solely from duty but from something deeper, genuine friendship.

Asher, ever the brash warrior, had become a steadfast companion and occasional drinking partner, regaling them with wild tales of his time in Essos that earned both laughter and disbelief.

Aurane, with his quick wit and devil-may-care charm, brought levity even in the most serious of moments, often teasing Jaehaerys about his growing popularity among the villagers, especially the way the women of the island would look at their prince.

Even Monford Velaryon, typically reserved and serious, had joined them for more than one evening in the great hall, sharing cups of strong Dornish wine and recounting stories of his younger days at sea. The evenings stretched long into the night, filled with laughter and a growing sense of camaraderie that made the stone walls of Dragonstone feel far less cold and oppressive.

Before long, Lord Monford strode into the yard, his expression serious. He bowed briefly before addressing Jaehaerys. "Your Grace, several more minor lords have written to inform us they will be traveling to Dragonstone to swear fealty. It seems your presence has stirred old loyalties. They remain loyal to House Targaryen and wish to pledge themselves to you."

Jaehaerys’ brow furrowed. He glanced at Davos, then went back to Monford. "They should be pledging to King Bran. I’m not their king."

"And yet they see you as their true prince," Monford said. "Their loyalty lies with your bloodline. Many do not recognize the authority of the North over them, and with your brother Aegon rising in the South... they seek clarity."

Jaehaerys pressed his lips into a thin line. He had expected this to happen eventually, but hearing it now unsettled him. "We’ll receive them when they arrive. For now, ensure their accommodations are prepared."

Jaehaerys turned to Monford, his voice calm but expectant. "Monford, has there been any word from the North?"

Monford shook his head, his expression neutral yet understanding. "No, Your Grace. Not yet. But I have no doubt we’ll hear from them soon."

Asher smirked slightly, glancing at Aurane, who raised an eyebrow in confusion. "Seems like I missed something," Aurane muttered, his eyes darting between them.

Jaehaerys rolled his eyes at Asher, a small grin tugging at his lips. "On second thought, I'll take you up on that spar, Asher. Let’s see if your skills are as sharp as your tongue."

The tension lifted as Asher chuckled, drawing his sword. "Careful, your grace. I won’t go easy on you."

The sun had set over Dragonstone, leaving the keep bathed in soft twilight. The scent of salt and smoke lingered in the air, carried on a gentle breeze that whispered through the open windows of Jaehaerys’ chambers. The day had been long but rewarding, a blur of decisions, inspections, and fleeting moments of peace spent with those he trusted most.

He leaned against the wide stone window ledge, gazing out over the darkening sea. Below, lanterns flickered in the village, their golden light reflecting on the water like fireflies dancing on the waves. The familiar rhythm of the island soothed him, a rare comfort he found difficult to explain.

But tonight, rest eluded him once again. His thoughts, unbidden, drifted north, to Winterfell. He reached for Ghost’s connection, slipping into the wolf’s mind as easily as breathing.

Through Ghost’s Eyes

The courtyard of Winterfell was bathed in silver light, snow blanketing the ground in a pristine layer. Ghost padded silently along the battlements, his red eyes scanning the shadows. The cold northern wind ruffled his thick white coat, filling his senses with the scents of home, pine, wood smoke, and something bittersweet.

Then he saw her.

Sansa stood near the edge of the battlements; her cloak drawn tightly around her. Her auburn hair caught the moonlight, glowing like copper. Her eyes were distant, her expression thoughtful yet tinged with worry. Ghost moved toward her, his steps soft on the snow, until he was close enough to brush his nose against her hand.

Sansa knelt, her fingers tangling in his fur. Her touch was light, comforting, yet tinged with sadness.

"Jon..." she whispered, the word barely more than a breath. Her voice cracked slightly, betraying the emotions she kept locked away. "I hope you’re safe."

Ghost nuzzled closer, sensing her concern, the connection between them growing stronger. Jaehaerys felt her presence through Ghost, her warmth, her strength, and beneath it all, the flicker of something fragile and unspoken. He wanted to stay, to linger in this moment, but the pull of reality yanked him back to Dragonstone with startling force.

Back in Dragonstone

Jaehaerys opened his eyes, his breath hitching. His chambers felt suddenly colder, the shadows in the corners deeper. The fire in the hearth crackled softly, casting flickering light across the dark stone walls. He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, the image of Sansa’s worried face lingering in his mind.

"You always worry too much," he whispered to himself, though his heart ached with the same longing he had seen reflected in her eyes.

The quiet of the evening settled around him like a heavy blanket, and for a moment, he let himself savor the calm. Then, a faint creak echoed from the hallway outside his chambers. He tensed, his instincts sharpening. Footsteps, light, deliberate, moved closer.

He reached for Longclaw, the familiar weight of the Valyrian steel comforting in his hand. The firelight caught the edge of the blade, casting a pale gleam across the room.

The door to his chambers opened just a fraction, a sliver of shadow stretching across the floor. Jaehaerys rose to his feet, his eyes locked on the doorway, every muscle in his body coiled like a spring.

A figure slipped inside, cloaked in darkness. The assassin moved with practiced silence, his blade glinting in the low light. Jaehaerys barely had time to react before the first strike came, swift and deadly. He twisted the blade missing his throat by inches, slicing through the fabric of his tunic.

"Guards!" Jaehaerys shouted, his voice echoing down the stone corridors.

The assassin lunged again, but Jaehaerys met him head-on, their blades clashing with a harsh ring of steel. Pain flared in his side as the second attacker struck, the dagger biting deep. Blood seeped through his tunic, warm and sticky.

"Damn it," Jaehaerys hissed, gritting his teeth against the pain. He lashed out with Longclaw, catching the first assassin across the chest. The man crumpled to the ground, but another figure loomed behind him.

The second attacker pressed forward, their movements swift and merciless. Jaehaerys staggered, his strength waning, but he refused to yield. He parried another blow, countering with a powerful slash that forced the assassin back.

Then, just as the third attacker closed in, the door burst open.

"JAEHAERYS!" Asher’s voice roared through the chaos, and within moments, he and Aurane stormed into the room, their swords flashing in the firelight.

Asher’s blade cut down one of the attackers in an instant, his strikes swift and deadly. Aurane dispatched the last assassin with a precise thrust of his dagger, his eyes scanning the room for more threats.

Jaehaerys swayed on his feet, his vision blurring. "Double the guards," he said through clenched teeth. "No one... enters the keep without my permission."

Aurane rushed to his side, steadying him. "You’re bleeding badly. We need to get you to the maester."

Asher gripped Jaehaerys’ shoulder, his face a mask of worry. "You’re damn near white as a ghost. Don’t be stubborn, let’s go."

Jaehaerys tried to push past them, but the room spun violently. His legs buckled beneath him, darkness creeping at the edges of his vision.

"Hold on," Aurane muttered, panic in his voice as he tried to keep Jaehaerys upright. "We’ve got you."

The last thing Jaehaerys saw before everything went black was the firelight dancing on Longclaw’s blade, as the shadows in the corners seemed to close in like silent watchers. In that fleeting moment, a whisper, whether from the dark or from within, seemed to echo in his mind, a single word: "Beware."

Sansa

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden glow over the rolling hills and thick forests that stretched endlessly before them. Nearly a moon had passed since they left Winterfell, and Sansa had grown quieter with each mile they traveled south. What had begun as a hopeful journey had turned into something heavier, an ache that settled deep in her chest. Her thoughts returned repeatedly to Jon, her worries circling like vultures in her mind.

Her fingers absently traced the edge of the saddle as she rode at the front of the caravan. Ghost padded silently beside her horse; his red eyes ever watchful. The wind carried the scent of pine and distant rivers, but it did little to ease her growing tension.

"You’ve been too quiet, little red wolf," Tormund said, his wild red hair catching the light. His voice was a mix of concern and curiosity. "That’s not like you."

Sansa forced a small smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. "I’ve just been thinking."

"Thinking too much never did anyone any good," Tormund chuckled. "That’s why I leave it to clever folk like you and Jon. Me? I stick to hitting things with axes. Much simpler."

Brienne glanced over at her; her brow furrowed with quiet concern. "He’s right," she said gently. "You haven’t been yourself since we left Winterfell. If something is troubling you, you can tell us."

"Thank you both for your concern," Sansa said softly, offering a warm smile. "Truly. But some thoughts... they’re better sorted through quietly."

Brienne nodded, understanding lingering in her steady gaze. She didn’t press further, though her eyes lingered on Sansa for a moment longer before turning back to the road ahead.

The caravan moved on in relative silence, the rhythmic clopping of hooves filling the air like a soothing cadence. Sansa shifted slightly in her saddle, her thoughts turning inward once again.

Her gaze flicked to Ghost, his silent presence a comfort she hadn’t fully appreciated until now. His red eyes seemed to glow in the fading light, scanning the landscape with unwavering vigilance.

"Do you think he’s all right, Ghost?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the rustling leaves. The direwolf’s ears twitched, but he made no sound. Still, his steady pace beside her seemed like an answer in itself, a reassurance she needed more than she cared to admit.

As dusk began to settle, the caravan slowed, and they decided to set up camp for the night in a small clearing by a bubbling stream. The air grew cooler as the sun dipped below the horizon, the shadows stretching long and dark across the landscape.

A fire crackled in the center of the camp, casting a warm glow over their makeshift circle. Sansa sat near the flames; her cloak wrapped around her shoulders as she watched the embers rise into the twilight sky. Her thoughts drifted again to Jon, his letter still fresh in her mind, its words a constant echo in her heart.

"May I join you?" Reynold’s voice broke through her thoughts, and she looked up to see him standing just outside the firelight, holding two cups of tea.

Sansa nodded, offering a small smile. "Of course."

He handed her a cup before settling onto the log beside her. The firelight danced across his features, highlighting the sharp angles of his face and the warmth in his deep blue eyes. "The nights are colder the farther south we travel," he said casually, taking a sip from his cup. "Not quite what I expected."

"The North leaves its mark on those who know it well," Sansa replied, her voice thoughtful. "Even when we leave it behind, it finds ways to follow us."

Reynold chuckled softly. "Wise words. You’ve carried the North with you in everything you do. It’s part of what makes you... remarkable."

Sansa glanced at him, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. "Thank you, Lord Reynold. That’s... kind of you to say."

"Kindness is a small thing in times like these," Reynold said, his voice gentle. "But if it helps, I’ll offer it as often as needed."

For a while, neither spoke, the crackling fire bridging the quiet between them. Reynold traced the rim of his cup thoughtfully before breaking the silence, his voice gentler than before.

"You know, your grace," he began, leaning forward slightly, "You’ve been unusually quiet since we left Winterfell," he said softly, his concern unmistakable. "I know the weight of command can be suffocating at times, but... it feels like more than that."

Sansa wrapped her hands around the warm cup, staring into the flames. "Sometimes silence is just... easier."

He nodded thoughtfully. "I understand that. Sometimes the hardest thing to do is speak your mind, especially when every word feels like a gamble."

Sansa tilted her head slightly, considering his words."

Reynold chuckled softly; his eyes warm. "You shouldn’t have to carry them alone, though. Even the strongest among us need a hand now and then."

"And who will help you with yours?" Sansa asked, a playful note creeping into her voice.

"Ah," Reynold grinned, leaning back on the log, "I’ve always managed to charm my way through life. But perhaps I’ve finally met someone who won’t let me get away with that."

Sansa couldn’t help but smile, a soft, genuine curve of her lips. "Perhaps."

The fire crackled on between them, and for the first time in a long while, Sansa felt the weight on her shoulders lift just a fraction. For all his charm and light-hearted words, he seemed to genuinely care, and in this fleeting moment, she found herself thankful for it.

The swampy landscape stretched before them as they crested a hill, Greywater Watch finally coming into view. Its moss-covered towers rose out of the mist like something out of an old tale, blending seamlessly with the surrounding bogs. The sight of it sent a strange shiver down Sansa’s spine.

Howland Reed stood at the gates, flanked by his wife Jyana and his daughter Meera. His expression was welcoming but cautious, his sharp eyes taking in every detail of their group.

"Your grace," Howland said, dipping his head in a respectful bow. "Welcome to Greywater Watch. It’s an honor to host you."

She dismounted, her boots sinking slightly into the soft ground. "Lord Reed. It’s good to finally meet you. My father spoke of you often. He trusted you like a brother."

Howland’s face softened at the mention of her father. "Your father was a great man. The North is lesser without him, but it’s clear his strength lives on in you. You’ll always have a home here."

Meera stepped forward; her eyes bright with warmth. "Come inside. The swamps aren’t known for their hospitality, but we’ll do our best to make you comfortable."

They followed the Reeds into the keep, the air inside cool and damp, carrying the scent of moss and fresh water.

As they walked toward the keep, Howland leaned slightly toward Sansa, his voice barely above a whisper. "He’s all right, you know."

Sansa blinked, caught off guard. "How did you know…?"

"We Northerners are blessed with many gifts by the gods." he said with a kind smile.

Sansa’s breath caught in her throat. She glanced at him, searching his face for assurance. "Are you sure? That he’s all right?"

He paused; his sharp eyes were steady on hers. He gave a single, deliberate nod. "Aye, I’m sure."

Relief washed over her, though a faint worry still lingered.

Lady Jyana led them to a large hall where a fire crackled in the hearth, casting a soft glow over the stone walls.

"We don’t receive many visitors," Jyana said with a smile, setting a tray of bread, cheese, and smoked fish on the table. "But those we do; we treat like family. Please, sit and rest."

Sansa settled into a chair, grateful for the warmth of the fire. Brienne and Tormund took seats nearby, while Reynold stood by the window, his gaze drifting out toward the swamps. Ghost lay at Sansa’s feet, his head resting on his paws but his eyes still scanning the room.

It wasn’t long before Howland cleared his throat, his expression darkening slightly. "Your grace, before you continue your journey, there are things you should know. Strange tales have reached even the swamps, whispers from King’s Landing."

Sansa leaned forward, her pulse quickening. "What kind of whispers?"

"Your...brother," Meera said quietly. "Bran has been searching for Drogon. His obsession has only grown in the last few moons."

The air seemed to grow colder at her words. Sansa’s fingers tightened around the armrest of her chair. "Why would he be so focused on Drogon? What does he want with him?"

Meera exchanged a glance with her father before speaking again, her voice low. "I was there, in the cave of the three-eyed raven. I saw what the power did to him. It changes you. Makes you see things that aren’t always real. Bran is not who he once was, not entirely."

A chill traced down Sansa’s spine. She had always known Bran had changed since becoming the three-eyed raven, but this... this was something darker. Something far more dangerous.

Before she could speak, a knock echoed at the door, cutting through the tense silence like a blade. Howland rose swiftly, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his dagger. His eyes narrowed as he motioned for Meera to stay back.

The door creaked open slowly, revealing one of his guards, breathless and pale. His eyes darted between Howland and Sansa, as though he was unsure whom to address.

"My lord," the guard said, struggling to catch his breath. "You, you must come at once. There’s something... unsettling you need to see."

Sansa stood, her pulse quickening as her instincts screamed that something was wrong. Howland nodded, casting a wary glance at the others before stepping out into the corridor. Sansa followed close behind, her breath catching in her throat.

The air outside was thick with mist, rolling in from the swamps like a silent tide. It clung to everything, muffling sound, and distorting shapes in the distance. The guard led them toward the courtyard, where the firelight barely penetrated the growing fog.

"There," he whispered, pointing toward the tallest tower of Greywater Watch.

Sansa’s breath hitched. Perched on the highest spire was a raven, its feathers as black as the night, but its eyes, milky white and unblinking, glowed with an unnatural light. The bird didn’t move, didn’t blink, simply watched with eerie stillness.

"Bran," she whispered, her voice barely audible, a chill creeping down her spine.

The raven let out a single, hollow caw that seemed to echo endlessly through the mist, its cry distorted and haunting. The sound sent a ripple of unease through the gathered crowd. Then, without warning, the raven spread its wings and launched itself into the air, disappearing into the fog as if it had never been there at all.

Sansa stared after it, her chest tightening with a sense of foreboding.

"That bird..." Tormund muttered, stepping closer to Sansa. "It wasn’t just a bird."

Howland’s face darkened. "No, it wasn’t."

The silence that followed was suffocating. The mist seemed to press in closer, wrapping around them like a living thing.

"Your grace," Howland said gravely, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I think it’s time you heard the full truth about what happened in the cave of the three-eyed raven."

Sansa’s heart hammered in her chest as she nodded, her voice steady despite the fear creeping up her spine. "Then tell me. Tell me everything."

The mist swirled thicker around them, the shadows stretching long and dark as Howland led her back into the keep. Behind them, Ghost let out a low growl, his red eyes fixed on the southern horizon, where the fog seemed to whisper secrets only he could hear.

Jaehaerys

The dim light of dawn filtered through the heavy curtains of Jaehaerys’ chamber, casting faint shadows across the stone walls. His eyes flickered open, his body stiff and aching from weeks, of forced rest. The dull throb in his side served as a constant reminder of the assassination attempt, though the sharp pain had dulled to a manageable ache. He exhaled slowly, shifting upright in the bed, his fingers brushing the bandages beneath his tunic.

The room was quiet save for the distant crash of waves against the cliffs below. Outside, the wind howled, carrying with it the scent of salt and seaweed. For a moment, he let himself linger in the stillness, grounding himself in the present before the weight of his duties returned.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. Before he could answer, it creaked open, revealing none other than Davos, his weathered face lined with relief.

"Quite the scare you gave us, Your Grace," Davos said with a warm smile. His eyes flicked to Jaehaerys’ side. "How are you feeling?"

Jaehaerys swung his legs over the side of the bed, testing his balance before rising to his feet. "I’ve had worse."

"Aye, but you’ve never been stabbed in your own bed before. I’d say that’s a first." Davos raised an eyebrow.

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of Jaehaerys’ mouth. "True enough. What’s the status outside? Any sign of more trouble?"

Davos shook his head. "None so far. Monford’s doubled the guards, and the men are on high alert. If anyone so much as breathes wrong, we’ll know about it. Still, I wouldn’t let your guard down just yet. Whoever sent those assassins won’t stop with one failed attempt."

He gave a faint nod, his eyes darkening with resolve. With Davos steadying him, he pulled on his tunic, wincing slightly but refusing to show weakness. "We stay sharp. No one takes us by surprise again. Get the others to the council chamber. We need to figure out our next move."

The council chamber was bathed in the soft glow of morning light by the time he entered. Aurane leaned casually against the far wall, his arms crossed but his expression was unusually serious. Asher Forrester sat at the table, his eyes sharp, fingers tapping a restless rhythm on the wood. Monford Velaryon stood near the window, his gaze fixed on the sea beyond. Kinvara lingered by the fire, her face calm but distant, the flames reflecting in her dark eyes.

Davos entered behind Jaehaerys, taking his place near the head of the table. Aurane’s eyes lit up when he saw Jaehaerys.

"Good to see you standing, Your Grace," Aurane said, his usual smirk tinged with regret. "We should’ve reached you sooner that night."

"I blame myself," Asher added, his tone low. "I was too slow. It won’t happen again."

Jaehaerys waved off their apologies with a shake of his head. "I’m alive. That’s what matters. We learn, and we move forward."

Monford cleared his throat and stepped forward, holding a sealed scroll. "A raven arrived this morning. It bears the sigil of House Targaryen. From Sunspear."

The room grew tense as Jaehaerys accepted the scroll, breaking the seal with a practiced hand. His eyes scanned the parchment, his expression unreadable at first. Then he began to read aloud:

Brother,

The winds carry whispers, and the world watches us both. I have heard many tales of you, some speak of great deeds, of battles won and sacrifices made. Others... well, they tell a darker story. I wonder which is true, or if the truth lies somewhere in between.

I rule in the warmth of Dorne, while you rise from the cold cliffs of Dragonstone. A fitting contrast, wouldn’t you agree? Two brothers, two paths, yet only one true destiny awaits us.

I would have us meet in Sunspear, not as rivals, but as kin seeking understanding. Much has been said of me, just as much has been said of you. It is time we settle what’s true and what is not with our own words, face to face.

The realm is in flux, and if we are wise, we might shape it together. But if we are not… well, that remains to be seen.

Come south, brother. Let us speak plainly. Let us decide what comes next.

Aegon.

Jaehaerys folded the letter carefully and looked up at the gathered council. "He requests my presence in Sunspear."

Aurane raised an eyebrow. "Request or challenge? There’s a difference."

"He calls it a request," Jaehaerys replied, his voice measured. "But the meaning is clear enough. If he’s gathering banners, we need to know his intentions."

Aurane raised an eyebrow. "Request or command? There’s a difference."

"He calls it a request," Jaehaerys replied, his voice measured. "But the meaning is clear enough. If he’s gathering banners, we need to know his intentions."

"It could be a trap," Asher warned. "Or a test. Either way, it’s dangerous."

Kinvara stepped forward, her voice low and deliberate. "You will meet your brother, Jaehaerys. But tread carefully. The flames have shown me strange things, a man who wears many faces, webs of deceit stretching from Dorne to the Red Keep. And shadows with wings, circling above."

Jaehaerys leaned forward slightly, his brow furrowing. "Shadows with wings? What does that mean?"

Her gaze remained fixed on the fire. "It means you walk a dangerous path, one where light and darkness blur into one another. Trust no one without reason. Even the brightest stars can cast the darkest shadows."

A tense silence followed her words before Davos cleared his throat. "Then I’ll accompany you to Sunspear, Your Grace. You shouldn’t go alone."

"Nor will you," Monford added firmly. "We’ll send our best men with you."

Jaehaerys’ gaze swept the room, taking in each of their faces. "Asher, Davos, Aurane, Kinvara, you’ll come with me. Monford, Dragonstone is yours until I return. Prepare the ships. We sail at dawn."

Aurane grinned, his eyes glinting with mischief. "About time we had a proper adventure. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure we’re not caught unprepared."

The castle courtyard bustled with activity as preparations for their departure continued. The wind carried the scent of salt and sea, mixing with the chatter of sailors and the creak of rigging from the ships moored below. Jaehaerys emerged from the main hall, his pace slow but steady, each step measured against the lingering pain in his side.

Davos walked beside him; his face lined with concern. He cast a sidelong glance at Jaehaerys. "You’re stubborn as ever, you know that? You should be in bed, not marching off to Sunspear like nothing happened. You’ve barely given yourself time to heal."

Jaehaerys smirked, though his tone was light. "I’ll rest on the journey south, my lord. The sea air does wonders, or so I’ve been told."

A faint smile tugged at Davos's lips, as he huffed. "Aye, you’ve always been quick with an excuse. But you’ll forgive me if I don’t find it convincing. I’ve seen you grow from a boy at the Wall, too unsure of himself to speak his mind, into the man standing here now. I remember the first time we sailed together, how you barely knew how to stand on a ship without falling over. We’ve come a long way since then, haven’t we?"

His voice softened as he continued, his eyes thoughtful. "You might wear a crown now, but there's something I must tell you. To me, you’ve always been something more than just a bloody lord commander or a bastard king. I’ve always seen you as a son. And when they sent you into exile, I... I’ve carried that with me every day since. I should’ve stood by you louder, fought harder. The guilt of that, Jo-Jaehaerys, hasn’t left me. Not once."

Jaehaerys stopped, turning to face him fully. His voice was quiet but firm. "Davos, there’s nothing to forgive. You stood by me when no one else did, when it cost you everything. If I’m still standing, it’s because you never let me fall. You’ve done more for me than most fathers would. Don’t carry that guilt anymore. I won’t let you."

For a moment, the weight between them lifted, and Davos gave a slow nod. "Well, you’ve turned out better than most. Even if you’re as stubborn as a mule."

They resumed walking toward the harbor, the distant waves crashing against the cliffs below. Jaehaerys’s eyes drifted out over the sea. "I sent a letter north, to Winterfell. To Sansa."

Davos raised an eyebrow. "Good lad. And what did you tell her?"

"Everything I needed to say," Jaehaerys replied. "Things I should’ve said long ago. I asked for her forgiveness… and Sam’s. Brienne’s and Tormund’s too. They tried to knock some sense into me before I left."

Davos chuckled. "Sounds about right. If anyone can knock sense into you, it’s those two."

Jaehaerys smiled faintly but then grew thoughtful. "Davos, before you left the council in King’s Landing, did you notice anything… strange about Bran?"

His face darkened slightly. "Aye, I did. In the months before I left, he grew more distant, colder, even for him. He became obsessed with finding Drogon. It was all he spoke of. Day and night, his mind was fixed on that dragon. I don’t know why, but it was as if he was searching for something far more dangerous than even he understood."

Jaehaerys nodded slowly, his thoughts turning. The pieces shifted in his mind, but they refused to fit together. Not yet.

They reached the dock, where the ships rocked gently in the harbor. The sails billowed in the cool night breeze, and the sea stretched endlessly before them, dark and restless. Jaehaerys paused at the gangplank, his eyes fixed on the horizon.

"Ready to set sail?" he asked quietly.

Davos clapped him on the shoulder. "Aye. We’ll face whatever comes next together."

As Jaehaerys boarded the ship, the deck creaked beneath his boots. The wind picked up, carrying with it a faint, low, distant roar. It was so faint it could have been imagined. But he knew better.

His heart quickened as he scanned the sky, his breath hitching. There was nothing but darkness above, yet the roar lingered in his mind, unmistakable.

Drogon.

He clenched his fists, his thoughts racing as he turned back toward the open sea. Somewhere out there, the great beast was watching, waiting.

Jaehaerys exhaled, the tension in his chest tightening. Whatever lay ahead, he would face it. For his family. For the North. For the her.

And so, they sailed south, into the unknown.

Chapter Text

Hello!!

Question, do you all prefer shorter chapters, i.e 2,500-4,500 words? or Lengthy chapters, i.e 5,000-5,500+ words?

Because chapter 7 has been written, just proof reading, but it's a MONSTER of a chapter lol.

Please let me know in the comments below.

Thank you!

Chapter Text

Sansa

A steady drizzle wept from the sky, turning Greywater Watch into a realm of shifting shadows. Mist slithered through the reeds and clung to the ancient stones like spectral fingers. The fortress breathed with the marsh, shifting as if to elude the gaze of intruders. Sansa stood at the courtyard's edge, her cloak drawn tightly about her shoulders, watching the boglands vanish into the swirling brume.

Days had come and gone, yet the unease in Sansa's chest had not waned.

Greywater Watch was no ordinary castle; it lingered on the edges of the world, shifting as the bogs whispered their secrets. The air was thick with damp and memory, the scent of peat and waterlogged earth clinging to her like a ghost.

It was a place unmoored from time, where the past never truly rested. Sansa could feel it stirring, creeping into the corners of her mind like a half-remembered dream.

"Greywater Watch moves with the bogs," Howland had said, his voice quiet, measured, steeped in the weight of old knowledge.

"It is not like Winterfell, nor any other holdfast you have known. No stone keeps it rooted. No road will lead you back should it not wish to be found. It is a thing of the marsh, shifting with the waters, rising with the reeds. It watches, it listens... and when it must, it disappears."

Sansa inclined her head at his words, but their weight clung to her like damp wool. Winterfell had been stone and ice, unyielding, eternal. Greywater Watch was something else entirely—a thing of water and mist, ever shifting, never still. It was not merely untamed; it was unknowable.

The soft crunch of footsteps pulled her from her thoughts. Brienne moved with the measured grace of a seasoned warrior, her armor dull in the mist-laden light, beaded with rain.

"Your Grace," she murmured, voice steady, warm, yet edged with concern. "You’ve been standing here for some time. The rain is falling harder. Best we find shelter."

Sansa’s smile was slight, fleeting. "Just a moment more, Brienne. The mist... it stirs something in me. A memory, perhaps. Or a dream. I cannot say."

Brienne inclined her head, saying nothing. There was no need. She understood the silences as well as the words left unspoken. Her keen eyes swept the mist-laden landscape, ever wary, her hand resting lightly on the hilt of her sword. Danger could come from anywhere, especially in a place that moved like a living thing.

Not far behind, Tormund Giantsbane lounged against a moss-slick stone, his wild red mane plastered with rain, his beard bristling with damp. He caught Sansa’s gaze and grinned, teeth flashing like a wolf baring fangs.

"You’ve got that look again, little red wolf. Too much thinking. Thinking never won a battle, never filled a belly. A sword swing, a good feast, a woman in your bed—that’s what gets things done."

Sansa chuckled softly. "Perhaps you’re right, Tormund. Though I doubt running headfirst into battle, as you prefer, would help me much here."

"Maybe not," Tormund said with a wink. "But it’d be more fun."

Their light-hearted exchange unraveled as Howland’s voice cut through the mist, low and solemn.

"Your Grace," Howland murmured, his voice scarcely louder than the wind. "Ser Brienne is right. The marshes whisper, and the mist carries secrets best spoken by the fire. There are things you must hear."

Sansa lingered a moment longer, her gaze lost in the swirling mist, as if searching for something just beyond sight. The bogs whispered, restless. Finally, she exhaled, drawing her cloak tighter around her shoulders. "Of course," she said, though a shadow of doubt flickered in her eyes.

They stepped into the hall, where the damp scent of old wood and peat smoke clung to the air like an ancient memory. The fire in the hearth burned low, its embers casting restless shadows that danced along the stone walls.

Howland led Sansa toward a dimly lit chamber, his movements deliberate, his silence heavy with unspoken truths. The others—Tormund, Brienne, and Meera—lingered just beyond the threshold, their faces carved with tension, their eyes tracking every movement as though expecting the walls themselves to whisper secrets.

Sansa folded her hands before her, steadying herself. "What is it, Lord Reed?" she asked, her voice calm, though the weight in her chest grew heavier with every breath.

Howland’s eyes darkened, his features carved from stone. "It’s about the Three-Eyed Raven. Your brother is not the boy you remember, not anymore. Bran is... something else now."

Sansa’s fingers clenched her cloak. "Tell me," she said, though she already knew. She had known since the raven came to Winterfell, since Bran returned with eyes that saw too much. Cold certainty curled in her chest, unwelcome and unshakable.

"He is no longer merely a man," Howland said, his voice low, each word measured as if speaking them aloud might give them weight. "The day he stepped into the weirwood cave, he was claimed by something older than kingdoms, older than men. The roots of the world twined around him, and now he sees beyond time, beyond fate itself. And sometimes... what he sees, he does not simply witness. He molds it."

Sansa’s pulse quickened. The weight of Howland’s words settled over her like a heavy cloak. "You’re saying he shapes the future, not just sees it?"

Meera stirred at last, stepping forward like a woman walking through a dream. Her face was drawn, her eyes shadowed with memories she dared not name. "I left because I had to," she said, her voice thin as a blade’s edge. "I brought him back to Winterfell, back to you. I thought... I thought he'd want to be with his family, that he would still be Bran. But when I told him I was leaving, he just looked at me. When I called him Bran, he said—" she swallowed, her throat tight—"'I'm not really. Not anymore.'"

She exhaled, shaking her head as if to dispel the ghosts of that moment. "There were things in that cave, things that should not be. The Bran we knew was fading, swallowed by the roots of the world. He sees too much, Sansa—past, present, future—all as one. And sometimes... he does more than see. He shapes."

A chill traced its fingers up Sansa’s spine. She thought of the raven with its ghost-pale eyes, perched atop the battlements of Winterfell, silent and knowing. Always watching. Always waiting.

The firelight flickered against the damp stone, but it gave no warmth. "What am I to do?" she murmured, the question slipping from her lips like a prayer unanswered.

"Trust only what your own eyes tell you," Howland said, his voice quiet, yet weighted with meaning. "Bran sees too much, and men who stare too long into the abyss of time forget what it means to live within it."

Outside the chamber, Tormund let out a grunt, scratching his beard. "A man staring too hard at tomorrow trips over today and lands on his arse," he muttered. "Seen it happen. Never ends well."

Brienne’s gaze never wavered, her stance as solid as the steel she bore. "Whatever comes, Your Grace, we’ll stand with you. That, I swear."

Sansa met their gazes, one by one, her own steady as steel. "I will not forget this," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "Nor will I forget who stood with me."

The fire crackled, shadows twisting like restless wraiths upon the walls. A seed of doubt burrowed deep in Sansa’s heart, its roots creeping through her thoughts. She had believed she understood the game, the players, the stakes. But now, she saw the board was larger, the pieces older, and the rules written in a language lost to time.

A heavy silence settled over the room, thick as the mist outside. Words had been spoken, but much remained unsaid, hanging in the air like a blade poised to fall.

Beyond the mist-cloaked walls of Greywater Watch, the marshes whispered, voices as old as the first men, thick with secrets no living soul should know. The air was heavy, sodden with mystery, and Sansa felt it pressing in, creeping closer with each passing breath, as if the bog itself was watching, waiting.

The land grew wilder the farther south they rode, the gentle hills of the North left behind for tangled forests wreathed in mist and low, sodden ground that sucked at the hooves of their mounts. The air clung to them, thick and wet, curling tendrils of fog through the trees, muffling sound, dampening spirits. Ghost padded ahead, silent as the mist itself, his red eyes catching the last light of day like embers smoldering in the dark.

The night before, they had made camp on the shores of the God’s Eye, where the vast, silent lake stretched out like a mirror of black glass, swallowing the moonlight and the mist alike. The air was thick with damp, clinging to cloaks and hair, yet Sansa hardly noticed. She stood by the water’s edge, her gaze fixed on the distant Isle of Faces, half-lost in the rolling fog. Her thoughts were heavier than the mist, weighted with stories of old gods and whispered vows, and the memory of a name she dared not speak aloud.

Bran had spoken of this place before, of old gods and older magics, of a prince and a northern girl who had met beneath the rustling red leaves and whispered vows only the trees would remember. Sansa’s lips curved in the ghost of a smile. For a fleeting moment, she saw herself and Jaehaerys there, beneath the weirwoods, their hands entwined, their voices hushed in the sacred stillness. A foolish fancy, yet it sent a warmth through her, a soft ache that settled deep in her chest, a longing as endless as the mists curling over the water.

“You’ve been quiet,” Brienne observed, her voice steady as steel. She moved with the deliberate grace of a warrior, her cloak stirring in the damp breeze. One broad hand rested on the pommel of Oathkeeper, the other loose at her side. Her blue eyes, sharp as a whetted blade, studied Sansa’s face with quiet scrutiny. “What troubles you?”

Sansa gave her a small smile, her gaze shifting back toward the lake. "Just thinking of Jaehaerys," she admitted softly. Her voice carried a wistful edge, and a light blush crept up her cheeks.

"I couldn’t help but picture us there... on the Isle of Faces, beneath the weirwoods. It’s silly, I know. But for a moment, it felt like something real, a place where promises are made and held forever."

Brienne’s expression softened, though the steel in her eyes did not wane. "The Isle of Faces is a place of old magic, or so the stories say," she murmured. "Some claim it stirs ghosts from their slumber, but perhaps not all spirits bring ill tidings." She watched Sansa closely, weighing her words like a knight weighing the heft of a blade. "Sometimes the past calls to us for a reason. And sometimes, what we long for most has already taken root in our hearts, whether we wish it or not."

Before Sansa could respond, Ghost let out a low, rumbling growl, his body going taut as a bowstring. The direwolf’s ears flattened, his hackles bristling like needles of ice. From the shadows, Tormund loomed, his wild red beard glinting in the moonlight. "The wolf smells something foul," he grunted, nostrils flaring. "Ain’t like him to spook over nothing. These woods are thick with something more than just mist, and I don’t mean no rabbits." His fingers flexed over the hilt of his blade. "I’ve seen men piss themselves for less. Best we keep our hands close to our steel, aye?"

Lord Hightower joined them, his expression as smooth as a pond in still air. "Old magic, perhaps. Or just the wind whispering lies to nervous ears," he mused, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "The Isle of Faces has spawned more tales than truths, and men have been jumping at shadows since the first sword was forged."

Sansa watched him, measuring the smoothness of his tone, the way he deflected the unease that clung to the camp like morning mist. Reynold Hightower was a man of honeyed words and careful smiles, one who knew just when to soothe and when to stir. A useful talent, to be sure, but she had learned in King’s Landing that the most dangerous men were often the ones who could talk you out of your own misgivings.

“Perhaps,” she allowed, her gaze lingering on the water, dark and fathomless as the mysteries it held. She folded her arms, drawing her cloak tighter against the damp. “But Ghost does not spook at shadows.”

As the others drifted back to their fires and furs, Sansa lingered by the shore, the night air cool on her skin. Jaehaerys was far away, in Sunspear, surrounded by sand and sun while she stood beneath the cold northern stars. Did he think of her, as she thought of him? Theirs was a bond unspoken, yet stronger than words, a tether stretched across the miles. Distance and doubt gnawed at its edges, but she held fast, for hope was a fragile thing, and once lost, it was near impossible to reclaim.

That night, her dreams were vivid and strange. She stood in a circle of ancient weirwood trees, their eyes bleeding red sap. The wind carried whispers in a language she didn’t understand, yet the meaning was clear, a warning. Shadows moved across the water, and she heard Jaehaerys’s voice calling her name, desperate and distant.

“Sansa!”

She turned, but the world had vanished, swallowed whole by an abyss deeper than the blackest night. A chilly wind brushed against her cheek, whispering secrets she could not understand. Somewhere, far away, a raven cawed, its voice sharp as a blade. The darkness did not yield.

Sansa woke with a sharp breath, heart hammering in her chest, sweat damp upon her brow. The night pressed close around her, thick and cloying. The fire had burned low, casting long shadows across the camp, and the steady rise and fall of sleeping men filled the air. Ghost lay at her side, still as a carved figure, save for his eyes—those red, knowing eyes fixed upon her, gleaming like embers in the dark. He saw more than she did, she knew that much. Perhaps he had seen the dream too.

“Just a dream,” she murmured, though even as the words left her lips, they rang hollow. Dreams had power. She had learned that from Bran, from the old stories, from the quiet terror that lingered in her bones. The unease clung to her like a damp shroud, refusing to be cast aside.

Dawn came sluggish and pale, the mist thick upon the lake, curling like ghostly fingers over the water. Sansa stood wrapped in her cloak, the damp seeping through the wool, but she hardly felt it. The dream clung to her like cobwebs, whispering in the edges of her mind. She glanced toward the Isle of Faces, half-lost in the swirling fog. Something waited there. Something ancient. Or someone.

As they packed their camp, Reynold sauntered over, his expression pensive yet measured. "There’s a tavern not far from here," he said, his tone light, almost too light. "The locals have loose tongues and stronger ale. One tale in particular might interest you."

“Oh?” she replied with arched an eyebrow.

Reynold nodded; his expression carefully measured. "Word travels fast, even in the dust and heat of Dorne. Your cousin, Jon Snow, has been rumored sailing towards Sunspear, to meet with his brother. Perhaps to break bread with him and speak in whispers." He paused, watching her closely. "Seems he’s been a busy man. Making alliances. Choosing sides perhaps."

Sansa schooled her face into stillness, the mask of a lady, but within, her heart coiled tight as a drawn bowstring. Jon, her family, her blood, adrift in the south, perhaps caught in Aegon’s web, a pawn on a board she could not see. She had learned in King’s Landing that men who played the game seldom left the table whole.

“You have my thanks,” she said, her tone even, betraying nothing. Words were wind, she knew, but information was a weapon, and she had long since learned how to wield it.

"Of course, your grace. A woman in your place must know the board as well as the players. It's never the blade you see coming that cuts the deepest." Reynold spoke with a smile, slow and measured, the sort of smile that hinted at secrets held close, never quite touching his eyes.

As the group moved out, Sansa cast one last glance at the Isle of Faces, shrouded in mist, shifting like a thing alive. The air was thick with secrets, with whispers too faint to hear, and she could not shake the feeling that something—someone—was watching. Answers lay hidden in that mist, waiting, just beyond her grasp.

And so, they rode, leaving the God’s Eye behind, its dark waters rippling with secrets unspoken. The wind stirred the mist, whispering of old gods and forgotten oaths, of things lost and waiting to be found.

Jaehaerys

The Dornish sun burned hot and high, casting long shimmering rays upon the jade waters of the Sunspear harbor. The air was thick with the tang of salt and spiced wine, laced with the citrus-laden breeze drifting from the market stalls beyond the docks.

The Morning Star cut through the water, her sleek hull gliding with ease as her sails rippled in the wind. At the prow, Jaehaerys stood with his cloak billowing at his back, his eyes sweeping across the bustling port.

Behind him, Davos, Aurane, and Asher held their silence, each absorbing the city’s frenetic energy in their own way—some with wariness, some with wonder.

Jaehaerys shifted his cloak, the black fabric edged in red weighing heavier than it should. Not just cloth, but duty and expectation pinned at his shoulder. The Dornish heat clung to him, a far cry from the sea winds of Dragonstone.

Sunspear was alive in ways his island home never was—gold and crimson banners snapping in the breeze, laughter and shouts echoing through sun-drenched streets. Yet beneath the warmth lurked something older, something unseen.

A city of silk and whispers, where the sun cast long shadows and secrets ran as deep as the wells.

“Quite the contrast from Dragonstone, wouldn’t you say?” Aurane’s voice slid through the salty air, smooth as silk and edged with amusement. He leaned against the railing, his ever-present smirk tugging at his lips, watching the riot of color in the marketplace beyond the docks. “Warm air, good wine, beautiful women. I could see myself thriving here.”

Jaehaerys let out a low chuckle, the sound lost in the creak of the ship and the calls of the gulls overhead. His gaze stayed fixed on the shore, watching the city pulse with life. “I’ll take the wine,” he said at last, his voice quiet, measured. “The rest… we shall see.”

Davos’ gaze was wary. He sniffed, rubbing a thumb along the edge of his beard, his eyes never still, never trusting. "Best keep your wits about you," he murmured, just loud enough for Jaehaerys to hear. "A place like this, smiling one moment, slipping a blade between your ribs the next. A man can drown in all this sun and silk if he ain’t careful."

As the ship eased into the dock, the waiting Dornish guards stood like statues, their spears catching the sun’s fire, their faces unreadable beneath their helms. Their discipline was precise, their stillness practiced. A single man stepped forward, his armor finer than the rest, the red sun of House Martell emblazoned on his breastplate. He dipped his head in a respectful nod.

“Prince Aegon,” he said, his voice smooth as Dornish silk. “Sunspear welcomes you. Prince Aegon, Prince Trystane and Princess Arianne await you in the Sun Tower.”

Jaehaerys dipped his chin, the title still an ill-fitting cloak upon his shoulders. "Aye," he said, the word short and firm. "Lead on."

They disembarked in single file, moving past the waiting guards and into the twisting streets of Sunspear. The air was thick with the scent of roasting meats, citrus, and sweat, a heady mixture that clung to the skin. Vivid tapestries hung from balconies above, their bold reds and golds rippling in the warm breeze.

Children raced between the stalls, bare feet slapping against sunbaked stone, their laughter bright and quick. Merchants bellowed in a dozen tongues, waving silks and spices, promising wonders from the Shadow Lands to the Free Cities.

The Sun Tower loomed above it all, its golden tiles glinting like a thousand coins scattered across the sky. A beacon of power and history, it watched over Sunspear like a patient, unblinking eye.

Inside the tower, the air was cooler, a welcome relief from the Dornish sun. The stone walls drank the heat, leaving only the faintest trace of warmth lingering in the air. The scent of citrus and spiced wine clung to the hall, mingling with the faint perfume of incense curling from braziers set in the corners.

They were led into a grand chamber where Aegon waited at the head of a long, darkwood table, fingers laced before him. His posture was one of ease, but his eyes—sharp, assessing—missed nothing. Beside him stood Princess Arianne Martell, her silk robes flowing like water as she stepped forward. Her dark eyes swept over them, measuring, weighing. There was curiosity there, but something else too—a knowing amusement that curled at the corners of her lips.

To Aegon's right stood a young man, lean and composed, his expression careful, watchful. Jaehaerys knew him at once. Prince Trystane, heir to Sunspear. He met Jaehaerys’ gaze with a calm that belied the flicker of something deeper beneath—caution, perhaps, or curiosity.

“Brother,” Aegon said, his voice rich with warmth, yet measured, like a man playing a game of cyvasse. He rose from his chair with the unhurried grace of a man accustomed to being watched. “Sunspear welcomes you. It has been too long since our blood sat together beneath the same roof.”

“Aegon,” Jaehaerys said, his tone even, measured. He dipped his head, not quite a bow, but a sign of respect, nonetheless. "You honor us with your welcome. I trust we will find much to discuss."

Aegon’s lips curved, a slow, knowing smile. "Of course," he murmured, his voice as smooth as Dornish wine. "Blood is blood, after all. And there is much to say, much to settle."

Arianne stepped forward, her hips swaying with the easy confidence of a woman who knew the power of her presence. "Dragonstone has shaped you well, my prince," she purred, the words rolling from her tongue like silk. "But Sunspear is not Dragonstone. We are warmer here. Freer. We know how to take our pleasures when they come."

Her gaze lingered, dark and knowing, like the shadows that stretched long in the Dornish sun. "Perhaps you’ll find our ways... intoxicating," she said, her voice a sultry purr. "If you’ve the thirst for them."

Jaehaerys met her gaze, steady as stone, betraying nothing. "In time, perhaps I will."

His brother chuckled, the sound low and knowing. His eyes gleamed with something unreadable, something more than amusement. "Fire and Sand, bound together. An interesting thought, wouldn't you agree?"

Before Jaehaerys could speak, Davos cleared his throat, the sound rough as a man unaccustomed to courtesies. He took a step forward, shoulders squared, his eyes on Aegon. "You have our thanks, Prince Aegon. The road was long, the sea longer. A man does not truly arrive until he’s had a meal in his belly and a roof over his head. We’d not turn down either."

Aegon inclined his head, a glimmer of delight sparking in his violet eyes. "Of course, but first, let me see who travels at my brother’s side." His smile was easy, disarming, a prince who had never met a stranger, only friends he had yet to know. "Names are one thing, but a man’s company speaks louder than his words."

Jaehaerys gestured to each in turn. "Ser Davos Seaworth," he said, his voice steady. "A man of the sea, and my most trusted counselor. Aurane Waters, who commands my fleet with a steady hand and a keen eye. And Asher Forrester, sworn to my service, fierce as any knight, though he wears no spurs."

Aegon’s smile brightened, his violet eyes alive with curiosity and mischief. "The Onion Knight himself. I've heard the tales, the songs. A man who’s weathered tempests and kings alike, who’s stood where others would kneel. Tell me, Ser Davos, what counsel does a man of the sea give to a prince in a land of sun and sand?"

Davos met Aegon’s eyes without flinching, his face weathered as the sea. "A wise captain don’t sail into waters he don’t know. Watch the tides, feel the wind, and don’t let a fair sky trick you into thinking a storm ain’t waiting beyond the horizon."

Aegon laughed, a sound as bright and unburdened as the Dornish sun. "Sage words, Ser Davos, but let us not drown in caution before we’ve even tasted the wine." His smile was easy, full of mirth, as he spread his hands. "Tonight, we drink, we feast, and we let the weight of duty rest—for a few hours, at least. Tomorrow will come soon enough."

As they were led away, Davos drew closer, his voice a low murmur beneath the hum of the hall. "They’re weighing you, boy. Measuring the steel in your spine and the sense in your head. And it won’t just be words they test you with. Keep your eyes open."

Jaehaerys gave a slow nod, his thoughts turning like the gears of a well-worn siege engine, sifting through the unspoken words hidden behind every smile, every lingering glance.

As they made their way to their quarters, the shadows stirred, and Kinvara stepped from them as if she had always been there, her crimson robes a whisper against the stone. Her breath ghosted against his ear, her voice low and rich, like embers smoldering beneath the ash. "The banquet is a stage, and they will play their parts well. But truth is a fickle thing, slipping between words, lurking in the quiet. Watch their hands, their breaths, their eyes, my prince. That is where the gods hide their answers."

Before he could speak, she was gone, melting back into the darkness as if the shadows had swallowed her whole. Only the faint scent of myrrh and fire lingered in her wake.

His fingers curled around the pommel of Longclaw, the worn leather warm beneath his grip. Beauty, he knew, was a liar’s cloak, and Sunspear wore it well. Beneath the silks and sunlight, the blades lay hidden, waiting for the unwary.

The grand hall of the Sun Tower shimmered like a mirage in the torchlight, the polished stone floors reflecting the flickering glow of countless lanterns.

The air was thick with the scent of spiced wine and roasted meats, mingling with the more delicate perfumes of crushed citrus and blooming nightflowers.

Dornish nobles moved through the chamber like a river, silk flowing and voices rising in an effortless tide of laughter, intrigue, and whispered promises.

In a shadowed alcove, musicians played a slow, haunting tune, the notes curling through the air like smoke, adding a dangerous undercurrent to the revelry.

Jaehaerys strode into the hall with the measured grace of a man raised to rule, his violet eyes flickering over the assembled nobility like a sword cutting through silk.

Beside him, Davos moved with the quiet vigilance of a man who had seen too many betrayals.

Aurane let out a low whistle, his gaze drifting over the gathered Dornish women. "The stories don’t do them justice," he murmured, grinning. "A man could lose himself in a place like this."

Asher barked a laugh. "Try to keep your wits about you, Aurane. We’re here for more than admiring the scenery."

Jaehaerys shot them both a look. "This isn't the time for that."

Aurane smirked, undeterred. "I don’t know, my prince. From the way the princess spoke to you, I’d say she may have already claimed you for herself."

Asher let out another laugh, and soon, all three of them were chuckling at Jaehaerys' expense. Even Davos allowed himself a rare, amused smile.

Jaehaerys simply shook his head, exhaling through his nose. He said nothing, but his thoughts wandered north, far beyond the warm halls of Sunspear. There was only one woman who had truly claimed him, and she was miles away, waiting in the cold.

The evening was no mere revel; it was a silent battle waged with glances and veiled words, a dance of power and persuasion flickering beneath the golden glow of the torches.

Every movement, every laugh, every seemingly idle remark carried the weight of intent. The lords and ladies of Dorne had not come merely to eat and drink—they had come to weigh their guests as a merchant weighs gold.

They measured strength and ambition, judging who might be an ally and who a foe in the shifting sands of the game they all played.

Aegon stood at the center of the hall, a figure of easy confidence and quiet command. His silver-gold hair shimmered in the firelight, the loose waves catching each flickering torch as though spun from the very flames themselves. His smile was warm, practiced, but his eyes—those keen, assessing eyes—missed nothing. He was a dragon among snakes, and he knew it.

"Ah, brother," Aegon called, his voice carrying the easy authority of a man who expected to be obeyed. There was warmth in it, but beneath the surface lay steel, tempered and sharp. "Come, join us. The sun burns bright in Sunspear, but we have saved a place for you in its light."

Jaehaerys dipped his head in acknowledgment, stepping forward with measured grace. "Your generosity is noted, brother," he said, his tone even, neither warm nor cold, a statement rather than gratitude. He knew well enough that in courts such as these, hospitality was rarely given without expectation.

Aegon lifted his goblet high, the candlelight dancing in the dark red wine. "Tonight, we honor blood and ambition," he declared, his voice rich and measured, carrying over the gathered nobility. "Drink deep, eat well, and remember—tomorrow is always shaped by the choices of today." He took a slow sip, his gaze sweeping the hall, weighing those who cheered and those who merely watched.

As they moved toward the long table near the dais, Princess Arianne slipped into step beside Jaehaerys, her presence as effortless as a shadow at dusk. Her dark eyes gleamed with mischief, a hint of challenge lurking in their depths, as though she were privy to some unspoken jest.

She wore a gown of deep crimson, the silk pooling around her like spilled wine, clinging to her form with the practiced ease of a woman who precisely knew the effect she had on those who dared to look.

“My prince,” she murmured, her voice like honey dripped over a blade. “Tell me, does Dorne meet your expectations? Or have we already managed to surprise you?”

“It’s not like Dragonstone,” Jaehaerys said, his voice steady but edged with thought. “The warmth here... it clings to you. The people, the air, even the stone underfoot—it all feels alive in a way the North never does. It’s different but not unwelcoming.”

Arianne’s lips curved, slow and deliberate, a smile that hinted at both mischief and peril. "Dorne is a land of many pleasures, my prince, but few leave untouched. We pull men in like the tide, warm and inviting, only for them to find the currents deeper than they imagined. And you... I suspect you'll find it inescapable before the night is through."

Davos cleared his throat, a quiet but deliberate sound, stepping in just enough to remind Jaehaerys of his presence. "Perhaps we should take our seats," he said, his voice even, his eyes flicking between Jaehaerys and Arianne like a man reading a game board. "The feast waits for no man, not even a prince."

Her eyes lingered on him a heartbeat too long, her smile slow and secretive, as though she alone knew how this night would end.

"Of course," she murmured, her voice like a cat’s purr, full of promise and amusement. She turned in a swirl of crimson silk, casting one last glance over her shoulder. "I’ll be near, my prince. Should you need... anything at all."

Jaehaerys watched her disappear into the throng, the scent of citrus and spice lingering in her wake. He exhaled, then turned toward the table, falling into step beside Davos.

Aurane leaned in as they settled, his smirk as sharp as a dagger’s edge. "Subtle as a viper in a rabbit’s den."

"Aye," Jaehaerys said, his voice low, thoughtful. "Dorne is a game with rules all its own." He exhaled slowly, watching the swirl of silk and shadow around them. "Men who don’t learn them fast enough end up buried beneath its sands. Best we listen, and watch, before we play our hand."

As the first course was served, the hum of conversation faded, as though the hall itself was drawing a breath. Aegon rose from his seat, slow and deliberate, the firelight catching in his goblet as he lifted it.

His gaze moved through the crowd, measuring, weighing, lingering just long enough on each guest to leave them wondering what he saw.

At last, his eyes settled on Jaehaerys, and though his lips curved in the shadow of a smile, his stare was as sharp as Valyrian steel.

“Lords and ladies,” Aegon began, his voice smooth as aged wine, laced with the easy confidence of a man who had never doubted his own place in the world. “The realm stands on shifting sands. Borders fray, alliances waver, and shadows grow long across the land. Yet where others see chaos, I see a chance to shape what comes next. Together, we will steady the realm, mold it into something stronger.”

A murmur rippled through the gathered lords and ladies, some nodding in agreement, others casting sidelong glances at one another, their expressions guarded. The game had begun, and they all knew it. Aegon did not falter, his voice as steady as a blade poised above a throat.

“This usurper perches on the Iron Throne,” Aegon said, his voice measured, each word deliberate. “A man of knowledge, of quiet counsel, wise in books and dreams. But wisdom alone does not hold a kingdom together. The realm is not bound by parchment and ink, but by steel and fire. And we must ask ourselves—will words be enough when the storm comes?”

Jaehaerys felt the tension coil in his shoulders, his gaze fixed on Aegon. The words were honeyed, but the meaning beneath them was sharp as a dagger’s edge. Doubt. Doubt in Bran. Doubt in the realm he ruled, in the order he sought to keep. Aegon was not just questioning—he was planting a seed, one that might take root in the minds of those who listened.

Arianne’s breath was warm against his ear, her voice a whisper of silk and shadow. "He knows how to weave a tale, doesn’t he? Words like honey, but there’s always a sting waiting beneath."

“Aye,” Jaehaerys said, his voice quiet but certain. “He speaks, and men listen. That’s power, as much as any blade or banner.”

Arianne’s fingers brushed his arm, light as a whisper, deliberate as a blade. Her eyes held his, dark pools glimmering with something between amusement and challenge. "Dorne bows to no one, my prince. Perhaps you shouldn't either." Her voice curled around him like silk, soft and dangerous. Then, a smile, slow and knowing. "But first, I would have this dance. It would be a shame to waste such a fine night."

Before Jaehaerys could answer, Aegon’s voice cut through the din like a blade gliding over whetstone. "Go on, brother. A dance will serve you better than brooding in a corner." His lips curled at the edges, his eyes glinting with something unreadable—mirth, perhaps, or something more pointed. He was enjoying this, the game, the spectacle, the quiet war of words and glances that was playing out before him.

Arianne extended her hand, palm up, fingers relaxed, as though offering him a choice she already knew he would make. Her smile was a slow thing, full of promise, full of challenge. "Shall we, my prince? Or will you let Dorne wait?"

Jaehaerys hesitated, though only for an instant. To refuse her now would be an insult, and there were already too many eyes upon them. He took her hand, warm and firm, and allowed himself to be led into the open space where the nobility had gathered to watch.

The musicians struck up a lively tune, the strings and drums rolling like distant thunder on a summer night, and soon they were moving together, their steps weaving through the air like a duel fought without blades. Arianne led as much as she followed, her movements precise, effortless, the confidence of a woman who had spent her life dancing at court and in the game beyond it.

Her eyes held his, dark and knowing, every glance a whispered invitation, every brush of her fingers a challenge more than a promise.

She was testing him, teasing him, and Jaehaerys knew it. The hall watched, breathless, the wine flowing but forgotten, the game shifting with each measured step.

As if on cue, other lords and ladies stepped forward, moving gracefully onto the floor, their silks swirling as they joined the ceremonial first dance. It was tradition, he realized—they had all been waiting for this, for the prince and princess to lead before following in their wake.

Was this planned? Jaehaerys wondered, though he kept his expression calm, his steps steady. Should Aegon, their supposed king, not be the one sharing the first dance with the Princess of Dorne? Tradition dictated as much, yet here he was, drawn into the center of it, as if the game had been set before he had even stepped onto the board.

The thought coiled in his mind like a snake in the sand, waiting, watching.

This felt too deliberate, too well-orchestrated, like a move made long before he had even stepped foot in Sunspear. He cast a glance toward his brother, searching for some sign of satisfaction or amusement, but Aegon merely watched, unreadable as ever.

The floor was now filled with color and motion, a living tapestry of shifting alliances and silent intrigues, each step part of a larger, unseen game. Yet, even amid the growing sea of dancers, Jaehaerys felt the weight of Arianne’s gaze, as if she alone commanded the rhythm of the night.

"You move well, my prince. I thought you might be all steel and solemn words, but there’s something else beneath it, isn’t there?" She said with a smile.

Jaehaerys let the barest hint of a smile ghost across his lips, his violet eyes steady, searching hers as if trying to decipher the game she played. :"There is more to me than you know."

Arianne’s lips curved; her voice was as smooth as Dornish silk. "Words can mislead, my prince," she murmured, her eyes glinting with something unspoken. "Actions, though... they tell the truths men try to hide."

She tilted her head slightly, studying him as they moved. "I've heard tales of you, you know. Of Jon Snow, the legend. But legends are like songs—pretty to hear, but often untrue. I’d much rather know the man."

Jaehaerys' grip on her hand remained steady, though something flickered in his gaze. "Then you should know my name is Jaehaerys, not Aegon."

Her brows lifted slightly, intrigued. "Jaehaerys? I had thought you were named after your brother. How did that come about?"

Jaehaerys exhaled softly, a small shake of his head. "That is a long story. Too long for one dance."

Arianne chuckled; the sound rich with amusement. "Then perhaps I should keep you dancing until I have my answer."

As the song drew to a close, Arianne leaned in just slightly. “Consider my earlier words carefully, Jaehaerys. Dorne has much to offer those willing to embrace it.”

He nodded, releasing her hand as the crowd clapped politely. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

After he parted with Arianne, relinquishing her to Aegon’s waiting hand, Jaehaerys returned to his seat, though his mind lingered on the dance, on the measured steps and the meaning woven between them. The air was thick with wine and whispers when Prince Trystane approached, his gait unhurried, his expression composed yet intent.

“A word, my prince?” he asked, his tone courteous, but beneath it lay something else—curiosity, or perhaps caution.

Jaehaerys inclined his head and stepped aside, falling into stride beside Trystane. The prince moved with the unhurried grace of a man accustomed to whispers in the dark, his gaze flicking toward the high arches and shadowed alcoves of the hall.

"It's an honor to finally meet you, my prince," Trystane said, his tone smooth, measured. "I've heard much of the White Wolf. And I regret that I did not speak more boldly at the Great Council when your fate was decided. The weight of politics clouds the mind, and I was not yet wise enough to see clearly through the fog."

Jaehaerys studied him, searching for mockery but finding none. "There's nothing to forgive, my prince" He said and meant it, "And I've heard of you, my prince. Though the stories paint you more as a romantic than a politician."

A wry smile touched Trystane’s lips. "Romantic? Perhaps. But even romantics must learn to play the game. And we Dornish know too well what happens when we lose."

He paused, his expression shifting slightly, something deeper lingering beneath his words. "I offer my sympathies, for what the Lannisters did to your kin. The Starks, the Targaryens… your family paid dearly."

Jaehaerys gave a slow nod, the weight of old wounds settling over him like a heavy cloak. "And yours as well. The Mountain’s work did not end with my family. I know what was done to your aunt, your cousin, my...sister—what was stolen from you, from Dorne. Some wounds do not close, no matter how much time passes."

Trystane exhaled, his gaze drifting toward the great hall, his expression unreadable. "We are bound by ghosts, you and I. Blood spilled, names whispered and then forgotten, all for a throne neither of us ever touched. Yet we carry the weight of it, don’t we? The debts of our fathers, paid with the lives of their sons."

He turned to Jaehaerys again, a flicker of something wistful behind his amusement. "Perhaps in another life, we would have been bound in blood, not divided by war. Rhaegar was to have Lyanna and Elia both, as Aegon had wed Visenya and Rhaenys. Imagine it—one house, spanning from the sands of Dorne to the snows of Winterfell. What kind of realm might we have built, had fate been kinder?"

Jaehaerys let the thought linger between them, heavy with the weight of what might have been.

"A different one, surely," he said at last, his voice measured. "Perhaps even a better one. But fate does not heed the wishes of men."

"Fate is a cruel player. But we, at least, can decide how we move forward. That, my prince, is still ours to shape." Trystane said, offering a knowing smile.

Trystane lifted his cup in a slow, deliberate motion, his dark eyes never leaving Jaehaerys'. "To the ghosts we carry, and the futures we make," he said, his voice rich with something unspoken.

Jaehaerys met his gaze, then his cup, the clink of silver against silver barely audible over the murmurs of the feast. "To the realm, and to what comes next."

"Sunspear is a place of many games, my prince. The sand shifts beneath your feet, and the rules change with the wind. One must be careful where they tread and whom they trust. Everyone here plays a part, and no one moves without purpose."

Jaehaerys studied him, his expression unreadable. "Even you, my prince?"

Trystane’s lips curled, amusement flickering behind his dark eyes. "Especially me. Trust is a rare coin in Sunspear, my prince. But for now, our interests walk the same road."

Jaehaerys arched an eyebrow, his gaze steady, unreadable. "And where does that road lead?"

"To the rightful heir on the throne, of course."

Chapter Text

Jaehaerys

The sun sank low, spilling molten gold across the shimmering blue-green waters of the pools in the Water Gardens. The laughter of children rang through the air, high and bright, as they splashed in the fountains, heedless of the burdens their elders carried. Nobles glided beneath the shade of orange and lemon trees, their silks whispering as they moved, their words hushed, their smiles polished but practiced. The scent of citrus and salt drifted on the wind, a pleasant lie masking the tension coiled within the walls of Sunspear, tight as a bowstring, waiting to snap.

Jaehaerys’s thoughts drifted to the days since his arrival, each night a blur of feasts and formalities, the faces of Dornish lords and ladies sharp as daggers in his mind. The feast in his honor had been a grand affair, wine flowing like a river and laughter booming through the vaulted halls of Sunspear, but beneath the hospitality lay something else—a series of unspoken tests.

The lords of Dorne, ever wary, had measured him with their keen eyes, weighing him like traders assessing the worth of an exotic jewel.

Lord Deziel Dryland of Hellholt, his skin the color of baked earth and his graying beard trimmed with careful precision, had spoken of taxes and water rights as though they were battlefield maneuvers, his words twisting like a serpent’s coil, waiting for Jaehaerys to lose his footing.

Lady Nymeria Qorgyle of Sandstone, tall and sharp-eyed, her auburn hair wound in intricate braids that gleamed like copper in the torchlight, had tested him on the Free Cities, pressing him on their ever-changing allegiances, her lips quirking when he countered her pointed inquiries with practiced ease. She smirked, a knowing thing, as though she had uncovered a secret but was content to let it fester.

Lord Andros Manwoody of Kingsgrave, his voice a low rasp, every word tempered with the quiet menace of old feuds and older betrayals, had drawn him into a conversation of Dornish history. "Tell me, Prince, do you know why my house stands apart from the rest? Do you remember what was done to us?" He watched with dark amusement as Jaehaerys answered each query with measured care, his knowledge precise, his understanding deeper than most would expect.

And then there was Ser Beren Jordayne, the Sand Fox, his gray-flecked curls framing a face carved from old stone. He had led Jaehaerys into the training yard without ceremony, tossing a blunted blade into his hands. "Dorne has no use for princes who sit in their castles and let others bleed for them," he had said, his stance low, his blade ready. "Show me you are not one of them."

Jaehaerys met each blow with the surety of a man who had fought for his life more times than he could count. He had not bested Ser Beren outright, but when the old knight stepped back, his knuckles raw from their contest, he nodded in approval. "You’re no soft lordling," he admitted at last, spitting onto the sand. "That’s something."

Yet, the moments that lingered most were the quiet ones spent with Aegon, away from the revelry.

They had stolen hours in Aegon’s solar, a chamber oddly smaller than the one gifted to Jaehaerys. It was a quiet space, lined with shelves burdened by histories of conquest and war, their pages worn by eager hands. Maps lay scattered across the heavy wooden table, their edges curling like the parchment itself was weary of war. The air carried the scent of parchment and ink, mingling with the spice of Dornish red as Aegon poured them each a cup.

Aegon sat near the narrow window, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows across his face, his expression unreadable. He rolled his cup between his fingers, the deep red wine sloshing against its sides. "I’ve heard the lords and ladies have taken a liking to you," he mused, his voice thick with something that might have been amusement—or something else entirely. "They test you, push you, waiting to see if you’ll stumble. And yet, you haven’t. Not once. You’ve passed every challenge they’ve set before you."

Jaehaerys smirked, tilting his cup slightly, watching the deep red swirl within. He let the silence stretch between them, savoring the weight of the words left unsaid. Then, with a slow exhale, he said, "They measure me like a man weighs a blade, testing its edge, wondering if it’s sharp enough to cut."

Aegon chuckled, the sound was low and knowing. "Aye. That is Dorne. Secrets draped in silk; daggers hidden in smiles."

Aegon leaned back, his fingers drumming absently against the worn wood of the table, his gaze lingering on the map of Westeros sprawled before them. "I know what it is to be tested," he said at last, his voice heavy with something old and bitter. "I spent my youth marching beneath banners that did not belong to me, taking orders from men who owed me nothing. We fought for coin, and coin alone."

He swirled the wine in his cup, watching it catch the light before taking a slow sip. "A sellsword’s loyalty is as fleeting as a summer squall. I learned that quickly. But when the Golden Company bent the knee to Cersei Lannister, Jon Connington sent me away. Volantis, then. I was with him. He was our father’s closest friend, once. The last man who still believed in him. You would have liked him, I think."

A shadow passed over Aegon’s face, something unspoken lurking beneath the surface. He did not say the rest, but Jaehaerys heard it all the same—Jon Connington had believed in him, too. And now he was gone.

Jaehaerys had listened, absorbing every word. When Aegon was finished, he let out a slow breath, his fingers tightening around his cup. "I fought in the North, in the darkness beyond the Wall, where the cold seeps into your bones and never leaves. I’ve seen the dead walk; seen men I called my brothers turned into wights before my eyes. I have slain monsters that should not exist, held the line while the world burned around me. And yet... the living can be crueller still."

His gaze dropped to the wine, his thoughts drifting. "I have won battles, Aegon. I have saved lives, taken lives. I have fought alongside great men, and I have buried them. Every victory cost something—sometimes more than I was willing to pay. The North is free because of what we did, but there are nights when I wonder if I should have done it differently. If I should have found another way."

He let the words settle before meeting Aegon’s gaze once more. "And then there was Dragonstone. The night Kinvara bade me to look into the flames. At first, I saw only fire, shifting and writhing, but then... they were there. Our father, Rhaegar, his face solemn as a statue, and beside him, my mother, Lyanna. Their eyes met mine, and they spoke to me, they told me my name—not the one I had been given by my cousin, but the one that was truly mine. Jaehaerys. I heard it as clearly as I hear you now. They told me the truth of it. That is who I am. That is who I have always been."

Aegon had been silent for a long moment, his violet eyes unreadable. Then he had nodded, slow and solemn. "I wish I could see them as you have," he murmured. "Our father. And my mother, together." His voice had a raw edge then, a quiet longing that Jaehaerys knew too well. They had been shaped by ghosts, by stories whispered in the dark, by names that carried the weight of kingdoms. And yet, in that moment, Jaehaerys saw not the shadow of their father nor the echoes of a lost cause, but simply his brother—flesh and blood, real and true.

Today, Jaehaerys reclined on a bench beneath the gnarled limbs of an ancient orange tree, its blossoms filling the air with their heady fragrance. The warmth of the Dornish sun pressed against his skin, but his gaze remained fixed on Aurane and Princess Arianne.

They parried with words as deftly as knights with swords, each jest carrying an edge that gleamed sharper than steel. The princess leaned in, her dark eyes glinting with mischief, her lips curling in a smile that promised trouble and delight in equal measure.

Arianne tilted her head, a slow, measured gesture, her dark eyes dancing with amusement. "Tell me, Jaehaerys," she purred, "is it true that you stood against an army of the dead and lived to tell the tale?"

Jaehaerys let out a low chuckle, the sound carrying the weight of memory. He shook his head, his eyes distant for the briefest moment. "Not alone, Princess," he said, his voice softer now. "There were many brave souls beside me, and without them, I would not be here to tell the tale."

Aurane smirked, shifting his weight against the stone railing, his tone as smooth as a summer squall rolling in from the sea. "Humble as ever," he drawled, the amusement in his voice unmistakable. "They say he wrestled a giant once, though I suspect the tale has grown with the telling."

She turned to him fully now, arching a delicate brow. "A giant, was it? I thought you northern men preferred to slay your monsters in silence, rather than let the world sing of them. But perhaps the tales have some truth after all—there’s always a kernel buried beneath the embellishments, isn’t there?" Arianne laughed, the sound rich and sultry, her gaze lingering on Jaehaerys like the last rays of the setting sun. "I’ve heard tales of your valor, whispers of your skill with a blade, but no one ever told me you had such charm."

Jaehaerys returned her gaze with a measured smile, the kind a man wears when he knows he’s being appraised. "You honor me, Princess, but tales have a way of growing taller than the man they’re told about. What was a single step over a stream becomes a leap across a canyon in the retelling."

Aurane smirked, tilting his head just so, the way a man does when he knows he’s about to say something cutting. "He’s always like this," he said, his voice smooth as silk on water, but laced with something sharper underneath. "Keeps everyone at arm’s length, as if he’s afraid they might get too close and see the man beneath the armor. Must be exhausting, carrying all that weight alone."

Arianne leaned in, her lips curving into something between a smile and a secret. "Perhaps," she murmured, her voice silk over steel, "you simply haven’t met the right hands to take that weight from your shoulders."

Before Jaehaerys could respond, the soft cadence of approaching footsteps cut through the moment. Aegon’s steward materialized from the shadows, moving with the quiet assurance of a man accustomed to navigating courtly intrigue. He bowed, precise and measured, his expression betraying nothing. "Prince Aegon requests your presence at Sunspear, my prince, my princess," he said, his voice smooth as aged Dornish red. "He insists it is a matter of some urgency."

Arianne’s smile was sly, her eyes gleaming with wicked amusement. "If my cousin has summoned us, it must be something important. He knows better than to intrude on my... entertainments." She let the word linger, watching Jaehaerys with a look that was invitation and challenge both. "Shall we, my prince?"

The journey back to Sunspear was slow, the winding paths through the dunes bathed in the fading glow of the evening sun. The desert heat had softened, but the air still carried the scent of dust and spice. Arianne rode at Jaehaerys’s side, draped in silks that caught the wind, her dark eyes flicking toward him with something between curiosity and amusement. Aurane lagged slightly behind, his silver hair catching the light like coin, a lazy smirk ever-present on his lips.

Arianne sighed, her gaze drifting toward the distant walls of Sunspear, then back to Jaehaerys. "What do you think your brother wants now?" she asked, her voice low, laced with curiosity and something else—amusement, perhaps. "He calls us back early, and knowing Aegon, it is never for something simple. Another show for his lords? A test, perhaps? Or has he finally decided what role to cast you in?" She smirked, nudging her horse closer. "Tell me, my prince, what grand design do you think he has spun for you this time?"

Jaehaerys adjusted his grip on the reins, his expression unreadable. "If I knew my brother’s mind, I might sleep easier," he said, his voice edged with weariness. "But whatever it is, another test, another game, I grow tired of it, Princess. Tired of dancing to his tune."

Arianne leaned in, her voice as smooth as Dornish silk, her lips curving in that way that made men second-guess their footing. "Do you now?" she murmured, tilting her head ever so slightly. "Strange. I thought men who tired of being led simply took the lead themselves. Or do northern wolves not hunger for crowns?"

Aurane laughed behind them, shaking his head, his smirk as easy as a ship gliding on calm waters. "It wouldn't be the first time he’s worn a crown, would it?" he mused, letting the words roll from his tongue like a sailor spinning a half-truth in a portside tavern.

His blue eyes gleamed, sharp as broken glass in the sun. "And if the tales are to be believed, he carried it well. A shame, really. Some men are born to rule, whether they ask for it or not."

Jaehaerys said nothing. The dunes stretched ahead, the walls of Sunspear rising in the distance, banners rippling in the evening breeze.

Yet Arianne’s words clung to him like sand in his boots. Why would she speak of me taking the lead? If Aegon reclaimed the throne, it would be he who ruled, not I. He thought to himself. Was that not their plan? Were her plans different? She had spoken as if there was another path, one where the crown did not rest upon his brother’s head.

Jaehaerys frowned, his thoughts twisting like a river bending toward unknown waters. He had yet to hear of a formal betrothal between Aegon and his cousin, the Princess of Dorne. The two of them were always familiar, easy in each other’s presence, but never in the way of lovers. Not once had he seen the heated glances, the lingering touches that spoke of desire rather than duty. No, they were more like kin, as if they were raised together as close as siblings, bound by blood and shared ambition.

The gates of Sunspear yawned open to receive them, the golden light of dusk painting the courtyard in hues of red and orange. Aegon was waiting at the steps, flanked by Davos, Asher, and Trystane. Their figures were cast long against the sandstone walls, the air thick with the scent of sun-warmed stone and the salt of the nearby sea.

Aegon stepped forward first, his lips curling into an easy grin. "Back in one piece, I see. I was beginning to wonder if Arianne had stolen you away to the deeper sands."

"Would you have blamed me?" Arianne quipped, sliding gracefully from her mount, her dark eyes glinting with mischief. "A girl must entertain herself somehow."

Jaehaerys dismounted, rolling his shoulders, the stiffness of the ride lingering in his muscles. "You make it sound as though I had a say in the matter."

Aurane clapped him on the back, silver hair catching the waning light. "Best to let them think that. It keeps them happy."

Davos gave a knowing chuckle. "The things we do to keep our hosts content. Welcome back, my prince."

Asher offered Jaehaerys a wry grin. "I was beginning to think you’d left me to fend for myself."

Jaehaerys clasped his forearm. "I would never."

Trystane, quiet and watchful, nodded in greeting. "You arrive just in time. Aegon has plans for the two of you."

Aegon flicked a hand toward the courtyard, his movements slow, deliberate. "Nothing grand, just a friendly match," he said, though the glint in his violet eyes suggested something more. "I’ve heard the songs, the tales of your swordplay, brother. Let’s see if there’s truth in them—or if the North just spins the better stories."

Jaehaerys hesitated, his fingers tightening around the hilt of Longclaw. His brother’s violet gaze was steady, unreadable, but Jaehaerys had gotten to know Aegon well enough to know there was always a purpose to his actions. A friendly match, he called it, yet in Sunspear, nothing was ever simply what it seemed.

What did Aegon hope to gain, pitting them against one another before the gathered lords and ladies of Dorne? Did he mean to remind them of his strength, or is he measuring me instead, waiting to see if he would falter? Jaehaerys thought to himself.

The thought gnawed at him, but there was no turning away from it now. He inclined his head, stepping forward onto the sun-warmed stones. "Very well, brother. If it’s a fight you want, let’s not keep our audience waiting."

The courtyard of Sunspear thrummed with anticipation, the weight of a dozen expectant gazes pressing upon Jaehaerys and Aegon as they stood, swords in hand. The late afternoon sun painted the stones in gold and amber, stretching their shadows long and lean, as if the very ground whispered of the battle to come.

Steel rang sharp against steel, the sound echoing through the courtyard like a bell tolling some nameless doom. For the first time in centuries, Valyrian steel clashed against Valyrian steel—Blackfyre in Aegon’s hands, Longclaw in Jaehaerys’s. Aegon moved with the practiced elegance of a king’s son, every strike precise, every parry measured, as if he were dancing in a hall of mirrors. But Jaehaerys fought with the hunger of a man who had bled on frozen fields, where survival was won by the blade and not by birthright. His strikes came swift and unrelenting, forged in the crucible of war, each blow carrying the weight of battles past, each clash of their ancestral blades a song of fire and blood.

Aegon lunged, quick as a viper striking, but Jaehaerys was quicker still. He sidestepped with the grace of a seasoned warrior, the weight of Longclaw steady in his grasp. A subtle shift, a deft sweep of his leg, and Aegon’s balance faltered. The prince twisted, the polished steel of his blade catching the dying light as he brought Longclaw’s edge to a halt, its cold kiss mere inches from his brother’s chest.

Aegon laughed, breathless yet grinning, raising his hands in surrender. "You’ve bested me, brother," he said, voice laced with something between admiration and calculation.

Aegon extended a gloved hand, his grip firm as he reached for Jaehaerys, the flicker of amusement still dancing in his violet eyes. There was no hesitation, no shame in seeking aid from his brother, only the quiet confidence of a man who had measured another and found him worthy.

The crowd erupted, a wave of cheers and thunderous applause rolling through the courtyard like the tide crashing against the shores of Sunspear. Aegon stood tall, his violet eyes alight with something unreadable, a prince basking in the spectacle he had orchestrated. "It seems I have chosen wisely," he declared, his voice carrying above the din, rich with satisfaction. Before Jaehaerys could press him for meaning, Aegon seized his wrist and lifted their hands high, drawing forth an even greater roar from the assembled lords and ladies.

Jaehaerys felt the weight of their eyes, the admiration, the curiosity, the silent calculations playing out behind courtly smiles. Was this truly a celebration of his skill, or something more? Aegon had not sought to prove himself in this match—he had sought to prove Jaehaerys. But for what purpose? The question gnawed at him, more insistent than the echoes of steel still ringing in his ears.

Sansa

The sun, a molten orb of orange and crimson, bled into the western sky as they passed beneath the city gates of King’s Landing.

Once, the streets had been a cacophony of life—children shrieking with laughter, merchants bellowing their wares, the scent of roasting meat mingling with the stink of the gutters. Now, silence and suspicion reigned.

The weight of Bran’s rule pressed against the stones themselves, the very air thick with an unseen presence. The walls, once grand and storied, loomed taller than she remembered, their shadows stretching like the grasping fingers of forgotten kings.

Soldiers stood sentinel, steel-clad and unmoving, their helms casting their faces into eerie obscurity. Their eyes flickered to her, then away, as if fearing to look too long upon a woman who had walked so close to wolves and dragons alike.

Brienne rode at her side, ever the watchful sentinel, her broad shoulders stiff beneath the weight of duty.

Ghost prowled beside them, a silent specter in the twilight, his red eyes like coals smoldering in the gloom.

Tormund loomed just behind, his usual mirth gone, his face set in a scowl that spoke of unease. His hands, large and calloused, twitched near the pommel of his blade, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow as if expecting some unseen horror to lunge forth from the alleys of the ruined city.

Even Lord Reynold, a man who carried himself with the easy grace of one born to silk and privilege, rode stiff-backed, his fingers tapping idly at the pommel of his sword.

His sharp blue eyes, so often half-lidded in mirth or mischief, now flicked from face to face, shadow to shadow, scanning the streets with a quiet intensity.

Sansa watched him, noting the tautness in his jaw, the way his shoulders squared as though bracing for a storm. It was unlike him to wear worry so openly.

She found it unsettling but told herself it was only the city’s ghosts whispering their unease into all of them.

The city was a different beast now, its soul hollowed out by years of war and betrayal. Every window gaped like a blind eye, every alley held its breath, waiting. The ghosts of memory stirred—her first arrival with her father and Arya, the naïve dreams of golden knights and fair queens.

How foolish she had been, to mistake silk for honor, smiles for kindness. She had once basked in the illusion of splendor, blind to the venom that pooled beneath. Now, the warmth she had once felt for King’s Landing was but a distant ember, buried beneath the cold weight of understanding. The city had changed; as has she. And as she gazed upon its quiet ruin, she saw it for what it was—a corpse still pretending to draw breath.

Brienne’s voice was a quiet rumble, low and wary. “Your Grace, eyes are upon us.”

Sansa’s fingers curled tight around the reins, knuckles whitening. "I know," she murmured, her voice scarcely more than breath. Her gaze drifted over the faces in the crowd, gaunt and weary, eyes hollow with the weight of suffering.

Once, she had hated this city, cursed its every stone for the pain it had wrought upon her. But hatred had long since given way to something deeper, something colder. These people had bled as she had bled, endured as she had endured. They were ghosts clinging to life, shaped by fire and famine, by the whims of kings and conquerors. Survivors, all of them. And so was she.

Tormund snorted, his sharp gaze flitting from one shadowed alley to the next. "This place smells of death," he muttered, his voice gruff. "At least when the dragon queen burned it, the ruin was honest. Clean bones, that’s what it was. But this? This is a corpse too stubborn to lie down, just waiting for the right wind to knock it apart."

Jaehaerys would have hated this, she thought. The sight of them—gaunt, weary, their hope worn thin as old parchment—would have carved sorrow into his heart. For a fleeting moment, she could almost see him beside her, tall and strong, his presence a shield against the darkness creeping at the edges of her mind.

His voice echoed in memory, steady as the tide, a whisper of warmth against the cold.

She bent low, brushing a gloved hand against Ghost’s thick fur. "We’ll make this right," she murmured, soft as a prayer. Ghost lifted his head, red eyes burning in the gloom, and in their depths, she thought she saw understanding. Or perhaps it was only the reflection of her own resolve.

The great gates of the Red Keep loomed before them, vast and unyielding, their ironbound wood weathered by centuries of blood and treachery. Once, they had stood as the heart of a mighty kingdom, a place where kings and queens wove the tapestry of their rule with whispers and steel. Now, they yawned open like the maw of some slumbering beast, waiting to devour all who dared to enter.

The guards flanking the entrance were clad in black and silver, their helms casting their faces into shadow. They stood still as statues, watchful, silent. Their eyes flicked to Sansa as the gates creaked apart, though none dared to meet her gaze for long. Without a word, they ushered her inside, as if she had already been expected.

Brienne, Ghost, Tormund, and Reynold stepped inside; their boots were swallowed by the cavernous hush of the Red Keep. The air was thick with the weight of history, of ghosts long past whispering through the stone.

The walls seemed taller than she remembered, the torchlight feeble against the endless dark, throwing jagged shadows that danced like specters. The castle had never been warm, but now it felt hollow, emptied of life, its grandeur stripped bare. A cold place, built for kings, yet forsaken by them all the same.

At last, they came to the throne room. The great doors groaned open, their hinges wailing like wounded things. Within, where once the Iron Throne had loomed, there was only the faint scorch marks left behind by dragonfire. The ruin of it still lingered in the air, as if the heat had never truly faded. A throne of melted swords was gone, but power had never needed a seat to exist.

Bran sat where the Iron Throne had once stood, his simple wooden chair dwarfed by the vast emptiness of the dais.

His appearance struck her like a blade of cold iron. He looked older, far older than his years should permit, as though time had settled upon him like a winter frost, relentless and unshaken.

The face she had once known—brotherly, warm—was now something distant, something beyond flesh. His eyes, pale as morning mist, carried a vastness that made her feel infinitesimal, as though he had drifted too far from the world of men and now gazed upon her from some place beyond time. He had lived a thousand lifetimes since she had last stood before him, and she was no longer certain he had returned from any of them.

He looked more specter than king, a man who had long ceased to be merely flesh and blood.

“Hello, Sansa.” Bran’s voice was little more than a whisper, yet it carried through the vast chamber, curling through the air like the tendrils of some unseen force. “I knew you would come.”

His words carried a weight that settled in her chest like a stone dropped into deep water. The chill that ran down her spine was not merely of the cold, but of something older, something inexorable.

“I came because you called,” Sansa said, her voice measured, though the storm within her had yet to settle. “You spoke of urgency.”

“It is,” he responded, his voice distant, as if it belonged to someone speaking from another time, another place. “There is much to discuss.” He tilted his head ever so slightly, his gaze unfocused, as though he were listening to whispers only he could hear, secrets carried on the wind from some unseen world.

The chamber seemed to shrink, the torches flickering as if caught in an unseen wind, their light swallowed by the creeping dark. The shadows curled at the edges of her vision, slithering closer, pressing in. For a heartbeat, she was not looking upon her brother, but something else entirely—something ancient, something unknowable.

Bran sat unmoving, but behind his placid expression, there was the weight of centuries, the cold patience of the gods themselves. He was no longer the boy she had once known. That boy was gone, lost to the vastness of whatever he had become.

“I’m sure there is,” she replied carefully, her pulse quickening. “But perhaps we could speak somewhere more private?”

His gaze did not waver, his pale eyes unblinking, distant yet all-seeing. The silence hung between them, stretching taut as a drawn bowstring.

Then, at last, he inclined his head, a ghost of a smile brushing his lips, though there was little warmth in it. "Of course," he murmured, his voice barely above the rustle of dying embers. "Rest now. We shall speak when the sun rises."

The air in the throne room was thick with something unseen, something weighty, as if the very stones were holding their breath. Bran made the slightest gesture, and a servant emerged from the shadows, moving with the quiet deference of one long accustomed to unseen orders. The attendant bowed low, his movements precise, mechanical, before turning on his heel to lead Sansa and her companions from the chamber.

As she stepped away, she felt the weight of Bran’s gaze upon her still, as though he was watching not just her body but her very thoughts, sifting through them like pages in an open book. The sensation clung to her, cold as grave dirt, long after she had left the room behind.

As they moved through the dim corridors, the air grew heavy, thick with the weight of unseen eyes. The flickering torchlight cast long, restless shadows, and every step seemed to draw them further into the bowels of something ancient and unknowable.

Sansa’s thoughts twisted like vines in a storm, her instincts clawing at her mind, whispering that she was descending into a labyrinth where the walls shifted, and the exits vanished when one turned to look for them. There was no clear path, no obvious escape—only the slow pull of inevitability.

Beside her, Brienne’s gauntleted hand rested near the hilt of her sword, fingers twitching ever so slightly, ready for steel at a moment’s notice. Even Tormund, who had laughed in the face of giants and danced with death on the Wall, had gone quiet, his sharp eyes darting through the gloom, tracking every shadow as if expecting one to move.

Lord Reynold reined in his horse with practiced ease, offering a courteous nod. "Pardon me, Your Grace. I must send a raven to the Reach, let them know we've arrived in one piece," he said, his voice smooth as Dornish silk, effortless in its charm.

Yet Sansa heard more than mere courtesy in his words. Something in his tone rang hollow, too carefully measured. His fingers drummed idly against the pommel of his sword, betraying a restless energy. His gaze flickered, just for a moment, toward the looming walls of the Red Keep, as if searching for unseen threats or silent watchers.

Sansa felt the unease curl in her gut like a serpent coiled around stone. Perhaps it was only the weight of the city pressing upon them all, the ghosts of the past whispering their warnings. Or perhaps it was something more.

“Of course, my lord,” she said, her tone smooth as still water, revealing nothing. “We shall speak again at first light.”"

With that, Lord Reynold turned on his heel, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow. He moved with purpose, but Sansa did not miss the way his shoulders stiffened ever so slightly, nor how his pace quickened as he neared the rookery. A man with nothing to hide would walk slower.

When they reached their chambers, Sansa cast a wary glance at the heavy wooden door before turning to her companions. Her voice was low, scarcely more than a breath. "This place is wrong," she murmured. "There are eyes in the dark, and I fear they see more than we do."

Brienne nodded once; her jaw set like iron. "Where you go, I go."

"Aye," Tormund grunted, his eyes narrowing as he swept his gaze over the shadowed halls. "I’ll take first watch. I don’t trust these walls—they’ve heard too many secrets, kept too many corpses. But no ghost’s catching me snoring like some milk-drinking green boy."

Brienne exhaled through her nose, shaking her head as she gave a slow, deliberate nod. Her lips twitched, the ghost of a smile flickering and vanishing just as quickly, like a shadow beneath torchlight.

Sansa let out a quiet laugh, the sound brittle as autumn leaves crushed underfoot. For a fleeting moment, the tension in her chest loosened, like a noose slackening.

She met Tormund’s gaze, offering him a look that was part gratitude, part something else—something wistful, as if she, too, wished she could laugh as freely as he once had.

Ghost padded closer; his silent footfalls lost in the hush of the chamber. His red eyes burned like twin embers in the dim torchlight, unblinking, watchful. There was something knowing in his gaze, as if he, too, had seen the ghosts that haunted these halls, as if he understood the weight of the night better than any of them.

As the door thudded shut behind them, Ghost lowered himself at her feet, his great white frame blending with the gloom. His red eyes, dark and knowing, flicked toward the window, unblinking. He did not growl, did not stir, but Sansa knew well enough—he sensed it too. The quiet wrongness that slithered through the night, lurking just beyond the edge of sight.

High above, the moon lay heavy in the sky, a silver coin lost in the dark vault of night. Its pale light bled over the ruins of King’s Landing, touching broken spires and empty streets with ghostly fingers. In the deep shadows, unseen forces stirred, the great wheel of fate grinding forward with slow, merciless precision. Sansa shivered, though not from the cold. Some things, she knew, could not be escaped—only endured.

Dawn crept over the Red Keep with a sullen light, seeping through narrow windows to spill its pallid glow upon cold stone and ancient mortar. The castle had stood for centuries, its bones hardened by the weight of kings and the echoes of whispered betrayals.

The looking glass offered no comfort, only the pale and solemn gaze of a woman bound by duty. Fingers moved with measured care, smoothing the deep blue folds of her cloak, the fabric weighty as a maester's chains. The silks draped over her shoulders whispered of power and expectation, yet to Sansa Stark, they felt like shackles, binding her to a fate she had not chosen.

Ghost crouched by the door, his crimson eyes gleaming like embers in the dim light, his silent presence a whisper of the North in a place long forsaken by winter. He did not stir, but Sansa felt the weight of him all the same, a tether to what once was. He was a beast of the old world, of deep snows and dark forests, a relic of a time when direwolves roamed free and Starks ruled Winterfell.

By the window, Brienne stood, an unmoving statue of steel and purpose. The first fingers of dawn brushed against her armor, tracing the sharp edges of her pauldron, the battered hilt of Oathkeeper. She said nothing, but her gaze, hard and steady as a whetstone, swept over the courtyard below, ever vigilant, ever prepared. Brienne of Tarth did not waste words when a watchful silence would serve her better.

The low rumble of a voice broke the silence, steady as the sea against the cliffs. "Are you ready, your grace?" The question came not as mere courtesy but as something heavier, burdened with the weight of duty, of battles fought and lost, of oaths sworn and kept. Brienne did not speak idly; she was not one to waste words when steel and silence could serve just as well.

A slow breath escaped her lips, the weight of expectation settling heavily on her shoulders. Fingers found the direwolf pin at her shoulder, tracing its cold metal, the bite of it sharp against her skin like the wind off the Wall. "As ready as I must be," she murmured, though the words rang hollow. Duty had bound her before, its links forged in fire and sorrow, and once more, she found herself shackled by it.

The chamber doors parted, allowing a figure clad in polished steel to enter, the morning light catching on the etchings of a noble house sigil—Hightower, unmistakably. Lord Reynold smiled, warm and easy, yet behind the expression lay calculation, carefully measured, and concealed beneath his polished veneer.

He paused, his eyes tracing the delicate embroidery of her cloak, the way the light caught in the auburn strands of her hair. "You look radiant this morning, your grace," he said, his voice smooth as silk, a compliment weighed and measured like all his words.

She managed a small smile, polite and composed, though her heart remained unmoved. Words such as these, spoken in courtly tones, meant little when they came from the wrong lips. She wished that they had come from another, from a man who had never mastered the art of deception, a man who spoke plainly and fought fiercely.

But Jon was not here, and wishing for him would not change what lay ahead.

She gave him a brief nod, her lips curving into the ghost of a smile. "Thank you," she murmured, the words dutiful but hollow. Her eyes lingered on him for a moment longer than necessary, searching for something—assurance, sincerity, a reason to believe in this course. Something felt off, but she couldn’t quite place it.

They moved like wraiths through the twisting corridors of the Red Keep, their footsteps muffled by the ancient stone, their breath whispering in the still morning air. Ghost padded at Sansa’s side, a pale shadow with eyes like embers, his presence a silent promise of the North in a place that had long forgotten winter.

“Bah! This place smells of lies and silk-clad schemers,” Tormund grumbled, his thick fingers curling into fists. His wild eyes darted about, sharp as a hawk’s, ever watchful. "Ain't right, walking through halls without a proper fight to warm the blood. Wouldn’t mind having the little crow here. He’d scowl, grumble some southern nonsense, then break a nose or two. That’s how you clear out a rat’s nest."

Sansa let out a soft laugh, the sound escaping like the first breath of spring breaking through winter’s chill. Tormund’s bluntness, crude as it was, had a warmth to it, an honesty she found rare in court. Even Brienne’s stern lips twitched, a fleeting flicker of amusement crossing her face. Reynold, ever composed, merely rolled his eyes, but for an instant, his polished veneer cracked, betraying a hint of exasperation beneath the courtly charm.

The great doors of the throne room loomed before them, tall and forbidding, wrought of dark oak and bound in iron. The guards on either side stood like statues, their faces carved from stone, their armor gleaming dully in the flickering torchlight. Without a word, they moved as one, the doors groaning open on ancient hinges, revealing the vast chamber beyond, cold and cavernous, thick with the weight of history and silent judgment.

Measured footsteps rang against the cold stone floor, deliberate in their pace. The chamber stretched vast before them, a cavernous hall thick with history and silent judgment. Flanked by sentinels, she scarcely noticed their presence, her gaze sweeping across the dim torchlight, seeking something solid amidst the emptiness. Then, at last, she found him—a familiar figure standing beside Bran like some clever shadow, mismatched eyes glinting with sharpness and something gentler. Tyrion Lannister, the Hand of the King.

His eyes found hers, sharp as ever, yet tempered with something gentler—melancholy, perhaps, or understanding. A sad smile ghosted across his lips, a flicker of the man who had once been her husband, the only Lannister she had ever trusted, however reluctantly. Sansa returned the smile, small and careful. To see him standing so near to Bran, so comfortable in the shadows of power, unsettled her. Tyrion always knew more than he let on.

What did he know now that she did not??

A presence loomed in the room, vast and silent, filling the chamber like the whispers of forgotten gods. Her gaze, unbidden, found its way back to Bran.

The king’s voice was a whisper of falling leaves, soft yet relentless, carrying with it the weight of unseen forces. "Sansa," he intoned, his gaze both distant and all-seeing, "I have called you here because the path ahead has been woven already, stitched into the fabric of the realm itself. The North’s safety, the kingdom’s fate, all hinge upon what must be done."

His words coiled in the air like smoke from a dying fire, lingering, insidious, weighted with a gravity that pressed against her chest like a mailed fist.

"The North must be bound once more to the Six Kingdoms, Sansa," Bran murmured, his voice distant, hollow, as if it drifted through the ages rather than from his own lips. "Men think they shape the world, but the world has already been shaped, carved by hands older than memory. The past whispers, the future calls, and you stand at the crossroads, but the path forward was always meant to be." His pale eyes, vast and knowing, locked onto hers—not with command, not with demand, but with certainty, as if all the weight of time had already bent her knee for her.

“You are to wed Lord Hightower.” Bran said, his voice was as distant as the rustling of dead leaves.

The words fell like winter’s first chill, inevitable, inescapable, as if they had been spoken long ago and only now reached her ears.

Her instincts whispered that this was no mere proposal, but a snare woven with silk and prophecy, each word a thread tightening around her throat.

Her breath faltered, but she swallowed it down, straightening her shoulders. Ice hardened in her veins, a quiet storm behind her steady gaze.

"No," she said, the word falling like a blade, sharp and sure.

“I will not marry him.” Sansa’s voice was iron, cold, and unbending. “The North is not some prize to be bargained away. I have been traded before, handed off like a coin in a debt unpaid. Never again.” Her gaze was steady, but beneath it, a storm raged, silent but unrelenting.

The king tilted his head slowly, his eyes reflecting something vast and unknowable. His voice, calm and detached, seemed to echo from a place far beyond the present moment.

"You are mistaken, sweet sister," Bran said, his voice a fall wind, brittle and knowing. "The strands of fate have unraveled and rewoven themselves, shifting as they always do. HE no longer walks in the shadow of the North, no longer belongs to the snows and wolves. His path is written in fire, carved in prophecy, and it will not be undone. His true name has stirred, and with it, the weight of his birthright. He is no longer just Jon Snow. He is a dragon, and dragons do not belong in the cold."

"I have seen what is to come," Bran murmured, his voice a whisper of rustling leaves, ancient and knowing. "He stands beside a Princess of Dorne, not of Winter. Not as a guest, nor as an outsider, but as one claimed by one another. Their fates are bound, written in fire and prophecy, sealed in the blood of dragons. You may deny it, but the river does not change its course for the stones in its path. The tide rises, relentless, and it will wash away all who stand against it."

His words settled over her like a cold wind off the Wall, creeping beneath her skin, rooting in the marrow of her bones. Sansa’s fingers curled around the fabric of her dress, as if the fine silk could anchor her.

Sansa’s heart clenched, a cold, sharp thing twisting inside her. "Cl-claimed?" The word felt foreign on her tongue, wrong. She swallowed, her breath catching in her throat. "No... Ja-Jon would never forget the North. Not Jon."

A faint glow flickered in the dim light, eerie and pale, like the last embers of a dying fire. When the voice came, it was soft but relentless, a whisper in the dark. "Wouldn't he?" The words drifted into the air as Bran tilted his head, as though listening to something beyond mortal reach. "The future is not stone, Sansa. It bends, it twists, reshapes itself with every step, every breath. We tell ourselves we know those we love, but love blinds us to what they become. Sometimes, the truth is a blade we refuse to see—until it is pressed against our throat."

Sansa’s hands trembled as she took a step back, her breath shallow, her pulse a drumbeat in her ears.

Ghost let out a low, rumbling growl, his hackles rising, a beast sensing a threat unseen.

The air in the throne room thickened, heavy as a storm cloud before the first crack of thunder.

For a fleeting moment, doubt gnawed at her—doubt about Jon, about herself, about the boy who had once been her brother and the cold, unreadable thing he had become.

The game had never felt so vast, so inescapable.

The great doors groaned shut behind her, the sound reverberating through the vast chamber like the final toll of a funeral bell. The cold of the stone seeped into her bones, and in that moment, Sansa understood—there would be no escape, no turning back. The world beyond those doors had faded, leaving her alone in the den of fate, caged by duty, by prophecy, by the inexorable hand of power.

Jaehaerys

The evening air was thick with the scent of damp stone and burning torches, but an unnatural stillness clung to the corridors like a specter. He slowed his steps, his breath shallow, sensing something was awry. The guard who should have been stationed outside his door was gone—not merely absent, but erased, as if he had never been there at all.

His eyes narrowed, the weight of unseen eyes pressing upon him, a serpent of unease coiling tight around his ribs.

The whisper of shifting fabric slithered through the hush, followed by a choked groan that sent a chill racing up his spine. His fingers curled around Longclaw's hilt, knuckles white, as he pushed the heavy door ajar, its hinges creaking like a dying man’s breath. Shadows pooled thickly in the chamber, flickering, and shifting in the uncertain torchlight, revealing little—and yet, too much.

The blood pooled like spilled ink, black in the flickering torchlight, a stark omen against the cold stone floor. Then he saw him—Asher, crumpled and broken, his face ashen, pain twisting his features into something unrecognizable.

He dropped to his knees with a muffled curse, hands flying to Asher’s stomach, where blood welled dark and slick, hot against his palms. "Stay with me, damn you," he muttered, pressing down hard. Asher’s breath was shallow, his skin pallid, his eyes flickering open just enough to find Jaehaerys’s face through the haze of pain. For a moment, he looked as if he was trying to speak, but only a weak gasp escaped his lips.

"The guard... his face was wrong," Asher rasped, each breath a struggle. "I knew it the moment I saw him. Something was... off. When I stepped inside... they were waiting. Blades in the dark. I struck one... he screamed, but then he was gone."

Fury and dread tangled in his chest as his grip tightened on Asher’s trembling frame. "Stay with me, damn you," he snarled, as if sheer will alone could defy the Stranger’s grasp. A desperate cry tore from his throat, echoing down the corridor, swallowed whole by the cold stone walls.

The pounding of boots against stone grew louder, a frantic drumbeat in the still air. Aegon was the first through the door, sword half-drawn, his face dark with alarm. Davos followed close behind, eyes sharp, scanning the room with a smuggler’s wariness. The guards poured in after them, hands on hilts, their expressions shifting from vigilance to horror as they took in the blood-streaked floor and Asher’s crumpled form.

The command rang through the chamber, sharp as steel against stone. "Fetch the maester! Now!" The words cut through the thick air, carrying the weight of urgency and authority. The guard hesitated for only a heartbeat before vanishing into the shadows, his boots pounding against the cold stone as he ran.

Jaehaerys cradled Asher’s head, fingers threading through sweat-dampened hair, his jaw a hard line of barely restrained fury. "The Stranger won’t take you tonight," he murmured, his voice more command than comfort. "Hold on."

A faint twitch played at the corners of his lips, something between a smirk and a grimace of defiance. "You always were a stubborn bastard," he rasped, his voice little more than a whisper carried on dying breath. "If anyone could cheat the Stranger… it’d be you."

Davos knelt beside them, his face a weathered map of old battles and harder lessons. He placed a steadying hand on Asher’s shoulder, his voice low but firm. "The North breeds men of iron, lad. Don’t let the Stranger prove me wrong."

The weight of a hand settled on Jaehaerys’s shoulder, firm and unyielding, a silent reassurance wrapped in calloused fingers. Aegon’s voice, low and certain, cut through the thick air like a blade. "He’s not dying today," he vowed, the words not a hope but a command. "Not if we have anything to say about it."

The maester swept in moments later, his robes whispering against the stone, assistants flanking him like crows scenting a feast. He knelt without preamble, hands deft and steady as he assessed the ruin of Asher’s flesh. Jaehaerys lingered at the edge, his hands dark with blood not his own, his heart hammering against his ribs as he watched them fight to pull his friend back from the abyss.

Fingers brushed against something cold amid the blood-soaked fabric, metal slick beneath the gore. Aurane’s grip tightened as he fished it free—a coin, dull with age yet heavy with meaning. He rolled it between his fingers, the flickering torchlight catching on the stamped sigil. His expression darkened. "Westerosi gold," he muttered, the weight of the words settling over the room like a shroud. "This wasn’t some nameless sellsword’s work. Someone within the realm paid for this."

A shadow passed over his face, a storm brewing behind his eyes, thick with wrath and retribution. Silence held him in its grip, though his clenched jaw betrayed the fury that churned beneath. His gaze swept over the blood-slick floor, and the broken body of his friend. The weight of the moment pressed down upon him, heavy as iron chains, yet one thought alone took root in his mind, sharp and unyielding as Valyrian steel—whoever had done this would pay, and their screams would echo long in the halls of vengeance.

Winter would come for them, along with fire and blood.

Chapter Text

Sansa

The Red Keep loomed against the night, its towers clawing at the sky like the talons of some great beast. The stones themselves seemed to sweat in the darkness, the torchlight from its many halls flickering like restless souls caught between this world and the next.

The air was thick with the mingling scents of damp stone and cold steel, but beneath them lurked something fouler, something Sansa had come to know too well.

Fear. It lived in the walls, in the whispered steps of servants who spoke too softly and moved too quickly. It crept beneath the stones, seeped into the mortar, lingered in the darkened corners where torches could not reach.

It showed itself in the way men averted their eyes when they passed her, in the silence that fell too swiftly when she entered a room.

It curled in the shadows like a serpent, patient and watchful, its fangs bared but unseen, always waiting for the right moment to strike.

She walked alone, her steps measured, her back straight, carrying herself as if she belonged. A queen in all but name, a prisoner in all but chains, a girl who had forgotten how to be anything else.

She wore her fear like silk, hidden beneath the courtesies and curtsies, woven into every word she spoke, every smile she forced. No one saw it, but that did not mean it was not there.

She did not belong. Not truly. Not anymore. Whatever place she had once held here had been stolen away, buried beneath lies and false smiles, and all that remained was a girl wearing borrowed titles and a crown of thorns.

The Red Keep was a tomb, its halls lined with the bones of men who had played at power and lost. Its stones remembered, and in the dark they whispered of betrayals and blades in the night, of kings brought low and queens left weeping.

And Sansa—she was a ghost drifting through its corridors, unseen and unheard, a girl wrapped in silence and shadows, waiting for the moment she too would be buried within its walls.

Her ladies had long since retired, their whispered worries trailing after her like the rustling of silk, soft but ceaseless. They feared for her, though no one dared say it aloud. They were wise to be afraid.

Every corridor of this cursed castle held its secrets, buried in stone and shadow, murmured through keyholes and behind closed doors. Every darkened archway concealed a pair of eyes watching, every flickering torch cast a shape that might have been more than just a trick of the light.

Sansa glided through the shadows like a whisper, her steps light and measured, every inch the lady she had been raised to be. Yet she could feel the eyes, ever watchful, hidden behind doors left ajar and curtains drawn too hastily. Even here, in the Red Keep, in what was supposed to be her home, she was never truly alone.

She had learned to count the steps between her chambers and the council chambers, between the Queen’s solar and the library, between the godswood and the Tower of the Hand. She had mapped the Red Keep in her mind, its passageways and hidden doors, the halls where shadows lingered longer than they should.

A dozen paths she might take at any given moment, a dozen ways to vanish like smoke on the wind, should the need arise.

She had not wished to learn such things, but the Red Keep did not concern itself with wishes. Its lessons came in whispers behind closed doors, in cold hands that smothered screams, in servants who vanished without a trace and women who stumbled from locked rooms with eyes as empty as moonless nights.

Necessity had made her a quick learner, but it was survival that had forged her into something sharper, harder, a woman who understood that every smile hid a dagger, and every whisper bore a price.

The hall stretched before her, vast and silent, torches sputtering low in their sconces, casting shadows that slithered and twisted across the stone like living things. At its far end, a lone figure stood by the window, cloaked in moonlight and half-hidden by the gloom. He did not turn when she entered.

He did not flinch when she closed the door behind her, though the soft thud of wood against stone seemed to echo through the silence like the closing of a crypt. He stood motionless, as if he were part of the castle itself, his small frame outlined against the vast sprawl of King’s Landing below, a lone figure amidst the broken skyline.

"So, at last, you come," Tyrion said, his voice stripped of its usual japes, weary and worn. He lifted his goblet, the dark wine catching the torchlight, though whether in greeting or resignation, Sansa could not say. "I had begun to think you'd never darken my door again."

Sansa studied him in silence, her eyes cold and careful, weighing words unsaid. At length, she stepped forward, the rustle of her skirts soft as snowfall. "Did you think I would stay away from you forever?"

"No," Tyrion said, his eyes fixed on the dark wine swirling in his cup, red as a wound. "Not forever."

She watched him drink, the lines of his face deepened by shadows and weariness, his wit dulled by too many battles fought and lost—not battles of steel and blood, but of words sharpened to cut deeper than swords, of schemes spun like spider's webs, of alliances forged in lies and broken by truth.

"The whispers say you've been keeping to yourself," Sansa said at last, her voice quiet, careful. "Even the whispers have grown quiet where your name is concerned. That is unlike you."

His smirk was a twisted thing, bereft of mirth, a shadow of the japes he once wore like armor. "A man learns when to hold his tongue, your grace," he said, his voice dry as old parchment. "Some words have more weight left unspoken."

Sansa hesitated, the weight of his words settling over her like a cold fog. The wine, the late hour, the hollow note in his voice—it all set her teeth on edge. "Is that why you called for me? To speak of things best left buried?"

Tyrion set the goblet down with a hollow clatter, the dark wine sloshing within. "I called you here because there are truths that cannot be buried forever," he said, his tone weary, almost brittle. "I've been many things, Sansa—a fool, a traitor, a monster in my father's clothes—but your enemy was never meant to be one of them."

Her breath caught in her throat, sharp as a knife's edge, but her face remained a mask of careful neutrality. "The truth?" she echoed, her tone as cool as winter's chill. "And what truth is that?"

Tyrion exhaled, rubbing his temple with fingers that trembled ever so slightly, as if bracing himself for a blade he had long known was coming. "I always thought myself clever," he murmured, the words dry as dust. "A lifetime of schemes and silver tongues, a dwarf must be twice as smart to survive in a world that despises him. I told myself that again and again. Clever men win wars before swords are drawn, clever men rule from behind thrones, clever men do not make mistakes."

His chuckle was devoid of mirth, a dry rasp that seemed to wither on his lips. "I thought I could control him," he said, the words bitter as ashes. "Bran, for all his visions and riddles, seemed harmless enough. I told myself he would need a steady hand. That I could be that hand... Jon would have been... too strong. Too wild. A king of war, not of peace. But Bran, I reasoned, would listen." He paused, his gaze distant and heavy with something that might have been regret. "I was wrong. Gods have mercy, I was so very wrong."

The words fell between them like an executioner's blade, heavy and irrevocable, severing the silence with brutal finality. In the stillness that followed, thick and suffocating, Sansa clenched her fists at her sides, her nails biting into her palms until she thought they might draw blood. "You... betrayed us."

Tyrion did not flinch. His eyes met hers, unblinking, and tired, as if he had already made peace with the executioner's blade. "I did," he said at last; the words empty of defense or excuse—only the cold weight of a confession long overdue.

The confession struck her like a hammer blow, harder than she had anticipated, setting her heart to pounding a wild rhythm in her chest. The anger had always been there, buried beneath years of forced smiles and bitter courtesies, smoldering like a fire starved of air. Now it flared, hot and unrestrained.

"You betrayed Jon," Sansa said, the words slipping past her lips before she could seize them back, sharp as a blade's edge. Her voice cut the silence like shattered glass. "You betrayed me."

Tyrion's nod was slow and heavy, as if even that small motion was burdened with the weight of his sins. "I betrayed us all," he said, the words raw and unadorned, without plea or pretense, only the simple, bitter truth laid bare.

The silence between them stretched, heavy and oppressive, like the stillness before a storm that promised ruin. Sansa wet her lips, her throat dry as dust, and when she spoke her voice was quiet, colder than she had intended. "And now? Do you regret what you did, or only that you failed?"

"Both," Tyrion admitted, the word slipping out on a breath weary and thin, more sigh than laughter. "Every damn day, your grace. Every morning when I wake, every night when I drink, and every cursed moment in between."

Sansa's eyes drifted to the wine staining the inside of his goblet, dark and clinging, to the table worn smooth by the hands of men long dead, to the torchlight flickering against the stone walls like restless spirits denied their peace. The weight of the moment pressed down on her, heavy as a suit of mail, cold as the crypts beneath Winterfell.

She could hear her own heartbeat, pounding in her ears like war drums, the blood roaring with the fury of the sea crashing against the cliffs of Winterfell.

She had imagined this moment a thousand times, turning it over in her mind like a blade she longed to sharpen. She had dreamed of the words she would fling at him, sharp and cutting, of making him feel even a sliver of what she had endured—betrayal, grief, the cold, bitter sting of loss.

But now, standing before him in the flickering torchlight, with shadows clinging to the walls like guilty secrets, all she felt was exhaustion—deep and bone-weary, the kind that no sleep could ever truly mend.

The silence between them hung heavy, thick, and suffocating, a beast of a thing with claws of its own. At last, Sansa moved, her hand lashing out swift and unrelenting, the crack of palm against cheek sharp as a crossbow's twang.

The impact snapped Tyrion's head to the side, and already a flush, dark as spilt wine, was blooming beneath her fingers.

He absorbed the blow with the weary acceptance of a man who had long since ceased to expect mercy. His head snapped to the side, a flush blooming beneath her palm, dark as spilt wine, but he did not stagger, did not flinch, did not so much as raise a hand to his cheek.

He stood unmoving, carved of stone and shadow, his hands limp at his sides. He made no move for the goblet, and did not lift a hand to the cheek where her blow had landed, hot and stinging. Instead, he closed his eyes, the weight of years and sins settling heavy on his shoulders, and drew a breath slow and deep, as if to brace for an executioner's axe.

When he opened his eyes again, there was no anger in them, no wounded pride—only the weary acceptance of a man who had looked into the abyss and found nothing but his own sins staring back. The reckoning, it seemed, was long overdue.

"I deserved that," he murmured, his voice low and brittle, as if the words themselves might shatter. He did not touch his cheek, did not move, only stood there with the quiet resignation of a man who had looked into the abyss and seen only darkness staring back.

Sansa’s hand trembled at her side, the sting of the strike still fresh on her palm, but her gaze did not falter. She turned, each step measured and unhurried, the silence stretching taut behind her. At the door, she paused, glancing back over her shoulder, her eyes cold and unblinking. Her voice was quiet, steady, sharper than Valyrian steel.

"Yes," she said, the word falling like a headsman's blade. "You did."

Jaehaerys

The sun hung high and pitiless over Sunspear, its golden light a cruel reminder that even here, in the heart of Dorne, darkness could fester. The city was awake and alive, merchants bellowing their wares amidst the scent of spiced wine, roasted lamb, and sunbaked stone. But Jaehaerys heard none of it. He moved through the shadowed halls of the castle with the cold precision of a man sharpening a blade, his mind a tumult of memories and half-formed regrets, each more bitter than the last.

Jaehaerys pushed open the doors to the training yard, the clang of steel upon steel already ringing in the air like a battle cry. The Dornish guards moved with the deadly grace of sun-speckled vipers, each strike calculated and precise. For a heartbeat, he watched them with cold eyes, but the fire in his chest demanded release. Without a word, he drew Longclaw, the Valyrian steel catching the sun's light and throwing it back in cruel, silver arcs. The sword's weight was a comfort, an old friend in a world where loyalty was a rare and precious thing.

Every strike he delivered to the practice dummy was a bitter catharsis, a poor substitute for the vengeance he craved. The wooden target splintered beneath Longclaw's edge, but it was not enough—not nearly enough. His breath came in ragged gasps, each one stoking the fire in his chest. His muscles screamed with exertion, but Jaehaerys was deaf to their pleas. When the dummy lay in ruin, something inside him broke loose, savage, and untamed. He turned sharply, eyes dark as a storm-tossed sea, and fixed the watching soldiers with a gaze that brooked no disobedience. "You! And you! Spar with me. Now."

The two soldiers hesitated for a heartbeat before stepping forward, drawing their blades. They circled him cautiously, but Jaehaerys gave them no time to adjust. He launched forward, Longclaw moving like a living thing in his hand. Steel clashed with steel in a flurry of relentless blows, his strikes driven by anger and frustration.

The two soldiers staggered beneath the assault; eyes wide with something perilously close to fear. Longclaw sang as it moved, swift and merciless, and soon one guard’s sword spun from his grasp, clattering upon the dusty ground. The other faltered, breath rasping through gritted teeth, before he too was brought low.

Jaehaerys did not so much as pause to draw breath. "Four more," he commanded, eyes dark with a fire that would not be quenched.

Four Dornish guards stepped forward, exchanging wary glances beneath dark brows, hands tightening on their hilts. They moved with the wary grace of men who had seen death too many times to scoff at it. The fight began anew, a brutal dance of blades and blood, ferocity met with ferocity.

They pressed him from all sides, quick as sand serpents, but Jaehaerys met each assault without flinching. His sword sang in his hands, a whisper of steel and death, and for every strike they landed, he returned twofold. His movements were unrelenting, each step calculated, each blow a cold promise. His strikes were relentless, his body a storm of motion that gave no quarter and asked for none.

At last, when the last of the four lay beaten and breathless, Jaehaerys turned, dark eyes sweeping the yard with the coldness of a winter storm. His voice cut through the silence, iron, and ice. "Six," he commanded, the single word a gauntlet cast. "Come at me!"

The air hung heavy and tense as six soldiers advanced, swords raised, eyes dark with the grim resolve of men who understood they might not walk away whole. This was no sparring match; it was a test of blood and steel, a trial by fire beneath the pitiless Dornish sun.

He met them with a roar, a sound raw and unrestrained, torn from the depths of his fury. His anger burned hot and wild, carrying him beyond pain, beyond exhaustion. Steel rang upon steel in a symphony of violence, and his blade moved like a living thing in his hands—cold, deadly, and without mercy. Every strike was precise, every movement calculated, but the rage in him was a tempest that could not be quelled.

When the last soldier fell, panting on the ground, Jaehaerys stood in the center of the ring, his chest heaving, sweat streaming down his face. The yard was silent except for the labored breathing of the soldiers around him. His grip on Longclaw tightened before he finally lowered it, his body shaking with exertion and emotion.

The storm within him had not passed. It raged still, a dark and bitter tempest held barely in check, yet it had lessened, enough for him to stand unbowed. His gaze was dark and unyielding, cold as iron and twice as unforgiving, but beneath the fury lay something raw and human, betrayed only by the single tear that cut a slow path down his cheek.

“Jaehaerys.” The voice was soft, yet it carried a weight of command, like velvet draped over iron.

He paused, chest heaving, and turned to find Arianne at the edge of the yard, a vision in silk and shadow. Her dark hair tumbled in loose waves over her shoulders, and her eyes, black as midnight seas, missed nothing. She moved closer, each step unhurried, her gaze flicking between the battered training dummy and the soldiers nursing their wounds, a spark of intrigue lighting her features.

“You fight as if you were battling ghosts,” Arianne observed, her voice touched with amusement, though her eyes were dark and searching. “Whoever they were, they have left their wounds—not there,” her gaze flickered briefly to the splintered dummy, “but here.” Her fingers brushed lightly over her heart; the gesture as soft as silk but weighted with meaning.

He exhaled, the tear tracing a slow path down his cheek, mingling with the sweat that clung to his brow. His eyes were cold and hard, dark as the sea in winter, but within them burned a grim resolve. “Ghosts don’t win unless you let them,” he said, his voice low and edged with iron. "And I have never been one to surrender."

Her lips curved into a faint smile, a glimmer of mischief lingering at the edges. "Good," she said softly. "In Dorne, we respect strength, but it is resilience we admire most of all. You have both, Jaehaerys."

Her eyes darkened, the smile fading like sunlight behind storm clouds. "I heard about your friend, Asher. I am truly sorry for what happened. We all play dangerous games, with pieces made of flesh and blood." Her voice was low, almost tender. "But if Asher is anything like you, I have no doubt he’ll survive. Dorne has always favored those too stubborn to die."

Her words caught him off guard, stripping away his defenses with a quiet precision that no blade could match. The sincerity in her voice was a balm he had not known he needed, and for the first time that day, the iron tension in his chest loosened, if only by a fraction.

“Thank you, Arianne,” Jaehaerys said, his voice low and deliberate, each word weighed as if upon a set of golden scales. “Your words carry more weight than you might know.”

Arianne chuckled, the sound low and honeyed, warm as sun-drenched wine. "Kindness isn’t always what you need," she said, her eyes glinting with a knowing light, "but in Dorne, we understand the strength of offering it when the moment calls for it."

She paused, her gaze lingering on him, dark and discerning. "If you ever tire of fighting ghosts and shadows, you’ll find the sun in Dorne is generous. It has a way of warming even the coldest of thoughts." Her smile was a promise, soft and sharp all at once.

She lingered a heartbeat longer, dark eyes glinting with secrets unspoken, before she turned with the languid grace of a cat. Each step was measured and deliberate, her hips swayed underneath her skirt as the whispered against the stone like conspiratorial voices. Her footsteps echoed softly across the yard, a sound almost inviting, yet shadowed with promise and peril alike.

“She’s taken quite a liking to you,” Trystane remarked from the shadowed corner of the yard, his tone light with mischief but his eyes sharp and watchful. “Half the court is wagering on whether you’ll wed her before the year is out—or if she’ll weave her charms well enough to keep you here forever.”

Jaehaerys rolled his eyes, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. His tone was steady and cold, dismissive as a lord to a beggar. "Let them waste their coin," he said. "They’ll find no riches here."

Trystane grinned, his eyes glinting with mischief, but there was a sharpness beneath the smile, a warning woven into the jest. "Careful, my prince," he said lightly, though his gaze was dark and knowing. "In Dorne, the game is always long—and the winners are rarely the ones you see coming."

Later that evening, the air inside the chamber was heavy with the cloying scent of incense, thick enough to choke on. The fire crackled and spat, casting shadows that writhed upon the stone walls like dark specters, hinting at secrets best left unspoken.

Kinvara stood before the hearth, still and serene, her eyes reflecting the fire's golden light. Her expression was calm, but there was something in the curve of her lips, in the glint of her gaze, which suggested she knew far more than she was willing to tell.

“You seek answers,” Kinvara murmured, her voice soft and melodic, yet carrying a weight that seemed to press upon the air. “The flames reveal what they will—no more, no less.”

“Aye, I need to know,” Jaehaerys said, his voice low and rough, like the growl of a wolf beneath a winter moon. "They came for me twice, and now my friend fights for his life because of it. They won’t stop—not until someone stops them.” His eyes were dark and unrelenting. “Show me who sent them.”

Kinvara glided forward, her scarlet robes whispering against the stone as she raised her hands to the fire. Her lips moved in a murmur, weaving words in a tongue older than the Seven Kingdoms, words heavy with the taste of blood and shadow.

The flames obeyed, leaping higher, twisting, and writhing like serpents uncoiling. Her eyes narrowed, the crimson glow painting her face in hues of molten gold, and for a moment, she seemed less woman than wraith.

“What do you see?” he demanded, his voice tight with impatience, the words snapping through the air like a drawn bowstring. His pulse drummed in his ears; each beat a reminder of how little time remained.

Her voice was a whisper, soft and serpentine, weaving through the silence. “A tower,” she said, the words drawn out and heavy with foreboding. “A tower with a flame at its peak. A place of old power and hidden intentions—where shadows walk, and truths are twisted.”

Jaehaerys frowned, his pulse quickening, each beat like a war drum in his ears. “A tower with a flame…” he murmured, the words heavy with bitter memory. His eyes widened as the truth struck, cold and sudden as a knife between the ribs.

His breath caught, fury rising swift and unbidden, dark as a midnight tide. His mind raced, a tempest of bitter memories and blood-soaked oaths, and something inside him shattered—cold and sudden as winter’s wrath. The rage boiled in his chest, hot and unrelenting, until his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles gleamed white, bone stark against the darkness.

Far across the narrow sea, beneath a sky choked with storm clouds, the great black dragon stirred. His eyes opened, dark and unblinking, reflecting the firelight with a hunger that seemed endless. Scales black as obsidian glistened in the shadows, and when he rose, wings unfurling like the night itself, the earth trembled beneath his weight.

His roar shattered the silence, a sound that rolled across the sea and sky, primal and unrelenting, filled with fury ancient as the world. It was a call older than time itself—a promise of fire and blood, a herald of doom that left even the wind cowering in silence.

The Dragon was awake, and the night had never seemed so dark.

Brienne

The corridors of the Red Keep were a labyrinth of shadow and silence, where whispers lingered like ghosts and betrayal festered unseen in every corner. The torches, few and far between, sputtered weakly, casting dim pools of light that seemed to cower before the darkness. Here, even the walls seemed to listen, and every step was a gamble.

Brienne moved with the wary grace of a soldier long accustomed to ambushes, each step measured and soundless despite the weight of her armor. A dark cloak swallowed her broad frame, hood pulled low to conceal the golden glint of her hair. She had learned to mistrust the light in this place, where shadows whispered secrets and smiles hid knives. The Red Keep was no battlefield, but danger lay thick in its halls, and Brienne’s hand never strayed far from the hilt of Oathkeeper.

Lord Hightower—Reynolds, as Sansa called him—had the manner of a man who never rushed yet was always one step ahead. His words flowed like honeyed wine, smooth and sweet enough to hide the bitter taste beneath.

Too perfect in his loyalty, too poised in his answers, and far too comfortable in the shadow of the throne.

She had watched him with a soldier’s suspicion, her blue eyes sharp and unblinking. She noted how the courtiers flocked to him, how whispers fell silent when she drew near, how even seasoned knights inclined their heads with a respect that bordered on fear.

There was something about the way he smiled—a smile that never touched his eyes—that set Brienne’s teeth on edge.

Loyalty, in her experience, was a blade that cut both ways, and he seemed far too adept at keeping his hands clean of blood.

Sansa had spoken warmly of Reynolds, of his counsel and steadfastness, but even she could not deny the change that had come over him once they entered King’s Landing. His tension was palpable, like a bowstring pulled taut, ready to snap.

The very day they arrived, he had excused himself hastily, claiming urgent need to send a raven to the Reach. When he returned the next morning, his smile was easy, his words smooth, yet Sansa saw the cracks beneath the mask.

But Brienne's instincts, honed on bloody battlefields and sharpened by betrayal, whispered a harsher truth: No one was that loyal without a price.

It was past the hour of the bat when Brienne caught sight of him, slipping through a lesser-used corridor, cloak trailing like a shadow. He moved with the ease of a man who had walked these halls a thousand times, each step unhurried and precise.

For a heartbeat, she hesitated—only a heartbeat—before following, her muscles taut beneath the weight of her armor. Her pulse drummed in her ears, steady and unrelenting, each step a measured gamble.

She kept her distance, letting the darkness swallow her, blue eyes fixed on Reynolds’ retreating form. The corridors seemed to stretch endlessly, twisting, and narrowing until she could barely see the torchlight flickering ahead. Here, even the air was stale and cold, heavy with the scent of damp stone and something else—something rotten beneath the surface.

The path narrowed, twisting deeper into the bowels of the Keep, where the walls wept with damp and the air hung thick with the scent of mold and secrets long buried. Here, light faltered, and shadows reigned, the silence so deep it seemed a living thing.

She paused at a corner, pressing herself into the cold stone, breath shallow and measured. Her heart hammered against her ribs; each beat a warning. She listened, muscles coiled tight beneath her armor, every instinct honed by years of battle screaming at her to turn back. But loyalty was a chain that would not break, and she had bound herself to Sansa’s cause.

The darkness stretched ahead, waiting.

Voices, low and insidious, slithered from a chamber beyond, tainted with secrets and betrayal. Reynolds’ tone was smooth, each word a blade slid between ribs, soft and lethal. The response came colder, clipped—Bran’s, each syllable sharp enough to draw blood.

“I've done my part,” Reynolds snapped, his voice taut with impatience, stripped of the smooth veneer he wore in the daylight. “I went North, didn't I? Tried to charm her like you asked, but the bastard got in the way.” His lip curled, spitting like a curse. “You promised me—”

“He would have come south regardless, once he heard of her betrothal,” Bran’s voice was colder still, dispassionate, each word deliberate and slow, as if explaining the inevitability of winter to a child. “There are things in motion, my lord, pieces on the board you cannot see.”

Reynolds scoffed, irritation bleeding through. “He had no wildling army this time. We could have ended him—silenced the bastard for good.”

“The Lord of the North would not have stood for that,” Bran replied, calm and certain. “But now that he has sided with his Targaryen brother, the Lord of the North will be more... amenable to you. And to this marriage.”

“She still loves the bastard,” Reynolds sneered, voice low and bitter. “But she doesn't need to love me, only to open her legs for me.”

Brienne’s breath hissed between her teeth, rage flaring hot and sudden beneath her breastplate.

But Bran's voice was cold, indifferent, as if they were discussing the weather and not his sister's fate. “It makes no difference,” he said flatly. “Let her loves him. It changes nothing.”

Reynolds cursed under his breath, frustration bleeding through the cracks in his composure. “I’ve risked enough for you,” he spat. “And all I get in return are riddles and shadows.”

Bran’s tone remained unchanged, unfeeling. “Patience,” he said, the word falling like a stone into a well. “Tomorrow she will act, as will I. The pieces must be set before the game can be won.”

Her loyalty to Sansa warred with the urge to step from the shadows and drive Oathkeeper through Reynolds' back, to end the treachery before it could spread further. But loyalty was a chain, iron and unyielding, and Brienne had never been one to break her vows, no matter how they cut into her flesh.

Another voice—Lord Mathis, a minor noble from the Reach and an old companion of Reynolds—spoke, the tremor in his tone betraying his unease. “And what of her sworn shield?”

Reynolds’ laugh was a soft, disdainful sound, barely more than a breath. “The shield is a fool,” he muttered, as he rose with Mathis, contempt sharp as a dagger’s edge. “Blind as her lady.”

Fury rose in her chest, cold and unrelenting, an ice storm behind her ribs. Betrayal was a taste she knew well—bitter and lingering—but to hear it spoken so plainly, so carelessly, twisted the knife deeper. Her jaw clenched, teeth grinding with the effort to stay silent, lest her rage betray her.

She turned, her pulse a war drum in her ears, intent on reaching Sansa before it was too late. But the shadows had eyes and hands as well. An iron-strong grip closed around her wrist, cold and unyielding as shackles. She spun, Oathkeeper half-drawn, but Reynolds stepped from the darkness with a serpent's grace, eyes glinting with cruel amusement.

"In a hurry, good ser?" His voice was smooth, almost tender, the kind of tone one might use on a frightened horse. But his eyes betrayed him—sharp, dark, and glittering with malice.

Brienne yanked her arm free, taking a step back, the torchlight painting half of Reynolds' face in shadow. Her voice was a low growl. "Traitor."

He chuckled, the sound soft and dangerous. "Such an ugly word. I prefer realist."

She tore free, steel whispering from its scabbard with a sound that sang of vengeance. Her grip was sure, stance wide and balanced, the weight of Oathkeeper a familiar comfort. But the shadows had allies of their own.

A sudden blow from behind—a gauntleted fist crashing into her temple, ruthless and unrelenting. Pain flared bright and hot, splintering across her vision in a flash of white. Sir Endrick, one of Reynolds’ men, loomed behind her, expression blank save for the cold satisfaction in his eyes.

Her knees buckled, the corridor tilting violently. Her hand scrabbled against the wall, desperate for purchase, but the darkness was already rushing in, thick and merciless.

The last thing she saw was Reynolds’ face, half-lit by torchlight, the shadows sharpening his smile into something cold and triumphant. His eyes, dark and watchful, drank in her defeat with the satisfaction of a cat toying with a wounded mouse.

Sansa

“This is a fool’s game,” Tormund growled, his voice rough as stone and twice as unyielding. His fingers flexed on the haft of his axe, knuckles pale as milk. “Walking into the wolf's maw without so much as a blade drawn—if this doesn't get us killed, the gods must be laughing themselves sick.”

Sansa moved swiftly, her furs swirling in her wake, crimson and stark against the gray stone. Ghost glided silently at her side, a pale shadow with eyes like red coals, ears pricked, and teeth bared in a silent snarl. Sansa’s own eyes were colder still, chips of blue ice fixed ahead, but beneath that icy mask, her mind churned with fears she could not silence.

“Brienne wouldn’t just disappear,” Sansa said, her voice soft but edged with iron. Her breath misted in the cold air, but her eyes were bright, hard as sapphires. Fear coiled tight in her belly, though she mastered it with a practiced hand. “Brains behind this—I know it.”

Tormund snorted. “Aye, that boy's eyes are wrong,” he said, scratching at his beard. “Like a corpse what don't know it's dead, all cold and empty. I've seen dead men with more spark.” He spat on the stones for good measure, his eyes narrow and wary.

The doors of the throne room loomed ahead, dark wood banded with iron, flanked by guards who stood as still as statues, eyes forward, and faces blank. Yet the air was warm here, heavy with the scent of burning oak and old stone. Sansa’s breath did not mist, but her gloved hand was steady as she pushed them open without ceremony, the heavy wood groaning like an old beast roused from slumber.

They entered unannounced. The hall yawned before them, vast and cold, the torches guttering and hissing as if reluctant to shed light on what lay within. The floor was a sea of black stone, polished to a mirror's sheen, reflecting twisted shadows that seemed to dance with each flicker of flame. Bran sat upon his chair, a pale wraith draped in darkness, his eyes half-lidded but watchful, and before him stood Lord Reynolds, speaking mid-sentence—only to fall abruptly silent at the intrusion, his mouth snapping shut like a trap.

To Bran's right, Tyrion stood, a sad and shrunken figure, swathed in dark wool and fur. The Hand's badge, a pin of silver, caught the torchlight with a cold gleam, a cruel reminder of chains that did not clink but bound all the same. His eyes, once sharp and full of schemes, were downcast, ringed with shadows and dull with resignation. The wine stain on his sleeve had dried dark, and his hands trembled slightly as they gripped the folds of his cloak.

“I was wondering when you’d arrive,” the king said, his tone calm, almost amused. His eyes, half-lidded but keen, glinted in the firelight as if he had foreseen this moment a thousand times. “You always were predictable, sister.”

Sansa’s jaw tightened; her teeth clenched so hard they might crack. “Where is she, Bran?” The words came out sharper than she intended, cold and hard, like the edge of a freshly honed blade.

Tyrion's brow furrowed, confusion darkening his gaze, but Bran's face remained as blank as fresh-fallen snow, revealing nothing. "Who do you speak of Sansa?" the king inquired, his voice smooth and empty, as if he already knew the answer and was merely playing out the scene for his own amusement.

“Do not play coy with me, little brother,” Sansa snapped, her voice sharp enough to draw blood. The mask of courtesy fell away, leaving only raw anger and fear beneath. “Where is Brienne?” she demanded, the words echoing off the stone walls.

Bran’s expression did not change, his eyes dark and unfathomable. “Safe, for now,” he replied, each word precise and measured, devoid of warmth. "But for how long she remains that way—that depends on you, sister."\

Lord Reynolds no longer shifted uneasily; instead, he straightened with a cat's grace, a thin smile curling at the edges of his lips. His eyes were sharp, glinting with something far too satisfied for Sansa's liking.

Tyrion, however, merely shook his head, almost imperceptibly, his eyes dark with warning. His fingers twisted the edge of his sleeve, the only sign of his unease. But Sansa ignored him, her gaze fixed on Bran and the faint smirk that played at the corners of Reynolds' mouth.

Sansa’s eyes narrowed to slits, chips of blue ice glinting beneath dark lashes. Her voice was cold as winter steel, each word deliberate, sharpened to a point. “You've gone too far, Bran,” she said, the accusation hanging in the air like frost, brittle and dangerous.

Bran’s eyes fixed on her, unblinking, but for a fleeting moment, something darker flickered in their depths—cold and abyssal, as if some shadow from beyond the Wall had slipped behind them. His voice, usually smooth and empty, dipped into something deeper, a chill that bit to the bone. “Lines are for those who see only roads,” he said, the words resonating with an eerie weight. “I see the whole map.”

The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, coiling around them like a serpent in the dark. Sansa’s heart thundered in her chest, each beat a war drum’s cadence, relentless and unyielding. She had faced monsters and murderers, looked death in the eye more times than she could count—but this was different. This was family, and that made it far more terrifying.

Ghost’s growl rumbled low, a warning. Tormund’s grip on his axe tightened, then he moved to Sansa’s side, bending slightly to murmur at her ear, his voice rough and quiet. “Easy now, girl,” he muttered. “This stinks worse than a Free Folk camp in high summer. That boy’s eyes give me chills, but we'll get her back, you hear? Gods or no, he’s still made of meat and bone like the rest of us.” His hand came down on her shoulder, heavy and solid, and for a moment, Sansa found herself leaning into it, the warmth chasing some of the chill from her bones.

“The things we do for love,” Bran said, his voice smooth and empty, eyes fixed on Tormund with a calm that bordered on indifference. Then his gaze flickered back to Sansa, cold and unblinking.

“Tell me, sister,” he continued, voice soft but laced with something darker, something that slithered beneath the surface. “Do you care for Brienne more than your own family?”

Her breath hitched, but her voice was steady, sharpened iron beneath silk. “Brienne is family,” she said, each word a defiance, blue eyes glinting with hard resolve.

Bran’s head tilted slightly, almost curious, but the glint in his eyes was sharp as broken glass. “Family,” he echoed, letting the word hang in the air a moment too long, slippery, and cold. His gaze bore into her, unblinking. “Like Robin Arryn?”

The name struck like a slap. Sansa’s breath faltered, and for a heartbeat, she could not move, could not think, her mind a tangle of shadows and sudden dread. Ice flooded her veins, cold and merciless, and her fingers curled tighter into her cloak, nails biting half-moons into her palms.

The silence that followed was deep and suffocating, heavy with things unsaid, and Bran watched her with the patient gaze of a viper before the strike.

“Your Grace…” Tyrion began, his voice unsteady, eyes darting between Sansa and Bran. There was a plea in his gaze, a desperate sort of warning, like a man watching the tide rise with no hope of escape. But the words had barely left his mouth before Bran spoke once more, not even sparing him a glance.

“He loved to see others fly, didn't he?” Bran mused, his tone almost gentle, though something darker coiled beneath, a viper in silk. His eyes flickered, cold, and distant. “Perhaps a guard… or a servant might help him soar again.”

“Please, Bran,” she said, her voice cracking despite herself. “He's your blood. Our cousin. You can't—”

“I have no family,” Bran cut in, his tone flat, final. “The realm depends on me. My father had sons, my brothers had swords—but I have only the realm, and that must be enough.”

The words were soft, almost a whisper, but they struck harder than any blow. Sansa’s knees threatened to buckle, but she forced herself upright, forced the tears to freeze before they could fall. Her hands trembled beneath her cloak.

“Please,” she breathed, barely more than a whisper. “I'll do anything. Just—please. Spare them. Brienne, Robin—I'll do whatever you want.”

Bran’s eyes glinted with something dark and unfathomable. For a moment, Sansa thought she saw a flicker of pity—then it was gone, if it had ever been there at all.

"Then you will do your duty as my heir," Bran said, his voice smooth and unfeeling, but the words struck like iron on ice. The silence that followed was a living thing, heavy and suffocating, and even Tyrion's eyes widened in shock—though not, Sansa noticed, Lord Reynolds'.

"You shall wed Lord Reynolds," Bran continued, and the man in question stepped forward, a thin smile curling at the edges of his mouth, eyes glinting with a satisfaction that made Sansa's skin prickle. Did he know? Is he involved? The questions twisted in her mind like snakes, but there was no time to grasp at the answers.

"And your children will be my heirs," Bran finished, each word soft but carrying the weight of iron shackles snapping shut.

“Accept and Robin and Brienne shall live, don't...and well.... Your choice, sister,” Bran said, voice soft and final.

Sansa drew in a breath, slow and measured, but her mind was a storm, memories and faces flickering through the dark. She thought of Jaehaerys, of his smile, of all the things she would never have the chance to say. Forgive me, my love, she whispered, the words a prayer that never touched her lips.

But she could not let Brienne die. She could not let Robin die. Not for pride, not for love.

Her hands trembled beneath the folds of her cloak, her nails biting into her palms until she tasted copper on her tongue. "I'll do it," she said at last, the words brittle and bitter, cracking in the frigid air.

Bran’s gaze did not soften, but a faint shadow of something—satisfaction, perhaps—passed behind his eyes.

Lord Reynolds moved forward with a slow, deliberate grace, his eyes never leaving Sansa's. The guards stepped in at once when Tormund moved, spears crossing before him with a rasp of steel on steel. Tormund’s snarl was low and dangerous, his fingers white-knuckled around the haft of his axe.

"It'll be all right," she said softly, though her voice trembled, and Tormund's glare flickered with something almost like pain.

Reynolds offered his hand, palm up, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth—a viper's smile, thin and sharp. Sansa's eyes locked on him for a heartbeat too long, but then she placed her hand in his cool and steady despite the dread twisting in her gut.

His fingers closed over hers, firm and possessive, and the iron doors groaned shut behind them, sealing the hall in cold and silence.

Chapter Text

Sansa

The bells of the Red Keep tolled slow and solemn, like a funeral march in fine clothes. Court had gathered in the throne room, summoned to bear witness, though none dared call it a wedding. The banners of House Hightower and House Stark flanked the Iron Throne, their silks drooping in the stagnant air. Someone had laid flowers along the steps—a gesture of grace, perhaps, though their perfume did little to mask the thick scent of dust, ambition, and old stone steeped in too much blood and history.

Sansa stood beneath it all in quiet defiance, clad in the muted grey and white of her house—mourning colors, some would say, though none dared speak it aloud. Her gown, plain by the extravagance of court, bore silver thread along the sleeves that caught the light like ice in a moonlit forest. Her hair was bound in a thick northern braid, as her mother once wore it, a memory plaited into every strand. She stood tall, unmoving, her silence louder than a thousand words. Not queenly—Starkly.

And beside her stood the Lord of the Reach, her soon-to-be betrothed. He stood tall, dressed in finery, every inch the courtly husband-to-be. But to Sansa, he looked wrong—like a page torn from someone else's book.

It shouldn’t be him, she thought, eyes fixed on a point beyond where the Iron Throne once stood. It should be someone with raven black hair and eyes the color of storms.

He wore a smile honed like a blade—too smooth, too sure of itself. His eyes moved over the gathered lords and ladies as if they were his already, as if the realm had simply been waiting for him to arrive. He leaned in close, the scent of citrus and arrogance thick on his breath, and whispered just loud enough for her to hear.

"You look exquisite, your grace. Radiant." Reynold’s voice dripped with mock sincerity, just soft enough to pass for affection. "I imagine many men envy me today. Though truth be told, if fate hadn’t intervened, I might have stolen you away long before this arrangement was made."

He let the words linger between them, his smile just a shade too pleased. "Still, I suppose it’s fitting—beautiful things rarely come without a price."

She turned her head just enough to meet his gaze. “You think this wedding buys you something real? You can drape yourself in banners and call it a victory, but I know what this is.”

Reynold raised a brow. “And what’s that, sweet wolf?”

“A cage,” she said. “Gold-plated. And temporary.”

His smile only widened. “I do like a bride with some bite.”

Bran sat in his chair like a stone statue, unmoving. His face betrayed nothing. No warmth. No pride. Only silence.

The newly appointed Grand Maester, Belden stepped forward, unfurling the parchment. His voice rang out, dry and reedy:

“By command of His Grace, King Brandon of House Stark, First of His Name, the betrothal of Lady Sansa Stark, Queen in the North, and Lord Reynold Hightower, heir to Oldtown, is now sealed and bound before gods and men. May this alliance serve the realm's peace, and knit the fractures of the crown in loyalty and blood.”

The words hung in the air like smoke, curling into every corner of the hall. Then came the applause—scattered, brittle, the sound of obligation rather than joy. Hands clapped because they were meant to, not because hearts followed. Even the echoes seemed ashamed.

Reynold dipped his head in a show of humility, though the tilt of his mouth betrayed his pride. He turned to the gathered lords, his voice smooth and practiced. “Let this be the dawn of peace. A realm not torn by dragons or old grudges, but bound in duty, forged through union.”

His gaze flicked back to Sansa, his voice dipping into something silkier. “And loyalty. The rarest gem of all—especially when freely given.”

She kept her eyes forward, chin high, as if carved from the same stone as her ancestors. The fury in her throat threatened to rise, hot and sharp, but she swallowed it whole. Let them see grace, she thought. Let them see ice. But never the fire beneath it.

“If the dragons choose to fly against us, let them find not cowards, but a wall of steel and unity.” The words cut through the air like a drawn sword, and the crowd answered not with applause, but a thunder that shook the square.

Deep in her chest, something stirred—not pride, not quite. Pity, perhaps. Jon had a fury in him that no vow or crown could tame. She had seen it on the blood-soaked fields outside Winterfell, when he broke Ramsay Bolton’s face with his bare hands, blow after blow, until only her voice pulled him back from the edge.

After the ceremony, as the lords drifted out and the hall filled with the rustle of silks and whispered scheming, Sansa turned to go. But Reynold’s hand closed around her wrist, firm and cold as iron, stopping her mid-step.

“You know,” he murmured, his grip tightening just enough to bruise. “You’re more beautiful than I imagined, even after all those northern winters. I can hardly wait for the wedding night.”

Sansa stiffened, but he went on, his smile curdling.

“Don’t look so offended. I've heard the whispers. Ramsay taught you what a real man expects, didn’t he? I imagine you learned quickly, clever girl that you are.”

Her breath caught in her throat. For a moment, she was ten and seven again, bloodied and broken in a snow-covered bed.

“You disgust me,” she said, each word firm as hammered steel, gathering what pride he hadn’t already tried to strip away.

Yet his smile only sharpened. “You know, things would go smoother if you’d just accept your place, Sansa. All of this could have been easier. It could have been pleasant, even. If you’d chosen differently back in Winterfell. But no—you turned me away over and over again. And for what? For that bastard.”

Her eyes flashed, furious and wounded. “That’s not true.”

“Oh, please.” His voice dipped, mocking. “You wore your loyalty to him like a sigil. Jon Snow. Or Aegon Targaryen, as he styles himself now. But it wasn't about loyalty was it?”

He stepped closer to her, close enough that she could smell the clove and wine on his breath. “You fancy that man? The bastard?” he sneered. “Maybe Ramsay did break you after all. Made you want the bastard to fuck yo—”

Sansa’s hand moved on instinct, faster than thought. She struck him hard across the face, cutting him off mid-sentence. Her palm burned, but she didn’t wince, didn’t look away.

He did. Just for a moment.

When he turned back, the mask had slipped. The smile remained, but it had twisted—thin and cruel, all teeth and no warmth. Whatever charm he’d once worn like armor was gone now, and what remained beneath it was colder than steel.

“You’ll pay for that,” he said, his voice like frost on steel. “When the doors are shut and no one’s left to clap, you’ll remember what it cost to raise that hand. And you’ll wish it was Ramsey who was taking you to bed.”

She met his gaze squarely, even as her heart thundered. "And you’d do well to remember—I’m still a Stark, and Starks do not bow to cowards."

"M'lord, your grace," came a voice like a cracked bell. A young servant, flushed and panting, rushed to Reynold’s side before he could reply—before his fury could take shape in deed rather than word.

His hand trembled once, then fell away, as if her skin had turned to flame.

He stooped slightly, just enough for the servant to whisper into his ear. It was meant for him alone, but Sansa was close enough—and quiet enough—to catch three words, sharp as a blade beneath velvet:

“failed...." and "...still alive.” The words were soft, almost apologetic, but they hit Reynold like a slap of cold water. His face darkened, the flush rising again—not from embarrassment, but rage barely tethered. His lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line as the meaning settled into his bones.

His eyes blazed, fury seething beneath the surface—but there was something else in them too, quick and flickering. Concern, maybe. Or fear. "Tell the King I would speak with him. At once," he said, voice clipped and cold, before waving the boy off with a flick of his fingers.

"Yes, m'lord. Your Grace." The servant gave a jerky bow, half stumbling over his own feet, then turned and fled like a boy who'd heard a beast growl in the dark.

Sansa stepped back, slow and steady, her spine stiff with pride, like a banner man refusing to lower her house's flag.

He didn’t look back when he spoke. “Seems you Starks are truly harder to kill than most.” Then he was gone, boots echoing down the hall.

Sansa stood rooted where he’d left her, the chill of his words sinking deeper than the stone beneath her feet. She didn’t know what he meant—but she knew who might.

And so she turned, heart racing, to find the only lion she’d ever trusted. 

Jaehaerys

Dawn had not yet crested the dunes, but the sky was already bruised and bleeding, streaked with red and gold like wounds left on a dying battlefield. Jaehaerys stood at the edge of the Water Gardens, the sea wind hissing around him like a restless ghost. His cloak snapped behind him, forgotten. His hair hung in snarls, clinging to his face, and he stood barefoot on the cold stone terrace as if pain might anchor him to something real.

He felt hollowed out. A husk with a sword strapped to its back. The stone beneath his feet reminded him he was still alive. Barely.

He hadn’t slept. Not since Kinvara stood before the fire. She spoke of a tower with a flame at its peak, not as a vision, but as a certainty. A place older than kings and colder than graves.

Oldtown.

He saw it again and again, as if the gods had etched it into the back of his eyelids—a stone white watchtower, with a fire on the top its proud stone cracking under heat and time, screams rising through the haze like birds on broken wings. The sky above it split with fire, a storm of light and fury, and beneath it all, the red gleam of blood spreading across marble floors like spilled Arbor gold.

And always, in the edges of the dream, in the quiet places where fear liked to settle, was the Lord of the Reach. Watching. Smiling. A smile like a blade slid beneath the ribs.

The name soured in his mouth like spoiled wine. Lord Reynold Hightower.

To make matters worse, days ago, a raven had reached him, the parchment crumpled from Howland Reed’s hand, the ink still sharp. It spoke of Sansa—summoned to King’s Landing by Bran himself. She hadn’t gone alone; Tormund was with her. Brienne too. But so was Reynolds. That part he kept reading over and over, as if staring at the words might change them.

Jaehaerys didn’t know what game the Hightower lord was playing, only that he didn’t trust the smile on the man’s face or the silk-slick charm that always seemed a touch too rehearsed. Now, he was spending time with her, walking the same halls, speaking in low voices, being seen beside her.

He tried not to think about what that meant. Tried to push away the image of Sansa turning toward him, smiling at something he’d said. Laughing.

“She doesn't love him,” he muttered under his breath, jaw tight. “She wouldn’t.”

But the thought stayed, unwanted and stubborn as winter chill. And all the worse because he had no way to know for sure.

His hands curled into fists so tight his nails bit blood from his palms, but he welcomed the sting. He had known helplessness before—in the courtyard of Castle Black as Ygritte crumbled in his arms, in the skies above the sea where Rhaegal fell screaming, the moment he drove steel into the woman who believed in him even when he didn’t believe in himself.

He had died that day. Jon Snow had. And in his place, Jaehaerys had clawed his way out of the ash, forged in silence and shame and the ache of unfinished oaths.

He heard the footsteps behind him—measured, deliberate—but he didn’t turn. He knew them. The way they struck stone, calm and careful, like the man himself. There was no need to look. Some things you just feel in your bones.

“Ser Davos was right, you do seem to run to the edge when the world grew too heavy,” Aegon said, his voice low, almost kind. “He told me you’d be out here, trying to hold the sea together with your silence.”

Jaehaerys said nothing. His jaw worked, but no sound came. What was there to say that hadn’t already curdled on his tongue a hundred times in the dark? Words wouldn’t change the fire in his chest, the weight in his gut, or the way the wind felt like knives on his skin.

So he stood there, letting the silence answer for him.

Aegon stepped beside him without a word, arms folded tight against his chest, his silver hair catching the first hints of light like threads of old silver. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

For a time, the silence between them was enough—two brothers bound by blood, by ghosts, and by a kingdom that never stopped bleeding.

The wind whispered around them, carrying salt and memory. Together they stared into the distant sky as if they could see what was coming, and knowing they could not, feared it all the same.

“You haven't slept much,” Aegon finally said, squinting at him. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to out-brood the statues. Not sure you’re winning, mind—one of them cracked a smile yesterday.”

Jaehaerys let out a low, bitter chuckle. "Do you ever dream of fire, Aegon? Not the kind with wings or glory in its breath. Just fire. Endless. Hungry. Burning everything you love until there's nothing left but smoke and bone."

He paused, his voice rasping.

"I've been seeing it every time I close my eyes. It doesn’t roar. It whispers. And it never stops taking."

Aegon let out a breath, long and low, as though the memory still clung to his ribs. “Once. Years ago, in Essos. I thought it was just the heat, or the wine, or too much of both. But it felt real. Realer than the sun. I was standing in a city—hard to tell through the smoke. Everything was burning. The streets were full of ash and screams. I saw children curled in doorways, flesh blackened and flaking. People running with their hair on fire. Bells ringing. Gods, the bells wouldn’t stop.”

Aegon scratched at the back of his neck, as if trying to rub the dream off his skin. It didn’t work.

“I told myself it was nothing. A bad dream. Some drunken nightmare after a night with a Volantene courtesan and a bottle of something that should’ve stayed corked. But I remember it. I remember the heat. The sky wasn’t blue—it was bleeding. And the fire... it didn’t warm. It consumed.”

The gods are cruel, Jaehaerys thought. What Aegon had seen in a dream, years and seas away, was no dream at all—it had happened. Daenerys had made it real. Kingslanding burned. He could still hear the bells, could still smell the scorched flesh, the screams of mothers and children trapped beneath stone and flame. He had lived it. Survived it. And somehow, it lived in him still.

Is that the curse? he wondered. Is it fire that runs in our blood, no matter how hard we try to bury it?

He blinked hard, chasing the ghosts from his eyes. The wind bit his face, sharp and cold, and it grounded him just enough to find his voice.

"I know who sent the assassins," Jaehaerys said, each word steady, though they felt like splinters in his throat.

"Who was it?" Aegon asked, his voice tight, low with a heat he was trying—and failing—to swallow. The muscles in his jaw worked as he stared out over the dunes, like he was already imagining the man’s throat beneath his hands.

“Kinvara told me she saw a tower with flames at its peak when I asked for her help,” Jaehaerys said, his voice barely more than a breath.

“The Hightower of Oldtown?” Aegon said, his brow furrowing. “Who in the Seven Hells would want—”

Then he stopped. His mouth stayed open, but the words didn’t come. The answer was there, plain as day. And it chilled him.

“Oh,” he said at last, voice low. “Gods help us.”

Jaehaerys’s mouth was a hard line, but doubt lingered behind his eyes. “Aye. the Lord of the Reach wishes me dead. That much I’m sure of.” He let the words hang there, like smoke that refused to rise. “But I don’t know what comes next. Gods, Aegon, I don’t know if I want to fight another war. I’ve buried too much already.”

Aegon gave him a long look, then stepped closer. “You may not want it, but it’s coming for you all the same. You think Reynolds acts alone? He’s a dagger, not a hand. Bran’s the one gripping the hilt.”

Jaehaerys blinked, but said nothing.

“You want to keep running?” Aegon asked. “Fine. But they’ll keep coming. And next time, it won’t be a knife in the dark. It’ll be Sansa on a pyre, or Davos with his throat cut.”

Jaehaerys clenched his jaw.

“This is our moment,” Aegon said. “The realm’s waiting for something—someone—to stand up and say, ‘Enough.’ Let this be the cry. We rally the old blood. We raise the banners not just against the Hightowers… but against the monster sitting the throne.”

Jaehaerys turned away for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was steady, but softer than before. “Then we’d best not wait much longer.”

Aegon broke the silence, his voice rough with fatigue but laced with urgency. “The lords are slipping, one by one. The North bows to the wolf queen, but she’s in King’s Landing now, close enough for Bran to keep her caged. The Riverlands and the Vale follow like sheep. The Reach is Reynolds’ outright.” He looked at Jaehaerys, eyes shadowed. “Soon there’ll be no one left to call friend. No one left to remember who we are.”

Jaehaerys gave a slow nod. “And no one wins a war with ghosts and memories.”

“Then it’s time to bind what’s left before the realm forgets us entirely. Dorne’s stood with us in shadow—now we call them into the sun. Let the banners fly together, fire and sun stitched side by side. Let them see we are not broken. Not yet.” Aegon said turning to face his brother, his expression unreadable in the shifting dawnlight.

Jaehaerys’s voice sharpened. “So your answer is to sell me off? To make me marry Arianne like I’m just—”

“A piece?” Aegon cut in. “We’re all pieces, Jaehaerys. You, me, Arianne, even Trystane. The difference is whether we choose where we move or let someone else do it for us.”

“Then why not you?” Jaehaerys snapped. “You need Dorne? Marry her yourself. You're the heir, aren't you? You wear the sword, the ring, the name.”

Aegon looked away, the corner of his mouth twitching with something like shame. When he spoke, it was quieter, like the truth had waited years to come out. “I wanted it once. In Essos, I’d sneak into the cellar and try on my mother’s crown when no one was looking. Gave speeches to shadows, to rats, to myself in the mirror. Told them how I’d save Westeros, how I’d wear the Iron Throne like it was made for me.”

He chuckled before continuing. “And then I heard the stories. Of a man who rose from the dead. Who held the line at the Wall, who bent wildlings and lords alike not with fear, but with honor. Who never sought power, but earned the love of those who followed him. A man who fought for the realm when no one else would.”

He looked at Jaehaerys then, eyes steady, voice gentle. There was no envy there, no regret—only quiet pride. .

“Griff—Jon use to tell me that father believed that I was the prince prince that was promised,” Aegon said, his voice quiet but sure. “but I'm not, you are.”

The words struck deeper than any blade. For a long moment, Jaehaerys didn’t speak.

Finally, he turned back to the horizon, his eyes far away, but not empty. “I need time,” he said, the words quiet, like he hoped they might buy him more than they offered. Not to flee. Not to hide. Just to breathe. To think. To be a man again before becoming something more.

Aegon nodded slowly. “Take the time, if you must. But remember, every hour we wait, the board changes. Allies forget us. Enemies sharpen their blades. So breathe, think—be a man, if that’s what you need. But don’t take too long, brother. The pieces won’t wait.”

He then clapped a hand to Jaehaerys’s shoulder—not hard, but firm, like the closing of a pact—and gave him a nod that said more than words ever could. Then he turned and walked back through the colonnade, boots striking stone in slow, steady rhythm. The sound echoed in the stillness, fading with each step until only the wind remained.

Jaehaerys stayed rooted to the stone, eyes fixed on the horizon where the sun slowly climbed, casting long gold fingers across the sand. The light touched everything but him. In his mind, the Hightower still burned—tall and proud and screaming, a monument to what must come. And somewhere behind the flames, just out of reach, was her face. The only thing he couldn’t bear to lose.

Sansa

The late afternoon sun filtered through the latticework, painting pale gold patterns across the floor of Sansa Stark’s chambers. She stood before the looking glass, silent, composed, her hands smoothing the folds of a silver gown trimmed in northern blue. Direwolves and snowflakes were stitched into the bodice, their shimmer catching the light like frost. It fit her well, too well—like something she had worn in another life.

Behind her, her maids moved with the nervous energy of caged birds, adjusting hems and smoothing sleeves with hands that never quite stilled.

“You shine like winter’s first frost, Your Grace,” one of them murmured, reverent. “A queen the old gods would be proud of.”

Sansa’s lips curved into the ghost of a smile, practiced and polite, though the woman in the glass offered nothing in return—only a cool, silent stranger staring back.

The compliment had barely settled when the door creaked open. Tyrion appeared in the doorway, haloed in torchlight, a cup of wine cradled in his hand and a familiar wry smile on his lips.

“Forgive the intrusion,” he said, his voice softer than usual. “But I’d be lying if I didn’t say—you wear that dress like it was made for you. As if it remembers the girl you were... and the queen you’ve become.”

Tyrion glanced toward the young maids with a polite dip of his head. "If you’d be so kind, ladies—might the queen and I have a moment alone?"

The youngest hesitated, glancing nervously at Tyrion before turning back to Sansa. "But... Your Grace, it's not proper. A lady alone with a man who isn’t her husband—people might talk."

“I’m not alone,” Sansa said, turning her head just enough to nod toward the hearth. “Ghost is protection enough—and less likely to gossip.”

At the sound of his name, Ghost stirred, rising slow and silent from his place by the hearth. His pale eyes swept the room, lingering on each girl in turn until they dropped their gazes. That was enough. They dipped into hurried bows and left without another word, the door clicking shut behind them like the end of a prayer.

The latch clicked softly behind them, and silence settled in its place. She waited a breath, then turned from the mirror, her voice measured and low.

“That look,” Tyrion said gently, “it’s the same one you wore on our wedding day. Proud, poised… and hiding just how much you wanted to be anywhere else.”

Sansa turned from the mirror, her eyes still distant. “And you tried to make me laugh,” she said, her voice quiet, touched with a memory of something softer.

“I failed,” Tyrion replied, not bitter, just honest.

“But you tried,” she said. “And that meant more than you know.”

Before another word passed between them, Ghost rose from the hearth with the silent certainty of snowfall. His fur bristled, teeth bared, and he began a slow, prowling walk toward Tyrion, each step heavy with warning, not haste.

Tyrion stopped mid-step, his eyes fixed on the wolf’s gleaming teeth. “Well,” he said, keeping his tone dry, “I see your taste in guards has improved.”

A hand found its way to Ghost’s ruff, steady and sure. “He remembers,” she said, her tone calm but firm. “But he listens to me.”

With a low grunt that might have been disdain, Ghost paused, then padded back to the fire. He sank down slowly, curling into himself with one eye still fixed on Tyrion, wary and unblinking.

“Is that your way of saying we’ve made peace?” Tyrion muttered, keeping a cautious eye on the direwolf.

“He’s a wolf,” she said with a hint of dry amusement. “He doesn’t forget, but he lets you live. That’s close enough to forgiveness for him.”

Tyrion offered a half-bow in Ghost’s direction, his tone light but wary. “My regrets, old friend. Dragons breathe fire, but you—your silence says more than any roar.”

The only answer was a slow twitch of Ghost’s ear, a gesture that could have meant grudging tolerance—or a warning not to press his luck.

She crossed the room with quiet purpose and settled onto a cushioned chair, her gown rustling like wind through bare branches. Tyrion, saying nothing, filled a second cup and handed it to her as if he’d known she’d need it.

“What I need,” she said, her voice cool as northern wind, “is someone who can tell the difference between a throne and a noose. The dress is silk, the smile is painted, but the trap is still the same.”

“You always did know how to slice with words. Gods, I’ve missed that edge.”

She gave him a sidelong look, sharp as a drawn blade. “I miss being free to use it without worrying who’ll twist my words into a noose.”

She lowered herself into the chair, the fabric of her gown whispering across the cushions, and took a slow sip of wine. Her eyes met his, the sharpness dulled now by something more fragile. “In the throne room earlier… a servant whispered to Reynold. I only caught three words. ‘failed' and 'still alive.’”

A shadow crossed Tyrion’s face, the lines around his eyes deepening. He leaned back slowly, fingers tapping once against the rim of his cup as if weighing ghosts.

“I was hoping you’d heard more than I have. Whispers travel faster than ravens in this place.”

“No truths, only whispers,” he said, voice low. “Some speak of wings stirring in Dorne. Others say a shadow passed over the sea. No one’s brave enough to say his name aloud—not yet.”

The air thinned. A flicker passed over her face—hope or dread, it was hard to say.

“I can’t say if it is true,” he murmured. “But we both know there’s only one man in the world Lord Hightower might lose sleep over. And if what you heard is true, it means he has already tried and failed to end him. Which means fire and blood may be coming—fast and unforgiving.”

She nearly dropped her goblet from the sheer idea of Reynolds attempting to kill Jon. What if Bran is in on it with him? What if Robin was next? Could she be next once she had birthed an heir for him?

“I need a way out,” she said, her voice sharp as broken glass. “Or at the very least, someone to tell Jon what they are planning behind closed doors.”

A long pause stretched between them, heavy with things unspoken. Then Tyrion gave a slow nod.

“If he hears of your betrothal without knowing the why of it, I fear he’ll burn a path straight to King’s Landing—and the smallfolk will pay the price first,” he said, a sad smile tugging at his mouth.

“Jon isn’t like her,” she said, voice low but laced with defiance. “He wouldn’t—.”

“He would for you,” Tyrion said, quiet but certain. The smile he wore wasn’t smug, just sad—like a man who knew the weight of love that asked too much and gave too little back.

"I like to think I know how to read people," Tyrion said, swirling his wine. "But back in Winterfell, I missed it. We were all distracted, of course. Still, I remember the way you looked at Daenerys when you greeted him. That wasn’t politics, Sansa. That was the look of someone watching another girl ride off with the only horse they’d ever wanted."

Few people had ever left her speechless, and yet here she was. She could still recall the burn in her chest when Jon had ridden into Winterfell beside the dragon queen, her arm hooked in his like she belonged there. She hadn’t known it then—what it was, that ache—but gods, she knew now. And maybe she’d known even then, somewhere deep, in the place where old hurts made their home.

She opened her mouth to speak, but Tyrion was already moving. He set the key on the table with deliberate care, the metal clinking softly on the wood. “Dungeon cell,” he said over his shoulder. “Three levels below the old Sept’s crypt. You’ll find your friend waiting.”

Fingers brushed the key as if afraid it might vanish. She picked it up slowly, the chill of the metal biting into her skin like the promise of something long overdue.

A breath caught in her throat. “She’s alive?”

“She is,” Tyrion said with quiet confidence. “The gods made Brienne out of steel, not silk. Hightower or no, it’ll take more than a lord with a grudge to break her.”

The corners of her mouth lifted, slow and unsure, but honest—like sunlight breaking through a northern fog.

“Of all the husbands I never asked for,” she said with a glint in her eye, “you are the best.”

“I hope to settle for second soon,” Tyrion said, lifting his cup before looking over at Ghost. “I’ve no delusions about outrunning a Stark’s wolf.”

Jaehaerys

The chamber lay in quiet gloom, lit by the faint orange hush of a dying hearth. The scent of old smoke, dried blood, and damp linen clung to the air. Stillness reigned, the kind that pressed on the chest like a weight. Only the soft rise and fall of breath from the man in the bed proved that death had not yet claimed the room.

Then—movement. A twitch in the fingers, a shift in breath. Asher’s eyes opened, slow and uncertain, like a man surfacing from beneath deep water.

No one stirred at first. Jaehaerys sat at his brother’s bedside, head bowed, hands clasped—not in prayer, but in something quieter, older. A stillness born of waiting.

Davos hovered near the hearth, whetstone in hand, though the blade he honed had already seen its work. Aurane stood watch at the window slit, eyes fixed on the swirling dunes beyond, where the wind dragged the sand like shrouds across the desert floor.

“Jae...” The name barely broke the stillness, no louder than the rustle of sheets, yet it carried like thunder in the silence.

Jaehaerys jolted upright, the chair legs shrieking against stone. Davos was on his feet in an instant, all weariness gone. At the window, Aurane turned, breath catching, eyes wide as if he’d heard a ghost call his name.

“Asher,” he breathed, the name slipping from his lips like a prayer forgotten until now—fragile, raw, and full of aching disbelief.

His friend's face was drawn and ashen, carved by pain and time, yet the eyes—those were untouched. Sharp. Knowing. Still Asher. It was like seeing a ghost choose to stay.

“You’ll need more than a pair of southern daggers to kill a man worth his salt,” Davos said as he strode to the bedside, his grin rough-edged but real.

“Two,” Aurane said, tone clipped and polished. “One found the gut, the other came too near the heart. Sloppy work, if you ask me.”

“Still a better fighter than you, Waters,” Asher muttered, the corners of his mouth twitching. The chamber filled with the low rumble of laughter, brittle and worn, but real.

“You gave us a scare,” Jaehaerys said as he leaned in, gripping Asher’s hand. “we thought we’d lost you for good this time.”

"Well," Asher rasped, a ghost of a grin tugging at his mouth. "Figured if the gods let your ugly mug crawl back from the grave, they’d have to keep someone this handsome around to balance the scales."

For a heartbeat—there was light again. It hung between them, fragile and flickering. "I’ll fetch the maester," Davos said, voice quieter now. "Before the lad decides dying wasn’t so bad after all."

He hadn’t yet reached the door when it groaned open of its own accord, slow and heavy, like a warning before a storm.

Prince Trystane stepped through the doorway, shoulders squared beneath the weight of what he carried. Aegon followed at his side, both men cloaked in silence and shadow. In Trystane’s hands rested a scroll case, black as pitch, its seal a lump of hardened wax the color of dried blood. He paused, just a breath—enough to mark the moment before everything changed.

“Raven from King’s Landing,” he said, his voice low and strained. “You’ll want to read it yourself.”

“Give it here,” Jaehaerys said, reaching for the scroll. He took it with steady hands, though the silence in the room felt suddenly brittle. The wax seal cracked like dry bone as he broke it, and he unrolled the parchment with a slowness born of dread.

“No...” The word barely passed his lips as his eyes crawled over the lines. Then they stopped, fixed, as if the ink itself had turned to poison.

"What’s it say, lad?" Davos asked, his voice rough with dread, as if bracing for news that would sour the air.

“By command of His Grace, King Brandon of House Stark, First of His Name, the betrothal of Lady Sansa Stark, Queen in the North, and Lord Reynold Hightower, heir to Oldtown, is now sealed and bound before gods and men. May this alliance serve the realm's peace, and knit the fractures of the crown in loyalty and blood”

The silence that followed sliced through the warmth like a drawn blade, heavy with betrayal and the weight of words that could not be unsaid.

Without a word, Jaehaerys turned and walked out of the room.

Aurane stepped forward to follow him, but Davos caught his arm before he could speak. "Give him some space," he muttered. "you don't want to be on the receiving end of that fury right no."

“This changes everything,” Aegon said, his voice distant.

“For better or worse?” Trystane asked, though the weight in his tone made it clear he already knew the answer.

"Only the gods know," Aegon said softly, his eyes fixed on the open door as if he might glimpse the answer vanishing down the hall with Jaehaerys.

"Come," Aegon said gently, but firmly, the weight of what they’d all read still hanging in the air. "There’s much to be done—and less time to do it."

In sleep, the past returned. He dreamed of the Sept—vast and echoing, bathed in pale light that made every stone seem holy, every shadow long and full of memory.

Sansa stood in white, the gown flowing around her like mist over snow, soft and haunting. She looked untouched by time, radiant and distant, as though carved from memory itself.

Reynold Hightower stood beside her, cloaked in crimson and gold, his expression steeped in self-satisfaction. His hand rested on her arm with the casual entitlement of a man accepting a gift he believed long owed. Yet even in the dream, something shifted. The light dimmed, the murmurs stilled. Time faltered. The crowd dissolved, the Sept fell quiet, and only silence remained—thick and blooming like smoke from a sacred fire.

Sansa turned slowly, like a statue shaken from sleep. The dreamlight caught in her hair, and in that moment, she looked not like a bride, but a memory reaching back to him.

Her gaze locked with his, steady and searching. In her eyes he saw not blame, but recognition—of love denied, of time lost, of truths left unsaid.

They moved toward each other through the dreamlike hush, every step heavy with the things they’d never said, the years they could never reclaim. The silence between them was not empty—it was full, brimming with memory and meaning.

“You came,” she whispered, her voice a tremor of sorrow and something softer still. “But too late, my love.”

“I was a fool, Sansa,” he said, voice low and aching. “Too afraid to speak, too proud to hope. I thought if I kept my distance, I could keep you safe. But all I did was lose you.”

She reached for his hand, her fingers threading through his with quiet certainty. “So was I,” she said, her voice barely more than breath, but steady as winter wind.

"I love you, Jaehaerys Targaryen," she said, and this time, her smile held no sadness—only truth. "I always have. I always will. In every life, in every place, my heart has belonged to you. It always will."

His gaze locked with hers, deep and unwavering. “And I love you, Sansa Stark,” he said, voice thick with regret. “It’s always been you. My heart was yours before I even knew it. Gods forgive me for being too stubborn, too blind to say it sooner. But don’t—don’t choose him. Not if there’s still a part of you that remembers us.”

"Oh, my love," she murmured, brushing his cheek with her palm, her smile warm as spring sun after a long frost. "I thought you knew my heart better than that."

The truth struck him like a blow, sharp and staggering. His breath caught, eyes flaring open as if torn from drowning sleep.

“Save me,” she whispered, her voice as fragile as frost on glass. It wasn’t a command—it was a plea, a truth too heavy to carry alone, spoken by the woman he loved just as the dream began to burn away.

Jaehaerys jolted awake, breath ragged, sheets tangled around his limbs. Sweat clung to his skin, though the air in the room was still and cold. The silence was not empty—it throbbed with something just beyond reach. Not fear. Not sorrow. A pull, deep and insistent, like the sea calling to the shore.

He dressed without a word, hands moving through ritual more than thought. A plain black tunic pulled over skin still damp with sweat, boots worn by war and travel. No armor, no cloak—he bore no need for either now. Only his sword he buckled at his hip, as if it alone might give shape to the feeling clawing its way through his chest.

The halls of Sunspear slept in stone and shadow, their silence deep as tombs. As Jaehaerys passed, the guards offered no greeting, no question. They’d seen that look before—the eyes of a man walking with memories, not the living.

Beyond the gates, the sand met his boots like an old companion—cold, familiar, and quiet. Somewhere past the dunes, the sea whispered not with comfort, but with memory.

And so, he followed it.

The tide pressed high against the shore, driven by a sea that remembered every sorrow ever whispered to it.

The sea foamed and surged beneath a starless sky, its waves beating the shore like fists on a locked door—fierce, unyielding, full of memory. Salt stung the air, sharp and bitter, mingling with the metallic tang on his tongue. Jaehaerys walked to the edge where tide met land, the wind tugging at his hair like a ghost with something left to say.

He stared into the horizon where sea and sky bled into one, the darkness as endless as the ache in his chest. The tide echoed his thoughts, and when he spoke, the words came unbidden, heavy as stone.

“Sansa,” he whispered, as if the sound alone might summon her back from the dream, no vision.

Her name lingered on his tongue like something scorched—dry, bitter, and irretrievable.

“I failed you,” he murmured, the words cracking in the salt-stung air like driftwood in fire. Not an admission, but a reckoning.

He waded into the surf, the chill seizing his ankles like chains of ice. Each step sank him deeper into the moment—into the weight of what had been lost.

“I should’ve said it all, from the start,” he muttered, voice barely above the wind. “Not just what I felt… but what you were to me. I told myself it was to protect you, or perhaps myself. That silence was safer. But that wasn’t love—it was fear dressed as duty, and pride pretending to be strength.”

His hands curled into fists, not from anger, but the helpless ache of everything left undone. The tension lived in his knuckles, in the silence that followed—tight and unforgiving.

“If I’d spoken when it mattered, told you what lived in my heart instead of hiding behind silence, it would’ve been us. A weirwood, the old gods, vows whispered in snow. That’s the life we lost—.”

The wind howled through the night like a beast in mourning, torn between rage and sorrow, carrying his words away as if the world itself could not bear to hold them.

“Not this,” he said bitterly. “Not you dressed in silks beside a man with a vulture’s grin. Reynold Hightower… he’s not worthy of your name, let alone your hand.”

His voice broke, sharp and jagged, the weight of everything he could not change closing around his throat like a noose.

“He’s no husband for you,” Jaehaerys said, voice low but shaking with fury. “And yet they hand you off like you’re some peace offering to be bartered away. This isn’t choice. It’s chains. They’re forcing you into this, I feel it in my bones. Why else would you ask for me to save you?"

He drew a breath that trembled in his chest, the kind a man takes when there's nothing left to say. Then slowly, he lifted his eyes to the sky, as if searching for the gods—or perhaps for a sign of some kind.

The waves roared louder, crashing against the shore like war drums in a forgotten song. It was as if the sea itself raged with him—howling for the love stolen, the truths buried, and the time lost.

And then it came—a growl low and thunderous, rising beneath the wind like something ancient stirring from sleep. The ground itself seemed to shudder at the sound, as if the very bones of the world remembered who had once ruled sky and fire.

A shadow had blotted out the stars.

The black dread reborn descended like vengeance from the heavens, a shadow of fire and wings crashing into the shore. Waves shattered beneath him, and the sand rose in great plumes, as if the earth itself bowed to the weight of the last living dragon.

The dragon’s wings folded in solemn stillness, as if even the winds dared not disturb the moment. His black scales caught the faintest light, gleaming like ancient stone polished by fire and time.

Those eyes—deep, molten, and mournfully wise—settled on Jaehaerys, not with rage or judgment, but with something older still: recognition, and the echo of grief remembered.

Jaehaerys fell to his knees as though the weight of his guilt had finally crushed him. The wind of Drogon’s descent whipped around him, tearing at his cloak and hair, but he didn’t flinch.

Before the shadow of the last dragon, he knelt not in fear, but in sorrow—a man stripped of armor, of pretense, laid bare in the presence of something as ancient and wounded as himself.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and his voice shook like a broken sword in battle. “I failed her. I failed you. I swore I’d be better, and still—still I let her fall.”

He lowered his head, not in defeat, but in mourning—of Daenerys, of what they’d lost, of what he had failed to be. The wind caught in his throat like a sob unshed.

“She trusted me. Followed me. And I... I led her straight into fire. Thought I was doing right—standing aside, holding back—but all I did was leave her alone in the dark.”

He tried to speak, but the words turned to ash behind his teeth. His throat tightened, the weight of what he hadn't done heavier than armor. He swallowed hard, as if choking down everything he wished he’d said before it was too late.

“I didn’t stop her. I didn’t save her,” he said, the words thick with shame. “I stood by, let her carry it all, thinking I was sparing her from more pain. But all I did was leave her to burn.”

He rose slowly, each step toward the dragon heavy with a sorrow that never loosened its grip. “I know what I cost you. I know what I cost her. If this is justice... then let it come. I won’t run from it. I’ve earned worse.”

Drogon exhaled, and the breath that rolled over him was heat and memory—a furnace wind that stirred the sand and raised the hairs on Jaehaerys’s arms.

Then the dragon stepped forward, slow and deliberate. Each movement shook the ground like a heartbeat too large for the world to hold.

“But before you do,” Jaehaerys whispered, voice thick with something between resolve and despair, “let me try to make thing right for someone else. She doesn't deserve this. She's walking into something cruel, something twisted. I couldn’t save your mother... but maybe I can save her."

He drew a breath, slow and steady, grounding himself in the weight of what he had to say. “Let me do this,” he said. “Let me get her out. Let me see her safe. And after that... whatever you decide, I’ll bear it. Fire, and blood—I won’t turn away.”

Their eyes locked—a contest without swords, but no less sharp. Man and beast, each burdened by memory, grief, and duty, held one another's gaze. Jaehaerys did not flinch. Neither did Drogon. It was not a question of dominance, but of trust: who would yield, who would believe first in the other.

After what felt like an age suspended between heartbeat and breath, the dragon’s snout came to rest against his chest—not with fire or fury, but with a gentleness that stole the wind from him.

Drogon’s breath rolled out in a wave of warmth and memory, heavy with the weight of all they’d lost.

Then came the sound—deep, raw, and reverberating through the sand and stone—a low, ancient note that was less a growl than a lament.

It rose from the dragon’s chest like a dirge from some broken temple, echoing through Jaehaerys’s very bones.

It was grief shared, pain honored. The past was still present between them, scarred and searing—but now, for the first time, understood.

Jaehaerys laid a bare hand on Drogon’s snout, his touch trembling. The warmth of the beast met his skin like a memory reborn, echoing of Dragonstone—of a life before death, before loss.

“Thank you,” he whispered, voice thick and low, as a single tear slid down his cheek, salt meeting salt in the wind.

Then Drogon shifted, slow and deliberate, and lowered one great wing to the sand. The gesture was not forceful, but reverent—like an old god offering sanctuary. His eyes never left Jaehaerys. It was no command, no demand. It was trust made manifest. An invitation... and a choice.

Jaehaerys stepped forward, heart hammering like a drumbeat in a quiet hall. No words came—none were needed. He placed his hand on Drogon's flank once more, feeling the heat, the breath, the life. Then, with the solemnity of an oath spoken in the dark, he climbed. Each movement was slow, reverent, as though mounting more than a dragon—climbing back into a purpose long abandoned.

Jaehaerys settled onto Drogon’s back, the scales warm beneath him, strange and familiar all at once. As the dragon shifted, he placed a hand against scarred hide to steady himself. He exhaled, slow and quiet, a breath heavy with sorrow, resolve—and the weight of what still lay ahead.

His gaze turned northwest, he held the direction in his eyes a moment longer, as if fixing it in his soul.

Then he drew one final breath, his eyes still locked on the dark horizon.

“Sōvēs.”

Chapter Text

Jaehaerys

The sky was black and bottomless, a vast, churning sea without sun or star to mark its bounds. Jaehaerys clung to Drogon's back as the dragon carved a path through the mist and gloom, each beat of his wings sending ripples through the heavy dark.

The world below had vanished, swallowed by the fog, and the only thing that remained was the rush of the wind in his ears and the furnace heat rising up from the beast beneath him.

He was a speck adrift in a storm, a spark borne on a tide of shadow and smoke, and there was no North here, no Wall, no Winterfell—only the endless sky, the dragon, and the fire that lived in his blood.

Drogon's shadow passed like a wraith across the mist, a dark stain that twisted and blurred with every shift of the wind. Beneath them, the world was gone, swallowed whole by a churning sea of grey, thick as smoke and just as merciless.

No lights pierced the gloom, no stars hung above to give a man his bearings. It was as if time itself had been wiped away, leaving only the endless thrum of Drogon's wings and the lonely scream of the wind tearing at the clouds.

Jaehaerys could feel the weight of it pressing down on him — the weight of being nowhere, no one, in a world that had forgotten itself.

He was not Jon Snow here. Not the brooding boy of Winterfell, the bastard with a wolf's heart and a crow's cloak, bleeding for honors too small for the world he carried on his shoulders.

That name had fallen from him like a ragged skin left behind. Up here, there was no room for such things. Up here, he was Jaehaerys Targaryen, one of the last sons of old Valyria, a descendant of the first men, and rider of the last dragon, a name heavy as iron and sharp as broken glass.

A name that fit like a sword in the hand, and cut just as deep.

And the title burned, hot and bitter in his gut, as if the very weight of it seared him from within.

Names were supposed to crown a man, to lift him up, but this one dragged him down, heavy as a chain, sharp as a sword drawn across bare skin. Jaehaerys could feel it in his bones, in every breath that came ragged through his chest—the terrible truth that a name could be a curse as much as a blessing.

The air was thick with the tang of salt and the sharp bite of storm. Somewhere far beneath the clouds, the southern seas raged unseen, their dark waters heaving and snarling like a caged beast.

Jaehaerys clutched the saddle ridge, his fingers stiff and cold despite the furnace heat that bled up from Drogon's vast body through the cracked leather.

Every breath he drew tasted of iron and rain. His heart did not beat in his chest — no, it pounded lower, deeper, a slow and heavy drumbeat that seemed to rise from the dragon itself, as if rider and mount had become one living thing, bound together by fire, by blood, and by the wild music of the storm.

He thought of Sansa, of the way her voice could fall soft as snowfall, yet carry steel enough to cut a man to the bone. He pictured her now, trapped in the Red Keep, wrapped in silks that stank of perfumed lies, forced to smile at men she despised, to bow and curtsy and play their games.

The thought of it gnawed at him, bitter and cold. Rage kindled in his belly, a bright, savage thing, sharp as a dagger slid between the ribs.

He thought of Bran, though it pained him to do so. Bran, who had once been his brother, all laughter and wide-eyed wonder, climbing towers too tall and chasing dreams too big for his small hands.

That boy was gone, swallowed by cold and crown alike.

In his place sat something that wore Bran's face, but was no brother of his. A husk, Aegon had called him, a hollow thing steered by the Three-Eyed Crow, all cold purpose and no heart.

His eyes were dead now, like a doll's, and his voice fell on the air like dry snow. Jaehaerys could scarce bear to think of it—could scarce bear to think of Sansa, forced into a marriage that stank of control and cruelty, a move that stank of Bran's unseen hand.

Yet why would Bran—his cousin, once—turn so cruelly against his own blood? The question twisted in his gut like a knife.

But had he himself not turned on his blood when he drove a blade into Daenerys's heart?

Had he not called it mercy, called it duty?

The memory burned hotter than dragonfire, and in its searing light, he could not claim to know the shape of right and wrong any longer.

And so he thought of himself — of all he had squandered and lost, the brothers buried, the lovers betrayed, the blood spilled by his own trembling hands.

He thought of the long, dark nights where the hunger in him had stirred, whispering of crowns and conquest, of thrones taken with fire and ruled by fear.

That same hunger lived still, coiled and patient in the marrow of his bones, hissing to him now: Take. Burn. Rule.

The dragonfire inside him stirred, slow and smoldering, a thing older than memory and just as cruel. It whispered to him of burning cities and broken kings, of crowns won not by right but by ruin. It clawed at the edges of his soul, eager to be unleashed, to make the world remember what it meant to fear a dragon's wrath.

He closed his eyes, and Valyria rose before him in all its dreadful splendor. He saw the thousand towers crowned with tongues of flame, their stones blackened and cracked from centuries of fire.

Rivers of molten gold and blood wound through smoking fields where dragons, great and terrible, roosted on the ribs of shattered mountains. The proud kings of old had not built a paradise; they had carved their dominion out of fire and death, grinding the world to ash beneath their heels.

Not for justice. Not for peace. They burned for power. And perhaps, in the end, he was no better than they.

Was that all he had become? Just another broken link in a long, rusted chain of fire and blood, a whisper of a curse passed down through the veins of dragonlords and kings, each doomed to the same ruinous end?

The thought settled heavy in his chest, colder than any blade.

Drogon banked hard, his vast wings slicing through the mist, and Jaehaerys leaned into the turn, the wind shrieking past his ears like a thousand knives.

For a heartbeat—just a heartbeat—he surrendered to it: the hot surge of anger rising in his chest, the sharp hunger that narrowed his senses to a single, burning point, the raw, roaring flame that tore loose inside his veins.

He could taste it on his tongue, hot and bitter as blood. He could feel it coil in his belly, thick and living, as if the dragon was not just beneath him but inside him, and always had been.

A dragon was not made to crawl or supplicate. Dragons were born to seize, to scorch, to rule. In that moment, with the storm screaming and the fire writhing inside him, he gave himself over to it. He welcomed it, as a dying man might welcome breath, as a king might welcome a crown of flame.

Then he saw Ghost, pale and silent, those red eyes full of a trust so fierce it shamed him.

He saw Jeor Mormont, solemn and gruff, pressing Longclaw into his hands as if handing over more than just steel—as if giving him a part of himself.

He saw Sansa, too, the soft brush of her fingers against his, a fleeting touch that had spoken more than any words, before duty had torn them apart and left only silence.

Each memory struck him like a hammer blow, peeling away the fire, stripping him back to the boy he had been—a boy who had loved, and been loved, and who had tried, however badly, to be good.

The fire shrank back inside him, sullen and cold.

Yes, he was Jaehaerys Targaryen. But Jon Snow lived still, somewhere deep, buried under all the ash and fire.

The mist thinned. Dawn touched the horizon, a pale bruise of gold against the grey.

Ahead, a crag of stone jutted from the mist, sharp and broken, like the splintered tooth of some long-dead god. Gnarled trees clung to its flanks, their limbs twisted by endless wind. Drogon rumbled low, feeling the pull of the earth as keenly as his rider.

Down they went, turning slow and wide. The ground rushed to meet them, a ghost rising from the mist. The fog closed around them, soft and cold as a grave shroud.

Drogon touched down as quiet as dust on a tomb. His wings folded in with a slow, leathery sigh. Behind Jaehaerys, he crouched low, a great black shadow lost in the mist.

Jaehaerys swung down from the saddle, his boots scraping over brittle grass and broken stone. The wind snapped at his cloak, pulling it hard, like a wounded thing that did not know it was dying.

He made his way to the cliff's edge, slow and heavy, as if the wind itself tried to hold him back.

Oldtown sprawled below, ancient and swollen, a city grown rich on rot. The Honeywine wound through its heart, black and sluggish in the dawn. Ships bobbed at anchor in the crowded harbor, their sails drooping like dying things. Banners stirred atop leaning towers, faded and torn. And above it all rose the Hightower, a pale spear of stone thrust into the sky, defiant and doomed.

And there he stood, on the broken edge of the world, the wind clawing at him, the sky dark and heavy with threat. He watched, silent. He waited, hollow and still. Beneath his skin, the storm swelled, a terrible thing taking shape, and it was only a matter of time before it broke free.

Sansa

The morning sun crept through a pale fog, casting King’s Landing in a half-light that softened stone but not the knot in Sansa's chest. She stood atop Maegor's Holdfast, fingers laced tight before her, white gloves stretched over hands that trembled. Below, the castle stirred—banners unfurling, trumpets sounding, servants moving like ants preparing for the grand illusion of celebration.

The crowd gathered, the horns blew, and still she felt like a girl lost in the snow, waiting for a brother who would never return. Surrounded by splendor, she had never felt more alone.

Reynold Hightower stood at her side, resplendent in gold and green, a serpent dressed as a lion. His hands rested behind his back in studied ease, but his smile was all steel. "A fine turnout," he said smoothly. "Nothing brings joy to the realm like a wedding—especially one that unites old bloodlines."

"Harmony," Sansa said, her voice soft but edged. "Strange word for something that feels so much like surrender."

Tormund Giantsbane stood just behind, arms crossed over his great chest, his ginger beard bristling with every word Reynold spoke. "Aye," he rumbled, low and dry, "funny kind of harmony, when half the realm's biting their tongues to keep from spitting."

Reynold’s eyes flicked to Tormund, his smile sharpening. "Strange, isn’t it? Wildlings and Northmen speaking of harmony. Next you’ll be telling me you hold hands and sing to the weirwoods."

He let the jab hang in the air before adding, "You’re lucky the bride wants you as her new shield. If it were up to me, I’d send you back where you belong—beyond the Wall."

Tormund let out a short bark of laughter. "Aye, and if it were up to me, you’d be pissin’ blood in a snowdrift, crying for your mother."

Reynold’s tone turned cold. "Maybe you'd be happier down south with your bastard friend, chasing ghosts and old names."

Tormund’s grin vanished, his fists curling.

"Enough," Sansa said sharply, stepping between them. Her voice cut the air cleaner than any sword. "This is not the time, nor the place. You both shame yourselves."

The gates of the Red Keep creaked wide on ancient hinges, the groan rising like a warning—or a welcome—depending on which side of the iron you stood.

From their perch, Sansa watched the riders appear over the hill, a lean procession winding through the mist like a memory taking form. There were no war drums, no trumpets—only fur-lined cloaks, banners worn but proud. She saw the grey direwolf of House Stark, the silver trout of Riverrun, the crescent moon of the Vale. They did not come for spectacle. They came for her.

At their head rode Meera Reed, straight-backed and sure, her posture defiant as any queen's. She did not wear jewels or silks, but bore the quiet strength of the Neck—braided hair, weather-worn leathers, and a cloak the color of moss. She rode like one returning not to pay homage, but to remind the realm that the old blood still ran strong.

Her hair, dark as the pools of the Neck, was braided close to her skull, the plaits caught in the wind. The moss-colored cloak snapped behind her like the banner of an old house unbent. She rode not like a courtly lady, but like a spearwife come south to collect a debt long owed.

"The North arrives late," Reynold muttered, narrowing his eyes, "but stomps in like they still remember what power smells like. Typical."

Bran slipped into their midst without sound, pale and silent as snowfall. His eyes, pale and blank, drifted across the approaching riders. "Curious," he murmured, the words flat, almost detached. "I did not see them coming."

Tyrion Lannister appeared, cradling a goblet as if it were a delicate secret. He limped in slow, measured steps, the chill sharpening the drag of his stride. "Unexpected guests make for the finest parties," he said, voice dry as dust. "You always did enjoy surprises, Your Grace."

Bran’s silence lingered like smoke after fire. His jaw set, the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth the only betrayal of unease.

In the courtyard, the procession came to a still and measured stop. Meera swung down from her saddle with the fluid ease of one more at home in swampland and storm than courtly stone.

Around her, Northern and River lords followed suit—Lord Harlon of Deepwood Motte, a weathered man with the wary eyes of a wolf in winter; Ser Benric of the Mander, his silence loud with judgment; Lady Sarra of the Fingers, bones like driftwood and a stare sharp as broken glass; Lord Mathis Blackwood, clad in black and red, his gaze hard as old iron; and Lord Alaric Royce of Runestone, grim and proud in bronze.

They brought no excess, no ceremony.

Only steel and loyalty.

Meera's voice rang out, dry as smoke and twice as cutting: "We heard there was a celebration—couldn’t bear to miss the chance to see who they’d drag down the aisle this time."

Her words snapped through the courtyard, ringing off stone and steel like a drawn sword—sharp, unmistakable, and meant to be heard by every ear within reach.

Bran was pushed forward by a soldier in eerie silence, his cloak trailing behind him like the wing of some great white crow. He approached Meera, head tilted. "You should not be here."

"Neither should you," Meera said with a crooked smile, her voice cool as river mist and just as cutting. "Yet here we are, dressed for a feast neither of us asked for."

"I did not call for the North," Bran said, his voice thinning like a blade drawn slow. "They were not meant to come."

“You summoned the Queen of the North,” Meera said, stepping forward, each word like the bite of frost. “And where she goes, the North follows—though perhaps you thought they'd kneel out of courtesy, not cause. Don’t forget, Your Grace—you’re not the only one with the blood of the first men in your veins.”

Bran held her gaze for a long moment, his expression unreadable, as if trying to peer through her and see what lay beneath bone and blood. But it was Reynold who broke the silence, stepping forward with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

"This is a wedding, not a war council," Reynold said, his tone smooth as honey but sharp as broken glass. "You rode all this way with your banners and scowls—was it to toast the bride, or count how many swords you could raise in a hall of peace?"

Lady Sarra spat on the cobblestone, her expression tight with disapproval. "We came to stand with our Queen, Lord Hightower," she said, her tone honeyed with just enough bite. "The rest, well... that depends on how welcome she’s made to feel, doesn’t it?"

Tormund let out a rough chuckle, his beard twitching with amusement. He leaned close to Sansa and said, "Looks like the old wolves still got teeth, eh? The North remembers—and it don’t forget a damn thing."

Silence settled over them, soft and cold as fresh snow, carrying the weight of old grudges and unspoken truths.

Reynold's mouth twisted, as if he'd tasted something foul, but he swallowed whatever words threatened to spill. Bran lingered a moment longer, his face blank as a winter sky, then turned and slipped away into the mist without a sound, leaving only a colder silence behind him.

In the shadow of the Keep, Meera climbed the steps two at a time, as if she'd waited years for this moment. She paused at the top, her eyes meeting Sansa's with a look that was half challenge, half relief. For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then, with a breath like a broken dam, they closed the distance and embraced, holding each other as if the world beyond the walls had already begun to crumble.

"You're not alone," Meera whispered, her voice rough with the weight of too many broken promises and battles fought in the dark. "Not while I draw breath."

Sansa smiled faintly, a brittle thing. "Not anymore," she said, her voice low, carrying the ache of winters survived and dreams long buried.

Tyrion stepped forward with a sly smile, cradling his goblet like a priest offering tribute. "Meera Reed," he said, voice rich with mischief. "Half the tales I've heard paint you a ghost, the other half a wolf. I suppose the truth lies somewhere between?"

"Aye, most of them true," Meera said with a wry tilt of her mouth. "Though I like the ones where I grow wings and fly best of all."

Sansa let out a soft huff, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh, and flicked a glance between them. "Tyrion Lannister," she said, voice wry. "A friend."

"And, by all accounts, her finest ex-husband," Tyrion said with a flourishing bow, his grin crooked and irreverent.

Laughter bubbled up, light and brittle, like the first thaw of spring before the ice remembers itself.

Sansa’s chambers had turned close and stifling long before the last of the Northern lords slipped through the door.

The drapes hung heavy over the windows, drowning the last light of the sun. What little brightness remained came from the hearth, where the fire guttered low, its flames casting long, restless shadows that danced against the cold stone walls.

The air was thick, sour with the scents of damp wool, aged stone, and woodsmoke. A chill from the floor crept upward, but the closeness of so many bodies made the room feel almost suffocating.

Ghost lay sprawled before the door, his white fur stark against the dark floor. One eye open, the other lazily shut, he watched each man and woman who entered as if weighing their worth. No man dared test him.

No guards stood sentry in the halls. No trumpets sounded to announce the gathering. Here, there were no banners, no crowns, only a different kind of power—the brittle, stubborn currency of trust. It clung to the corners of the room, frayed at the edges, but not yet broken.

Sansa stood by the hearth, the carved stone cold beneath her fingertips. Her hand rested lightly on the mantel, though her posture was stiff with the strain of the moment.

One by one, they filed into the room, boots thudding softly on the worn floor. Tormund came first, broad as a bear and scowling like a man denied a good fight. Meera followed, quick and sure, her moss-colored cloak damp with the mist of the city.

Lord Harlon of Deepwood Motte moved with the slow deliberation of an old oak, while Ser Benric of the Mander, lean and hard-eyed, scanned every shadow as though expecting a knife to sprout from it.

Lady Sarra of the Fingers entered with a grace honed by years on treacherous shores, her lined face grim. Lord Mathis Blackwood, black-clad and severe, paused a heartbeat in the doorway before stepping inside. Then came Lord Alaric Royce of Runestone, all hard bronze and stony pride.

Last of all, Tyrion limped into the room, a crooked smile playing across his lips.

They gathered around her, their cloaks steaming faintly from the damp, their faces set. They had not come for courtesy or comfort.

They had come for her, for their queen.

"I thank you all for coming," she started, her voice clear though soft, carrying the weight of duty. "I know what it costs you to stand with me in this place. Loyalty has a price these days, and too often it’s paid in blood."

"Risk don't scare wolves," Tormund rumbled, scratching at his beard. "Or free folk. We’ve eaten worse than fear and pissed it out by morning."

Chuckles rumbled low around the chamber, rough and humorless, like stones grinding together. It was not true laughter, but the brittle sort men make when the truth cuts too close to the bone.

Sansa drew a steadying breath, feeling the weight of every eye upon her. "You have a right to the truth," she said, her voice cool and clear. "This match was not born of love, nor alliance, nor any hope of peace. It was born of a blade pressed to the throats of those I love. That is the coin they asked of me, and I paid it."

The fire guttered low, its light stretching and shrinking across the assembled faces. No one moved. No one spoke. They listened with the careful stillness of men and women who knew that every word carried weight enough to crack the stone beneath their feet. Shadows licked at the walls, dancing over hard jaws, furrowed brows, and the hard glint of steel at belts.

She saw it all—the outrage held in check, brimming behind hard eyes and clenched jaws.

She saw the sorrow too, the kind that burrows deep, a splinter buried too far beneath the skin to be pulled free.

And there, almost too fragile to name, a flicker of hope. Dangerous, trembling, alive.

One by one, she met their eyes, her gaze steady as the stones of Winterfell, unflinching even as the weight of it pressed down on her.

In the stillness, something terrible and beautiful took root—a covenant, born not of banners, but of blood and bone, raw and binding as any oath sworn beneath the heart tree.

"Brienne is a prisoner," Sansa said, her voice steady though the hearth fire caught the glint of sorrow in her eyes. "Bran holds her, somewhere deep within the Red Keep, where even the gods struggle to find their way."

The words struck the room like a lash.

Gasps broke the stillness, sharp and sudden. Some clutched the hilts of their swords, others spat oaths under their breath. A few exchanged dark, knowing looks, as if the pieces of some grim puzzle had finally fallen into place.

Muttered curses stirred the air like a rising storm. Loyalty and fury mixed in every breath, heavy as iron.

They had known things were wrong, but hearing it laid bare by their queen lit a fire none could easily put out.

"He made his meaning plain enough," Sansa said, her voice low but carrying. "If I refuse to wed Reynold Hightower, my cousin Robin will fall—and the Vale with him."

Lady Sarra’s face turned as hard and cold as the cliffs of the Fingers, her lips thinning to a sharp, bitter line. The lines of her face, carved by years of salt and wind, deepened into something harsher—something unmovable.

Beside her, Lord Alaric let out a low, guttural sound, almost a growl, before muttering an oath—a prayer, or perhaps a curse, for what had become of the blood of the First Men.

"There was no choice left to me," she continued, the words like ash on her tongue. "Not if I wished to keep the North safe. Not if I wished to spare the Vale from bloodshed. I bent my knee, not out of desire, but because the blade was already at our throats."

"This ain’t no protection," Tormund growled, baring his teeth. "It’s a leash, and they’ve tied it up in silk to make you think it’s a crown. I'd sooner chew off my own hand than wear it."

"And a poisoned cup," Tyrion quipped, swirling the wine in his goblet before taking a long, slow sip. "They dress it up with vows and silk, but it’ll kill you just the same."

Meera, who had stood silent by the wall, stepped forward then, her voice as cool and certain as river water. "We knew the air was turning rotten," she said, her green eyes steady on Sansa. "The ravens carried whispers, hints of something stirring in the dark. But not this. Not treachery so close it stinks in our own halls."

Lord Harlon's voice rumbled low, rough as gravel dragged over stone. "Aye, the old roots rot when left untended," he said, glancing toward the windows as if the stones themselves might weep. "If this is the fruit they bear, then Winterfell's heart has gone black, and all the North will feel the poison in time."

"I did what I must," Sansa said, her voice a quiet steel. "I agreed to buy us time—a sliver of it—nothing more. Time enough to find a way to fight back, or to break their grip before it chokes us all."

"Time, is it?" rumbled Lord Mathis Blackwood, folding his arms across his broad chest. "Time buys nothing if all we do is stand about wringing our hands. What crack are we meant to be waiting for, my lady?"

"For a crack in their armor," Sansa said, her voice low but steady. "A mistake, a weakness... anything we can use. Someone who might tip the scales back in our favor."

"Waiting on miracles is for southron fools," Tormund said, snorting loud enough to stir the smoke. "Better to sharpen your axe and make your own."

"We'll not sit idle and pray for saviors," Meera said, her voice as steady as deep water. "We'll carve our own path, same as we've always done."

The chamber swelled with the hum of low voices, rough and earnest.

Plans were spoken and broken in the same breath, promises traded like oaths before a godswood.

These were not the bright, clean strategies of tourney knights, but the hard-edged schemes of weathered men and women who had seen too many winters.

They spoke of hidden paths and secret banners, of knives in the dark and ravens sent with false seals.

It was the talk of survivors, not dreamers—and every word carried the weight of old blood and cold steel.

Lady Sarra, grim as a stormy cliff, spoke first.

"Send no ravens. Ravens are watched, and fools' words fly faster than wings," she said, her voice sharp as a gull's cry. "We write plain and true, in the old tongue if we must, and we send it by men with knives and sense enough to use 'em."

She leaned closer to the hearth, the firelight catching the deep lines of her weathered face.

"The Blackwoods will answer. The Tullys too, if there's any steel left in their spines. Blood calls to blood, and true hearts don't forget their oaths—not when winter's at the door."

"The Trident runs thick with secrets," Lord Mathis said, his voice low and sure. "Old crossings, known to few now, hidden where willows droop low and the mist clings to the river like a widow's veil. Men could pass unseen there, if they know where to tread and hold their tongues. We'll need those ways soon enough, if we mean to move steel and men without the enemy sniffing it out."

Lord Alaric shifted his weight, the bronze on his cloak catching the firelight. "There are knights yet in the Vale who remember their oaths," he said, his voice like stone grinding on stone. "Old blood, true and stubborn, not so quick to kneel to new crowns. Give me leave, and I’ll stir them from their slumber. Quietly. A whisper here, a summons there—enough to smoke out the snakes Bran's set among us without waking the whole nest."

"There are ways under the Red Keep," Meera said, voice low and certain. "Old tunnels, older than the dragons who built the walls above them. My father taught me their names, their turns and twists, though most southron lords have long forgotten. We can use them—slip beneath their noses, find Brienne before the lions or their pet crows even know we're there."

A spark caught in Sansa's chest, small and trembling, like the first flame coaxed from wet wood. Fragile still, but alive.

"Clever plans have a way of bleeding out," Tyrion said dryly setting his goblet down with a soft clink. "Every hidden tunnel, every secret door—they promise escape one way, and death the other. Pick the wrong end, and you’ll find yourself with a knife in your belly before you see the sun again."

Meera gave a small, fierce smile, the kind you might glimpse on a spearwife before a charge. "Some paths you don’t wait to be shown," she said. "You take the risk because the waiting’s deadlier. Better a knife in the dark than a noose around our necks."

Sansa lifted her chin, the firelight catching the pale line of her jaw. "We'll step where we must," she said, voice soft but steady. "Quiet as shadows, sharp as blades. If we are careful, we live. If we falter, we die. But tread we will, all the same."

The fire popped and hissed in the hearth, filling the heavy silence that hung between them, thick as smoke. No one dared to break it; words, once loosed, could not be gathered back.

Sansa's fingers tightened slightly against the cold stone mantel. "And the North?" she asked, voice low but firm, as if she dared not hope for the answer she needed, yet could not bear to leave it unspoken. "Who holds it now?"

Meera's mouth twisted into a small, proud smile. "LORD Samwell Tarly," she said. "He gave up his chain a moon ago, sent a letter to both the Citadel and Bran himself. Said he wanted to spend his days with Gilly and their little ones, see them grow, see a proper life made."

She paused, her voice steady but low. "That's what he wrote. But those who know him—truly know him—they know better. Sam's not the sort to sit and grow fat by a fire anymore. He's trying to make right what was broken. For himself, aye, but maybe for another too."

Sansa's throat tightened, and for a moment, she could almost see Sam's broad, earnest face—awkward and brave.

Of all men, she trusted him to guard their home. Not for himself, no, but for something larger.

Maybe, she thought, Sam was trying to mend what had been broken between him and Jon, in the only way he knew how.

A part of her dared to hope that, in time, the two old friends might find their way back to each other, and to the brotherhood they had once shared.

Meera tilted her head, the faintest hint of pride glinting in her green eyes. "Maester Wolkan keeps the ravens flying and the ledgers straight, and Ser Jory Cassel holds the gates with steel and sense both."

She gave a small, sure nod. "Sam's no fool. He left the North in strong hands, not soft ones. And the North—the true North—still stands."

A murmur stirred the room, soft and fleeting, like a warm breath on a cold morning—there, and gone again. Relief flickered in a few eyes, but it withered just as quickly, snuffed out by the weight of what still lay ahead.

"There's talk," Lord Harlon spoke, his eyes narrowing to slits. "Whispers blowing down every road, like dead leaves before a storm. Folk hear things, things they ought not—and the smart ones know enough to listen."

"Of what?" Sansa asked, keeping her voice cool, though inside she was a storm of hope and dread. Better to let them speak first, better to listen—for the truth hid in the spaces between a man's words as often as in the words themselves.

A flicker of something—pride, perhaps, or warning—crossed Lady Sarra’s weathered face before she spoke, her voice cool and sharp as the mountain winds. "Your cousin," she said, letting the words hang heavy for a moment, "has made himself a name in the south."

She swept the room with a hard glance, daring any to interrupt. "Dorne sings his praises, or so the whispers tell it. They say he fights like the Sword of the Morning come again, and that his brother, this boy they call Aegon, has bent the knee to him."

Her mouth twisted, half-scornful. "The Viper's sons and the Sand queens shout his name from their broken halls. Whether he is hero or conqueror, none can seem to agree. But make no mistake—he is moving, and the realm stirs with him."

"A king without a crown," Lord Mathis murmured, his voice rough as river stones. He shifted where he stood, the black of his cloak swallowing the firelight. "A shadow in the south, aye, but the blood of the first men runs in his veins. Gods be good, the boy remembers the mud and cold that made him, else he'll be swallowed whole by the sands and silk down there. There's little kindness in southern crowns, and less mercy."

"What'd I tell you, little wolf?" Tormund rumbled, leaning in, the firelight dancing across his wild beard and fierce grin.

His voice thick with pride. "King Crow ain't dead, not by half. Southrons might dress him up in silks and call him pretty names, but he’s still ours where it counts. Blood and bone. He’d come for us if we called. Aye, he'd come like the storm he was born to be."

Fingers tightening against the cold stone, Sansa held her tongue, though every part of her burned to speak.

Fear bound her lips, but it could not smother the fire rising in her chest—a stubborn, smoldering heat that would not be quenched. In the deep places of her heart, the embers stirred and caught, hungry for more.

Far beyond the thick stone walls, beyond the tossing grey seas and the long shadows of their enemies, something shifted—a breath, a murmur, a spark waiting to catch. Hope did not roar, not yet. It moved quiet as a thief in the night, slow and patient, but it was moving all the same.

Soon, my love, Sansa thought, the words a whisper stitched from hope and fear. Be patient. Hold fast. Our time will come.

Jaehaerys

The city stirred below, sluggish and sullen, like some ancient beast dragging out its last breath. Bells tolled thin and wrong, their music brittle as cracked bones. Along the docks, banners hung like torn shrouds, and the ships rocked uneasy in their slips.

Men scurried through the mist, their voices little more than whispers swallowed by the heavy air. Above them, Jaehaerys watched, still and silent, a blade waiting to be drawn, while the morning darkened around him as if the sky itself feared to see what would come.

The mist slithered back as the sun rose, and Oldtown emerged bright and proud beneath the golden light. Its towers stood tall and unmarred, its streets clean and bustling, its harbor fat with ships heavy from trade. There was no war here, no hunger, no scars. It was a city untouched, a city that had grown fat and content while the world burned around it.

And Jaehaerys hated it.

He hated the way life flowed so easily here, hated the laughter that rang from the market stalls, hated the peace that hung over it all like a smug, heavy cloak. He thought of Winterfell—charred and broken, the stones cold and weeping—and he hated Oldtown all the more. It was too perfect, too clean, a city that had forgotten the cost of survival.

It deserved none of what it had kept.

The Hightower loomed above it all, untouched and proud, its pale stone gleaming in the morning light. But to him it looked like a dagger pointed at the heart of the world, a place where old sins festered behind bright walls, and where every stone watched and waited for betrayal.

He recalled Kinvara's words, sharp and strange, when he had pressed her to name the one who had set the knives against him.

"A tower with a flame at its peak. A place of old power and hidden intentions—where shadows walk, and truths are twisted."

And in that moment, the truth had lain bare before him, cruel and bright. Oldtown. Reynold Fucking Hightower.

The letter had come days ago, sealing what he already knew in his bones.

Sansa, promised to Lord Hightower. Promised like a fine horse at market, a prize to be bought and broken.

Sold to a house fattened on years of peace, to a man who had never known the true cost of survival—and would never love her as he did.

The knowledge twisted inside him, a hot and blinding thing. His hands shook at his sides. His mouth tasted of ash and fury.

And Bran—or the thing that wore Bran's face—had stood aside, cold and watching, while it was done. As if blood and oaths meant nothing. As if brotherhood was only another lie whispered by a dead thing in a dead tree.

The guilt gnawed at him anew, sharp and merciless. He thought of Daenerys—her silver hair spread like a banner across the stones, her eyes wide with a hurt that would never heal. He had called it mercy, called it love, as he drove the dagger in. But no song, no prayer, no lie could wash the blood from his hands. Had he traded one betrayal for another? Had he learned nothing?

The past closed around him like a noose, tightening with every breath.

The wind shifted, carrying with it a sound he could not name—a low, pulsing whisper, as if the city itself called out for deliverance, or damnation. Beneath Oldtown, something ancient and terrible stirred. Drogon rumbled, deep and low, scales scraping stone, smoke seeping from his jaws like a promise of fire yet to come.

The sky thickened, bruised and roiling. The river festered, its waters black with unseen filth. Even the stones seemed to tremble, as if the earth itself remembered what dragons meant.

A woman screamed, sharp and sudden, and somewhere far off a bell shattered mid-peal, its sound breaking the morning like a bone snapped in two.

Jaehaerys moved without thought, climbing onto Drogon's back. The saddle groaned under the weight of him, of all the fury and grief he carried. His hand closed on the worn leather, and his breath misted before him, each exhale a ghost rising into the heavy air.

He felt it rising, a storm older than gods, terrible and vast. He was not Jon Snow now. He was fire made flesh, a storm in a man's skin, and he would not be stayed.

He laid his palm flat against Drogon's side, feeling the slow thunder of the beast's heart.

A single word formed on his tongue, thick with grief, with rage, with love. It burned in his mouth like a live coal. For a heartbeat, he held it there, trembling on the edge—then he let it fall, a broken whisper in High Valyrian, a curse and a command all at once.

The wind caught it and carried it down into the sleeping city. Somewhere, far below, the stones of Oldtown began to crack. And then—the world held its breath.

A sound like the breaking of the world rumbled through the mist.

Somewhere inside him, the boy wept. But the dragon did not.

Chapter Text

Jaehaerys

The sky darkened in an instant, as if some great hand had snuffed out the sun. All Oldtown looked up and saw it: a monstrous spread of black wings blotting the light, the shadow of death itself descending. For a heartbeat the city seemed to forget how to breathe, the only sound the frantic tolling of bells and the whisper of prayer on trembling lips.

Then the black dread reborn came down like a falling star, and the Citadel shuddered beneath him. The old stones groaned and cracked, bells screamed high and shrill from a hundred towers, and men fled like ants from a kicked nest.

Maesters stumbled into the light, their faces pale and slack with terror, their heavy robes snapping in the hot gusts thrown up by the dragon's wings. Some wept. Some prayed. A few simply stood and stared, too frightened to move.

No swords were drawn that day. They needed none. Jaehaerys had said it plain: terror would serve him better than slaughter.

He swung down from Drogon's broad back, boots grinding against the time-smoothed stones of the Citadel's rooftop.

The wind tore at his raven black hair, whipping it around his face like a living thing. On his hip he carried Longclaw, its dark blade drinking the afternoon light, casting a shadow long and jagged across the trembling maesters gathered below.

His voice was low, but it cut through the howling wind and the distant cries as surely as any sword. "Take me to the Seneschal," he commanded, and the maesters flinched as if the words themselves had weight enough to break bone.

Fear moved faster than thought. Before the hour was out, a cluster of gray-robed maesters came stumbling from the Citadel's deeper halls, chains of office rattling with every tremble of their hands.

None dared meet Jaehaerys's eyes.

Wordlessly, as if drawn by a rope they could not see nor sever, they led him down spiraling stone stairs, through torchlit corridors heavy with dust and dread, toward the chambers of the Seneschal — Archmaester Theobald, the keeper of the Citadel's final secrets.

Behind the heavy oaken door, Archmaester Theobald awaited him, his chain of many metals gleaming dully in the firelight. A gaunt man, but steady, his eyes sharp behind folds of age.

"Only the gods themselves could have written your story," Theobald said, folding his hands atop a dusty tome. His voice was grave, but not unkind. "A boy born in the shadow of a great war, raised as a bastard, dragged back from death itself—only to be a prince all along."

He inclined his head with quiet respect. "Samwell Tarly spoke often and fondly of you. A man of honor, he called you. A man who bore burdens others would not."

His sharp eyes did not waver from Jaehaerys. "I have read much, heard more, and I have come to my own judgment. I hold respect for you, Jaehaerys Targaryen."

Jaehaerys said nothing. He watched him for a long moment, weighing him as a maester might weigh a rare and dangerous specimen.

"Yet here you stand, with a dragon at your back," the archmaester said at last, his voice calm but touched by a sorrow deeper than fear. "Have you come to rip open old wounds, Prince Jaehaerys? To lay bare the bones we buried long ago, when the world was young and the blood was fresh upon the ground?"

"I have not come to rain fire and blood upon you," Jaehaerys said, his voice low but steady, the words falling like stones into a silent hall. "I come seeking help."

"I know the Citadel and Oldtown are older than any king's crown, older than any house or throne. You have seen what others have forgotten, kept truths buried while kingdoms rose and fell."

"There are whispers of a power older still, a thing called the Three-Eyed Raven. A corruption that wears....a boy's face and calls itself king." He stepped closer. " I need what you know, archmaester. If there is any scrap of knowledge you have—a map, a tale, a warning—I must have it."

"I seek to save the realm," he continued, his voice low and rough, the weight of the words settling between them like a drawn sword. "Not for glory. Not for crowns or songs. Help me, archmaester, and you may yet save yourselves as well."

He met Theobald's gaze and held it, unblinking, as if daring the old man to look away first.

The archmaester inclined his head, grave and slow, as if weighing the very fate of the Citadel on the motion. "Not all knowledge is fit for light, my prince. But some burdens cannot be refused. Follow me."

He then led Jaehaerys on, his lantern casting long, trembling shadows across the narrow stone passages. The deeper they went, the colder it grew, as if the warmth of the world above could not reach so far below.

They passed beneath vaulted ceilings heavy with dust and through halls lined with crumbling scrolls, past doors so old and ironbound they seemed more like tombs than thresholds.

The silence pressed down, thick and suffocating. Even the stones seemed to whisper beneath their boots, murmuring of secrets best left buried and sins too old for memory.

The vaults lay deeper than he had dreamed, older than dust, perhaps older than memory itself. Jaehaerys paused beneath a low arch of blackened stone, staring into the dark beyond, and felt the weight of centuries pressing down on his shoulders.

Here, the air was thick with secrets too heavy for daylight. He found himself wondering, not for the first time, if even Sam had known this place existed. Somehow, he doubted it.

The archmaester moved with reverent caution, lifting one ancient scroll after another as though they might crumble to ash at a breath. "This place," he said softly, his voice echoing off the damp stone, "was carved into the bedrock of Oldtown long before the Hightowers raised their spire, long before Aegon dreamt of conquest. Here lie the truths we dared not name aloud. Some were buried for fear, others for pride, and some for mercy."

He ran a finger along a shelf lined with tomes bound in flayed leather, their spines cracked with age and dark promise. "Charts of blood, you see—names erased, lines redrawn. A thousand lies sewn into the fabric of history, each one a stitch to hide the same wound."

The prince said nothing, but his jaw clenched as his eyes continued to roam the vault.

Theobald turned to him, eyes hollow but clear. "And always, always there was the mark. A hand unseen, reaching through the ages. I do not know whether this...thing writes the world or merely reads it, but either way, his touch is everywhere. And now, it seems, he has stepped out from shadow into flesh."

"There must be something," Jaehaerys said, his voice raw, barely above a whisper. "Some scroll, some ancient scrap of ink and hide that holds even the faintest hint... anything that might tell me how to stop what—," he paused briefly to gather himself as he thought of Bran. "...my cousin has become."

Theobald looked upon him not with fear, but with something gentler—understanding, perhaps, or sorrow. "If there is anything in all the Citadel that might help you," he said quietly, "it will be here. Of that, I have no doubt."

He placed a wrinkled hand on a nearby table, the wood scarred by age and candleburn, and gestured to the tomes stacked high as a man's chest. "These old bones have not forgotten how to search. Let us begin."

Together, they turned to the ancient scrolls, the dust, the dark. And the long silence of the dead things buried there was broken by the rustle of parchment and the flickering of hope.

The great doors of the Citadel groaned as they opened, their ancient hinges wailing like ghosts disturbed from centuries of slumber. Jaehaerys stepped into the waning light, cradling a heavy tome against his chest. Its cracked leather cover was scrawled with runes so old even the Citadel had forgotten their meaning.

Behind him, the archmaester emerged with slow, measured steps. And a line of maesters followed, grave and silent. Their faces were pale, their eyes hollow, as if each had stared too long into something they could not unsee.

Drogon had left as he always did—wordlessly, with wings like thunder and fire in his breath. After dropping Jaehaerys atop the Citadel, the dragon had climbed the skies in a spiral of smoke and vanished toward the hills beyond the city. The silence he left in his wake clung to the stones like a shroud.

Drogon had flown to a hill just beyond the city walls, where he now watched in silence, unseen but not unfelt. Jaehaerys could still sense him—a heat just at the edge of thought, a pulse behind the clouds. The great beast had not gone far.

With the dragon no longer looming overhead, the people of Oldtown had begun to appear. First came a few, blinking and uncertain, then dozens, then hundreds more. Now a tide of faces filled the square—farmers and goldcloaks, bakers and beggars, babes clutched to breasts, and greybeards leaning on sticks—all looking up at the steps of the Citadel with wide, fearful eyes.

Jaehaerys stood motionless at the top of the steps, the tome cradled close, its weight nothing compared to the eyes pressing down on him from below.

The wind caught his cloak and set it fluttering like a banner, but he did not move. He could feel every stare, every breath held in anxious silence, the unspoken question hanging in the air: what now?

They're waiting for a speech, he told himself, and the thought settled in his chest like cold iron. Not a cheer, not a chant—just stillness. A silence packed so full of fear and hope it felt ready to break.

He had never been one for speeches. That had always been Daenerys, blazing with fire and fury, her words as fierce as her dragons. Or Robb, whose calm, steady voice could still a hall and command hearts before he ever sat a throne.

As for him, he had been the blade in the snow. The watcher in the night. The man who carried burdens in silence and let others speak the hopes of men.

He drew in a slow breath, let it out through his nose. The tome in his arms felt heavier now, not from weight but from the memory it carried. His knuckles whitened around the worn leather.

Jon Snow would have stood silent. But Jon Snow is ashes now.

I am Jaehaerys Targaryen. And they deserve the truth.

He took a step forward, and the sound of it echoed off the stone like a challenge. The murmurs died, and even the wind seemed to still. For one breathless moment, all of Oldtown watched in silence, as if the city itself dared not exhale.

"People of Oldtown," he called, his voice steady as stone, carrying clear across the square. "I am no conqueror. I have not come for your coin, nor your homes, nor for your lives."

He held the book close to his chest, as if drawing strength from its worn spine. "I have come for truth—truth buried in shadow, truth forgotten or cast aside. And I will not let it be buried again."

The wind stirred, soft as breath against the stone. Somewhere far off, a bell tolled once, lonely and low, as though the city itself were holding vigil. The sound rang through the silence like a knell for what had been—and what might yet come.

"You may have once known me as Jon Snow, Ned Stark's bastard," Jaehaerys began, his voice calm but resolute. "But that was never the truth of me. My name, my true name is Jaehaerys Targaryen, trueborn son of prince Rhaegar of House Targaryen and lady Lyanna of House Stark."

He let the words hang there. Let them settle over the crowd like dust from a broken wall. Some gasped, others whispered.

"And aye, I was there the day, my aunt, Daenerys burned King’s Landing," he continued, his tone darkening. "And was exiled for what I did in the aftermath. I am no saint, I'm kinslayer, a traitor to many for allowing the free folk south, but all my actions, no matter how foolish in the eyes of others, were always done for the good of the realm. But the man who sits the Iron Throne now is no true king nor is he a man at all. You may have heard the rumors from King’s Landing—the disappearances, the dread, the silence. That darkness is real. And it wears the face of a boy named Bran."

He let the name echo. "He is the Three-Eyed Raven. And your own Lord Paramount, serves him."

A voice called out from the crowd, sharp and angry. "He is our king! Lord Hightower swore fealty to him!"

Jaehaerys raised a hand. "Aerys was once king too. Did you agree with his fire and madness?" Heads began to shake. "And Cersei. She wore the crown, yet you would not call her just. A crown does not sanctify the rot beneath it."

He stepped down a step, closer to them now. "My brother Aegon has landed in Dorne. House Targaryen has returned not to rule, but to free the realm from the shadow that wears a king’s name. In King’s Landing, ravens tear out the tongues of those who whisper truth. Mothers hide their children from the eyes in the sky. This is not rule. This is ruin."

He paused, his eyes taking in the people's reaction.

"I could have burned Oldtown." he said quietly.

"Why would you do that?" a child’s voice rose, tremulous.

He thought then of Sansa—of how Lord Hightower had forced her hand in marriage, a political noose dressed in silk. He did not speak it aloud, not yet, but the memory seethed beneath his skin like a buried ember.

Instead, he turned to look at the child. "Because your lord has tried to have me killed. Twice."

The crowd shifted, murmured, turned unsettled. Faces twisted in shock, in disbelief, in dawning anger.

"But I am not my grandfather Aerys. Nor am I, my aunt," he said. "Yes, I am a Targaryen by title and blod. But I was raised by the most honorable man Westeros ever knew—Ned Stark."

That name—Stark—washed over the square like a cleansing wind. Heads nodded. Even the skeptical held their tongues.

"Help me stand against your lord," he said. "For he has not only tried to take my life—he has taken my kin. My cousin, Sansa Stark, the Queen in the North, has been made a prisoner by Lord Hightower and the creature he serves."

Gasps rose in the crowd, some angry, some stunned.

"If they would do this to a queen," he continued, his voice rising, "what do you think they would do to you? To your sons? Your daughters?"

He let the silence speak for them.

"I will not promise you peace without cost," he said. "But I can promise you this—a fight worth waging. A realm free of shadows. A future not built on silence and fear."

"Help me end this," he said again. "Help me make the world right again."

For a long moment, no one moved. Then, one man bent the knee. A woman followed. And another.

Then it spread, a tide of knees lowering to stone, until the square bowed before him.

He stood frozen, the weight of it hitting harder than any sword. He had not come to be crowned.

But the people had chosen their prince.

Sansa

"The raven came at dawn," Ser Borros said, his voice taut with unease. He stepped forward and placed the sealed message before Lord Hightower as though delivering a curse.

The council chamber had always held the scent of lavender and smoke, a faint trace of the old queen’s presence. But today it stank of fear, sharp and sour beneath the perfumes. The Raven and Hightower banners drooped like condemned men, and the stone walls seemed to close in around them, heavy as a crypt.

Lord Reynold slit the seal with a blade that trembled ever so slightly in his grip. He unfolded the parchment slowly, each crackle of the waxy paper loud in the hush. His jaw twitched, once, like a muscle remembering how to clench before the storm.

"Oldtown bends the knee," he said, the words stiff and heavy on his tongue. "To Jaehaerys of House Targaryen." His eyes scanned the parchment once more, as though reading it again might change the truth. A beat passed in silence—then came the fury, rising in him like wildfire uncorked.

"Lies!" Reynold roared, rising so violently his chair crashed behind him with a clatter. "My city? My blood? Bending the knee to a bastard on the back of a beast who has chosen to take on a new name?"

He jabbed a trembling finger at the parchment. "This is not submission. It's treachery. A moment of fear mistaken for loyalty!"

He slammed the parchment to the table with a crack that rang like judgment. "What did he offer them? Gold? Titles? Or just fire and wings in the sky?"

"Gods be damned fools. They kneel not from loyalty, but because they’ve forgotten what it means to stand." Reynold sneered, voice thick with disdain.

"They kneel because they saw something we have not given them in years—hope," Lady Sarra said, her voice ringing clear across the table. "And it wasn't born of gold or fear, but of a truth too strong to silence. You've aided in choking the realm, Lord Hightower. As has the 'King' one decree, one demand, one dead voice at a time."

"Hope?" Reynold spat, his boots striking the stone with angry purpose as he crossed the chamber toward Lady Sarra. His hand twitched at his side, and for a flicker of a moment, it looked as though he might raise it—but too many eyes, too many swords, held him back.

"They saw fire on wings," he snarled. "Superstition dressed as salvation. Terror cloaked in silver and flame. That's all it ever is."

"They saw truth," said Ser Royce, his voice low but firm. "And truth cuts deeper than swords, deeper than fear. People follow what gives them a chance to live, not just the banner that flies above their roofs."

Lord Merryweather slapped a hand on the table, making the goblets rattle. "This changes everything," he said, his brow furrowed, voice thick with unease. "We step wrong here, and the whole realm may shatter beneath us. We must tread carefully."

"Carefully?" Reynold snapped, his voice rising like a drawn whip. "You think the Targaryens sit in their tents sipping wine while we fumble about with caution and council quills? They'll be on our walls before the ink dries, and you're worried about careful?!"

Sansa sat at the far end of the table, still as stone, though her heart thundered loud enough she thought the whole chamber might hear it. Jaehaerys… he’s alive. He’s coming.

A warmth bloomed behind her ribs, wild and dangerous—hope. She dared to imagine escape, salvation, a face she trusted cutting through the shadows of this place.

But before the thought could root itself, Reynold's bark shattered it like glass under boot.

"We press the wedding," he growled, his voice thick with menace. "Two days. No more. The North must be locked down before that dragon flies again, before his name turns into banners and blades."

"Two days?" Lord Harlon said, blinking in disbelief. "That’s madness. You can’t summon the North’s loyalty with a hasty feast and hollow vows."

He leaned forward, his voice rising. "This is no time for rushed pageantry. Even a symbolic union needs time to breathe, or it reeks of desperation."

"Symbolic?" Reynold scoffed, each syllable dripping with scorn. "This isn't a dance or a feast, it's war dressed in silk. She marries, the North unifies with us—that is the only strategy that matters now."

"You’ll start a rebellion," Meera warned, her voice hard as steel. "The North remembers. We will not accept this farce of a wedding or the chains you dress in velvet."

"Not if their queen is with us!" Reynold bellowed, slamming his fist on the table. "They wouldn’t dare raise a blade if it risked the life of their precious queen."

He turned toward her then, his eyes crawling over her like oil across still water. She stiffened beneath his gaze, sickened by the hunger in it, her spine prickling as if a thousand spiders had begun to crawl.

Tyrion leaned forward, his voice cool as autumn steel, cutting through the tension. "Tell me, Lord Hightower—what if they do not wait? What if Jaehaerys and his dragon reach the gates before the vows are spoken, before the ink on your betrayal has dried?"

He didn't raise his voice, but his words sliced sharp enough to draw blood. "What song will you sing then?"

"They always did say you were a clever man, Lord Tyrion," Reynold said, his voice smoother now as he finally tore his eyes away from Sansa.

He leaned back in his chair, feigning calm. "He wouldn’t risk the lives of the people of King’s Landing again, would he? Not after the last firestorm. Or has the bastard learned more than we care to admit from his aunt?"

He leaned back in his chair, the motion slow, deliberate, as if trying to ease away from the memory clawing at him. Tyrion’s gaze dropped to the table, the fire in his eyes dimming beneath the weight of ash and screams long past. His tongue stayed behind his teeth, but the silence said what pride could not.

"You speak like a man swinging blindly in the dark," said Lord Mathis, his voice steady but cold. "And the way you flail, it won’t be long before you tumble headlong off the cliff you refuse to see."

"Silence, all of you," Reynold snapped, his voice cutting through the clamor like a lash. "The girl will wed, and the North will follow her chains like dogs on a leash. This council is not a democracy—it is war, and I will not have it steered by sentiment."

She met Reynold's stare without blinking. "You shame the realm with this farce. You shame yourselves."

Reynold rounded on her, his eyes dark with contempt. "You will do as commanded, Your Grace," he said, the title twisted into mockery. "Here, you wear a crown, not a choice."

Meera surged to her feet, the scrape of her chair sharp as a drawn blade. Her hand went to the dagger at her hip. "Lay so much as a finger on her," she said, her voice cold and clear, "and I'll take your hand and feed it to the rats before nightfall."

"Enough!" barked Ser Borros, rising so abruptly his chair scraped against the stone. "This is a council, not a brawl in a tavern yard."

But the shouting resumed, louder this time, voices scraping over one another like steel in a forge. Accusations flew like daggers—treason, madness, cowardice. Pleas bled into threats, and warnings fell on deaf ears as tempers snapped, and alliances frayed.

It was no longer a council. It was a battlefield in words, teetering on the edge of swords.

Then came the voice.

"Enough!"

It came from the King, but it was not the soft, distant murmur they had come to know. This voice cracked like thunder and rattled the bones of every man and woman in the chamber. It scraped into the marrow and lingered there, ancient and vast, as if something older than Bran that had spoken through his lips.

A chill swept through the hall like a shadow passing over the sun. Even the bravest held their breath.

"Enough," he repeated, though this time the word came quieter, but no less heavy. It rang through the air like a tolling bell, final and solemn. A silence settled once more, not out of respect—but fear.

Everyone froze. Reynold’s lips parted, but whatever venom he’d meant to spit died in his throat. The room was held fast, as if even the stones feared what had just stirred inside their king.

The king blinked once, then again, as if settling back into a skin that no longer quite fit. Calm slid over his features like a mask, thin and fragile, hiding the thing that had just spoken through him. "The wedding will take place in two days," he said, his tone flat but final.

"We must act before the winds change."

The words hung heavy, a final nail hammered into a coffin none dared admit they were building. The room fell into silence—not stunned but shaken.

Reynold’s smirk returned, smug and glistening with mockery. He turned to Bran, tilting his head slightly as if tasting the tension in the room. "So, tell us, Your Grace," he drawled, each word slick as spilled wine, "where is the bastard now? Hiding behind wings and fake names, or has he flown back to Dorne?"

"I cannot see him," he said his gaze drifted, lost.

Gasps cracked the silence like a hammer to thin ice. Grand Maester Belden leaned forward, his voice tight with confusion and dread. "What do you mean, Your Grace? You  see everything."

Bran did not answer, but Sansa smiled.

For the first time in too long—she smiled.

Night fell heavy upon King’s Landing, draping its towers and alleys in a shroud of dread. Deep beneath the Red Keep, in a chamber colder than the stones around it, hushed voices passed like ghosts through the gloom. Sansa Stark stood at the center, surrounded by Northern lords and ladies—Lord Glover, Lady Sarra, Ser Mollen—their faces drawn and pale in the flicker of candlelight, their eyes full of questions no one dared speak aloud.

Tyrion stood among them, arms folded tight, his brow furrowed as if each wrinkle marked a failed path. He muttered to himself now and then, weighing risks against certainties, none of them pleasant.

By the door, Tormund paced like a caged beast, thick arms twitching, eyes already half in the fight to come.

“We might yet find passage through the postern gate,” Lady Sarra said, her tone carefully measured, like one raised among court and consequence. “Or perhaps the kitchens, should we contrive a distraction fitting enough to draw their watchful eyes away.”

She paused, eyes narrowing thoughtfully as the candlelight danced along the chamber walls. "A fire," she murmured, her tone calm but precise. "Not a mere flicker, but something bold and terrible. A blaze so great they might believe even the stones of this castle have risen against them."

“Every gate will be barred or watched by now,” said Ser Benric, with a measured certainty that spoke of years in council halls and war rooms. “Lord Hightower is no common lordling. If he had the means, I daresay he’d stitch eyes into the very walls of the Keep.”

"We climb the wall, cut a few throats, grab some horses," Tormund said with a grunt, his grin as wild as the North wind. "Done worse on colder nights, and here I am, still pissing in the snow." He folded his arms, every inch the free folk warrior, itching for blood.

“No,” Sansa said, her voice calm, but laced with steel. All eyes turned to her, the room hushed as if the stones themselves had gone quiet. “We will not go anywhere until Brienne is free.”

The room fell to hush. "Your grace," said Lord Blackwood with a trace of sorrow in his voice, "you carry the hope of the North on your shoulders, and your safety must not be bartered. I dare say Ser Brienne herself would have spoken the same, were she standing with us now."

“She is more than a sword to me, and I will not forsake her, not while I still draw breath.” Sansa said softly, though her voice did not tremble. “She remained behind for me, to stand when others fled. I will not leave her in darkness, not to save myself, nor for any throne in all the Seven Kingdoms.”

A silence passed between them, broken only by the rustle of fabric and faint crackle of flame. Lords exchanged wary glances, heads dipped in reluctant accord. Then Tyrion stepped forward, wordless, and drew a small ring of keys from his sleeve, their metal glinting like secrets in the candlelight.

“She is the black cells,” Tyrion said with a grimace. “A wretched place, even by this city’s standards. But I know the way, every dank turn and forgotten stair."

He held up the ring of keys, their metal winking like mocking stars in the candlelight. “And these,” he said dryly, “may not win us a war, but they just might be enough to keep us breathing until morning. Gods willing, or not.”

The next evening, after every route was argued and every escape counted and costed, they moved. Sansa walked in silence beneath the Red Keep with Meera, Tormund, and Ghost, cloaked in shadow and grim purpose. The tunnels swallowed their footfalls, stone damp and cold.

Meera led, eyes keen as a hawk's, swift and sure in the dark. Tormund lumbered behind her, axe loose in hand, steps heavy despite his care. They met two guards—there were always guards—and they died quick: one with Meera's blade to the throat, the other with his neck snapped in Tormund’s crushing grip.

Down winding stairs slick with damp, past iron bars and the stink of rot, they found her at last. In the lowest cell, where the light dared not linger, Brienne of Tarth sat slumped against the wall. Her wrists were chained, her face battered, but her eyes—gods, her eyes—still burned with quiet fury and life.

“Sansa?” Brienne rasped, her voice rough with pain and disbelief. The name left her lips like a prayer, one half-remembered from dreams. She blinked, and in that blink, steadied herself, as if the sight of the girl she'd sworn to protect had lent her strength.

Sansa knelt beside her, brushing a blood-matted lock of hair from Brienne's face. “You’re safe now,” she said, her voice low but steady, as if saying it might make it true. “No more darkness. Not while I draw breath.”

“I should have been stronger,” Brienne murmured, shame curling her words. “It was my charge to keep you safe, and I failed.”

“You swore an oath, and bore its weight with pain,” Sansa said softly, as she unlocked the chains. “There is nothing to forgive, Brienne.”

The chains clattered to the floor. Brienne rose slowly, her limbs stiff and unsteady, swaying like a mast in storm winds. When Sansa and Tormund reached to steady her, she felt the iron resolve still pulsing beneath battered skin—a knight's strength, not yet broken.

“Still got some bear in you, woman?” Tormund rumbled with a crooked grin, his eyes gleaming in the gloom. “Sword's yours, and the bastards ahead won't know what gutted 'em.”

Brienne gave a weary nod, her mouth curling into something close to a grin. She wrapped her fingers around Oathkeeper's hilt like a drowning woman finding land. Muscles long bound by chains groaned in protest, but the weight of her sword steadied her all the same.

They slipped into the night like shadows fleeing a flame. For a moment, all was still—then the horns sounded, long and low, echoing off stone walls like the cry of some ancient beast. Sansa's breath caught in her throat as the call shivered through the darkness, a signal of blood to come.

The gates of the Red Keep erupted in chaos. Northern soldiers clashed with Goldcloaks and Reachmen, blades flashing beneath moonlight. Screams tore through the air, steel against steel.

Meera ducked behind the crumbled edge of a wall, her breath misting in the chill. "Could be the horns we prayed for," she said, voice low as wet leaves rustling. "Or the ones that'll bury us right here, under stone and steel."

"That's no feast horn, I know that much. Blood's coming, sure as winter—just hope it's not ours staining these pretty southern stones." Tormund said as he spat on the stones, his lips curling into a grim grin.

"Whatever those horns mean, we must move—now," Sansa said, her voice tight with urgency. "The gates won’t wait for us, and neither will the knives behind them."

Brienne turned sharply toward the sound, her jaw clenched, eyes sharp and steady. "We have lingered long enough," she said, voice like a drawn blade. "Stay close, keep alert, and let no steel find your back."

They fled through blood-slick streets, boots slipping on gore-slicked cobblestones, the din of battle rising behind them like a storm tide. With each step, the clash of steel grew louder, closer. Ghost sprang first, jaws clamping around the throat of a Reachman, dragging him down in a silent flurry.

Tormund swung his axe in a wide arc, splitting helm and skull alike as a Goldcloak lunged toward Sansa. Brienne's blade flashed next, swift and sure, cutting down a soldier who had broken from the chaos. Meera drove her spear clean through a guard who tried to bar their way.

Sansa kept close, unarmed, her breath ragged with fear and fury as the others cleared a bloodied path to the stables. There, Tyrion stood with the horses, reins in hand, Ghost came up panting beside him, muzzle red, a low growl rumbling in his throat like thunder before a tempest.

“Bran has summoned more than whispers and riddles now,” Tyrion said, voice grim, eyes flicking to the chaos behind them.

As if summoned by dark magic, the Unsullied poured into the streets, silent as grave winds, their ranks unbending, their spears gleaming like a sea of steel. The air turned thick with death. Northern men fought like wolves cornered, but numbers and discipline soon began to carve red ruin through their line.

And then came Grey Worm, striding through the smoke like a shadow given flesh. His eyes found Sansa and did not waver, glowing with a fury hotter than any forge. Hate burned in him, old and deep, and when he spoke, it was not to them, but to his soldiers, sharp Valyrian snapping through the air like a whip.

The Unsullied surged forward as one, silent and implacable, their spears a forest of steel, boots hammering stone in eerie unison. The sound echoed off the walls like a funeral drumbeat, relentless and grim. Their advance crashed upon the stable yard like a storm at sea, sudden and merciless—only to meet a ragged but unyielding line of Northern steel, the last of the wolf's pack baring fangs for their dying stand.

“Move your feet!” Brienne barked, voice cutting through the chaos like steel through flesh.

Sansa reached for her mare, her fingers just grazing the reins when a hand like iron clamped around her arm. Grey Worm yanked her from the saddle with the cold fury of a man who had waited too long to strike. She hit the ground hard, the breath driven from her lungs as his grip tightened, dragging her through mud and blood alike.

“Sansa!” Brienne bellowed, her voice hoarse with fear and fury.

Tormund let out a roar and barreled forward, shoulder-first, crashing into Grey Worm with the force of a charging aurochs. The Unsullied commander flew backward, colliding with a stack of barrels that burst apart with a thunderous crack.

Without missing a breath, Tormund turned, lifting Sansa around the waist, and heaved her onto the mare's saddle with rough care.

“Ride, girl!” he bellowed. “Straight south—don’t stop till the wind tastes of fire and freedom!”

“You’ve seen enough stone and shadow, haven’t you?” Meera called, urgency sharpening her words. “Ride with us, before this place swallows you whole!”

“I'll hold 'em off. No better way to go than with blood on my axe and fire in my beard.” Tormund grinned, a wild glint in his eye, blood already painting his teeth. He turned to Sansa, voice low but fierce. “Tell the little crow... he was the only king this wildling ever knelt to.”

Sansa’s face was wet with tears, the taste of salt on her lips as the horses pounded into the blackness of night. She did not look back—not at first. But then came the scream, sharp and raw, a sound that cleaved the wind like a blade.

She turned just in time to see Tormund engulfed by spears, his great body brought down beneath a ring of bronze and blood. Grey Worm stood among them, his blade red, his face a mask of fury and silence. A sob broke loose from Sansa’s chest, shattering whatever strength she’d clung to.

Clutching the reins, she rode on, the wind tearing past her like mourning ghosts. Tyrion kept beside her, his face pale and set, Brienne and Meera close behind with fire in their eyes and blood on her swords. Ghost limped after them, flanks heaving, his white coat streaked with red.

The gates of King’s Landing fell away behind them, swallowed by fire and chaos. South they rode—away from darkness, toward something not yet known. Not only escape.

Justice. Vengeance. Hope.

Chapter Text

Aegon

Location: Sunspear, the Water Gardens

The late Dornish sun bled gold across the Water Gardens, washing the marble in molten light. The air was thick with the mingled scents of lemons and salt, carried inland on a slow, warm breeze from the Narrow Sea. Sunlight broke into a thousand shards across the still pools, flashing gold against the white stone. Somewhere in the shaded arcade, a musician plucked a low, mournful tune, the sound drifting lazily before the wind carried it away.

Children laughed in the distance, splashing in the shallows where the water was cool, their voices bright and thoughtless. It was a cruel sort of contrast—this easy joy beneath painted tiles—when the realm beyond the desert winds was coiled tight around its own throat.

The raven had come at first light; wings dusted with sea mist. Its cage still sat on the low table beside him, the door left open though the bird had not yet flown. The parchment it had carried lay unrolled, its wax seal cracked, a half-drained goblet of summer wine weighing it flat.

Oldtown bends the knee to Jaehaerys of House Targaryen.

Aegon’s gaze lingered on the words, not with surprise but with quiet, measured satisfaction. His brother had done it—stood before the Citadel with the black dread coiled above and turned a city’s fear into fealty without a single drop of blood spilled. The Reach’s southern heart was his now, and the echo of that surrender would carry up the Mander and into every hall that doubted their cause.

Boots scuffed lightly on the pale tiles behind him. Ser Qoren Fowler approached, helm under his arm, his dark hair stirred by the breeze. “The Martells are content,” he reported. “They believe the Reach’s fracture favors us.”

“They’re not wrong,” Aegon said, his tone even. “But they also believe distance will shield them from the fire to come. It won’t.”

Qoren studied him. “Then where do we press next?”

“The North,” Aegon replied without hesitation. “Sansa Stark is more than the North’s queen—she’s blood. If we can find a way to bind her to us, before that thing or Reynold can, we tip the balance while there’s still a board to play on.”

He leaned back in his chair, eyes on the shimmering pools. “Pieces don’t move themselves, Qoren. You place them, or you’re swept from the table.”

There was a pause, then Aegon shifted his gaze to his knight. “Tell me honestly—what do you think of my plan for Jaehaerys and Arianne?”

Qoren hesitated, caught between loyalty and candor. “It’s bold. Dorne’s pride is in its independence—tying them to you by blood could steady that loyalty… or sour it if handled poorly.”

Aegon gave a thin smile. “Jaehaerys thinks I’m selling him off. He’s not wrong, in part. We’re all pieces—him, me, Arianne, even Trystane. The difference is whether we choose where we move or let someone else do it for us.”

“And why not you?” Qoren asked, voice level.

Aegon’s gaze wandered toward the lemon trees, their branches restless in the breeze. “There was a time I thought it was meant for me. Back in Essos, I’d sneak into the cellar and put on my mother’s crown when no one was watching. Practiced speeches in the dark, imagined myself on the Iron Throne—saving the realm, ruling justly, all that nonsense boys believe.”

He gave a low laugh, but there was no joy in it. “Then came the stories. A man at the edge of the world who faced death and didn’t flinch. Who united enemies without a throne beneath him, who led not with fear but with something rarer—honor. He didn’t chase power. And yet it followed him.”

Aegon turned back to Qoren, voice steady. “That man is my brother. Jon once told me our father believed I was the prince that was promised. But he was wrong. It’s Jaehaerys.”

Qoren studied him a moment longer, then inclined his head. “If you believe that, then this match could be more than strategy—it could be the spine of a united realm.”

Aegon’s smile returned, faint but sharp. “That’s the idea.”

He rose then, the breeze catching the pale silk of his sleeve, and the scent of crushed lemon leaves followed him into the colonnade. As he stepped from the garden’s warmth into the cool hush of shade, Aegon turned toward the west, eyes lifting beyond the palace walls, beyond the Dornish hills. He could almost see it: Jaehaerys atop the Citadel steps, cloak snapping sharp in the wind, Drogon still as carved obsidian above the city. Oldtown bowed, not broken. His brother had taken it without a blade drawn. And in Aegon’s chest, pride bloomed fierce and full. He did it.

Whatever came next, the board would change again. And they would meet it together.

But as he crossed into the shadowed hall, a colder thought slipped in. If he reached for Sansa too soon, Bran might see the hand before it moved. And when the Three-Eyed Raven saw a piece in motion, he rarely let it survive the game.

Sansa

Location: The Kingswood, en route to Storm’s End

The Kingswood was a world of shadow and gold, its ancient canopy stitched so tightly that sunlight bled through in thin, shifting spears. The air was cool, carrying the smell of damp earth and moss, tinged with the faint sweetness of early spring blossoms. Each hoofbeat sank into soft loam, muffled as though the forest itself was listening.

Sansa rode near the middle of the column, flanked by Brienne and Tyrion. Meera kept to the fore, Ghost padding silently at her side—his white fur a ghost-light against the dark undergrowth, every so often rippling as his muscles tensed at a sound only he heard. The Northern lords and ladies who had escaped King’s Landing followed close, their faces pale from exhaustion, their silence as heavy as the cloaks pulled tight around their shoulders.

Since stepping into that cursed city at Bran’s behest—not as her brother, but as the Three-Eyed Raven—everything had unraveled with a precision that felt almost fated. Brienne taken. Robin threatened. The knife hidden behind Lord Hightower’s courtly smile pressed against her every breath.

Her gloved fingers tightened on the reins until the leather creaked. She’d thought herself long past the folly of trusting too easily. She should have known better than to mistake Reynold’s attentions for anything, but ambition dressed as affection. She’d seen it before—in Joffrey’s golden cruelty, in Littlefinger’s veiled greed, in Ramsay’s monstrous hunger. She should have recognized it the moment Reynold’s gaze lingered too long, the moment his words coiled in her ear like smoke.

Instead, she’d let herself believe—just for a breath—that he could be an ally, perhaps even a friend. The memory burned hot in her chest now, the shame and anger feeding one another in a steady loop.

The Red Keep had taught her to hide such wounds behind silk and courtesy, to turn fear into a mask and a weapon. She had walked those halls like a queen in all but name, knowing full well she was a prisoner in all but chains. And yet, when the King had cornered her, when he had made the choice clear—marry or watch those she cared for perish—she had bent. Not from weakness, but from necessity.

Still, necessity tasted no less bitter.

A raven wheeled overhead, its shadow slipping over her like a cold hand. The smell of wet leaves and distant woodsmoke should have been grounding, but her mind refused to stay in the present. Every jolt of the horse beneath her seemed to shake loose another thought—what Reynold might do once she’d served her purpose, whether the King had already planned the next noose, whether Jaehaerys even knew the danger closing in from this city.

Every step away from the Red Keep should have felt like breathing again. Instead, the weight of Reynold’s council chamber clung to her like smoke. She could still hear the splinter of his voice when the raven’s news reached him—Oldtown bending the knee to Jaehaerys. She could still see the flicker of something monstrous moving behind Bran’s eyes when he silenced the room. And she could still feel the raw grip of Grey Worm’s hand, the mud cold against her skin when he dragged her from the saddle before Tormund’s roar split the night.

She swallowed hard, fingers tightening on the reins. his last charge haunted her in flashes—his grin split wide through the blood, the clash of spears closing in, the way his voice had cut through the chaos to tell her to ride. It was a memory sharp enough to wound, but she could not put it down. Not yet.

The forest pressed closer as they rode, its branches clawing at the pale spring sky. Somewhere above, a crow called, its caw harsh and deliberate, following them for miles.

“You’re quiet,” Tyrion said finally, glancing sideways from his saddle. “Which, in my experience, is when you’re either plotting or maybe Jon’s brooding has rubbed off on you after all.”

“Perhaps both, my lord” she replied, her voice even but without humor.

Brienne shifted in her seat, steel plates whispering against one another. “We’ll be at Storm’s End before nightfall,” she said. “The Kingswood has teeth, but they’ll find no purchase on this company.”

Danger didn’t only wear claws and hide in shadows. In her mind, it sat in highchairs, signed decrees, and called its chains crowns.

By late afternoon, the trees began to thin, and the air turned sharp with salt. The forest broke apart to reveal Storm’s End, its colossal drum tower rising from the cliff like it had been carved from the bones of the earth. The sea smashed itself against the rocks below, sending up plumes of foam that caught the light like white fire.

Lord Gendry Baratheon waited at the gates, broad-shouldered in black and gold, the wind tugging at his dark hair. Beside him stood a woman Sansa did not know—tall, with warm brown skin, hair braided and threaded with fine gold wire, and a gown of deep green that moved easily in the wind. Her stance was steady, her gaze level.

Gendry’s face softened when he saw her, though his voice stayed low and weighted. “Your Grace. I’ve been waiting for you.”

“We came as quickly as we could,” she said, keeping her tone measured. “The road from King’s Landing was… costly.”

His jaw tightened—he’d heard whispers of it. “You’re safe now. Storm’s End will hold you for as long as you need.”

The woman stepped forward and inclined her head. “Lady Maris of House Morrigen,” she said. “We are honored to receive you.” Her voice carried the warmth of welcome, but her eyes held the clarity of someone who had stood through storms before.

“You are kind,” Sansa said, meeting her gaze, filing away the steadiness in it.

“Whatever shadow follows you from the capital,” Lady Maris added, “it will find no easy ground here.”

It was the sort of vow Sansa wanted to believe. But she’d lived long enough to know that every fortress, no matter how high its walls, was just another board in someone’s game. Her eyes flicked to the men along the battlements, counting banners and faces, noting where the sentries looked and where they didn’t.

As they passed beneath the gate, the salt wind caught her hair, and she turned west, toward the jagged rise of the mountains. Peaks layered the horizon like waves turned to stone, their edges blurred by mist. Somewhere beyond them, Jaehaerys stood in Oldtown—she felt it as surely as if she’d seen it. Cloak lifted by the wind, Drogon looming over the heights, the city bowed not by fire, but by fear and wonder.

 It unsettled her, what he might become. But still… part of her believed he hadn’t lost himself. Not yet.

For now, she was a guest in Storm’s End. And in Storm’s End, every guest was also a player.

Jaehaerys 

Location: Oldtown

Cloak snapping in the wind, Drogon a shadow over the hills, a city knelt—bells quiet, swords laid down. No blood, no roar. Only the presence of him and the shadow that followed. Jaehaerys stood at the center of it all, steady, watching the wind carry the moment eastward. Let them feel it—his brothers, his allies, his enemies. Let them know: the realm had shifted.

The sight should have swelled him with triumph, yet the moment sat in his chest like a weight.

Jaehaerys kept his hands steady at his sides, though his knuckles still ached from gripping the tome he had carried out of the Citadel. The speech he’d given days ago rang in his ears—truth laid bare for all to hear, names spoken that no one dared whisper under Lord Hightower’s rule. He had expected hesitation. Instead, the knees had bent one by one until the square was a field of bowed heads.

And still, it did not feel like victory.

He thought of Sansa in King’s Landing—no, in Reynold’s grasp—her freedom weighed against a silk noose and a crown she never asked for. The raven’s message had confirmed her betrothal was to be pressed within days, which was a fortnight ago. That knowledge burned hotter than the dragonfire he had not unleashed on this city.

He could still smell the salt and candle smoke from his chambers in Sunspear, hear the muted scrape of boots on stone before Aegon entered without waiting to be announced.

“Raven from King’s Landing,” Aegon had said, voice low and strained. “You’ll want to read it yourself.”

Jaehaerys had taken the scroll with steady hands, though the silence in the room had turned brittle the moment he touched it. The wax seal cracked like dry bone. His eyes crawled over the words until they stopped cold, as though the ink itself had turned to poison.

By command of His Grace, King Brandon of House Stark… the betrothal of Lady Sansa Stark, Queen in the North, and Lord Reynold Hightower… sealed and bound before gods and men…

The air had gone heavy, every breath tasting of betrayal. Without a word, he had turned and walked out, the parchment crumpling in his fist. He’d heard Davos’s voice behind him, low and cautioning Aurane to let him go, but his ears had rung too loud to care.

Later—he couldn’t recall how much later—Aegon had come to him again, finding him by the open window, night wind spilling in like icy water.

“You know, this changes everything,” his brother had said, leaning in the frame. “If we’re to take the fight to Hightower, we can’t wait for him to fortify. And if we’re to take it to the Three-Eyed Raven, we can’t fight him in pieces. Both must fall—or neither will.”

Jaehaerys had stared out into the dark, jaw clenched. “So, you suggest we move before the wedding binds her name to his?”

Aegon’s reply had been quiet, but it carried steel. “Aye, and before that thing sees us coming.”

The memory faded, and the sea wind of Oldtown rushed back in—sharp, cold, and alive with salt. Drogon wheeled far above the rooftops, the sun catching along the curve of his wings.

Oldtown had bent its knee, the news had flown on black wings to Reynold Hightower and the boy-king he served by now. And if the Three Eyed Raven sensed what Jaehaerys truly meant to do, Sansa would vanish into the same shadow that had swallowed so many before.

He turned from the square, the murmur of the crowd fading behind him as he stepped into the colonnade. Waiting there was Ser Quentyn Redwyne, commander of the Reach levies who had pledged themselves after the city’s surrender. The knight’s sea-green cloak rippled in the wind, his eyes already measuring the path ahead.

“My prince,” Ser Quentyn said with a crisp bow, “our men are ready to begin mustering in the Reach. I’ve sent riders to Highgarden, Honeyholt, and Uplands. Oldtown’s banners will carry word further inland by nightfall.”

“Good,” Jaehaerys said. “Focus first on the cities and towns nearest Oldtown. The moment Hightower or the Three-Eyed Raven learns of our movements, they’ll send their own agents to choke the roads and seal the ports. We strike before they can draw the noose.”

Quentyn’s gaze sharpened. “And once the men are gathered?”

“Move them east toward Prince’s Pass but keep to the low valleys. I’ll send word when and where to rendezvous. Until then, keep your numbers hidden from the road. I want an army in the mountains before anyone in King’s Landing knows it exists.”

Quentyn gave a slow, approving nod. “As you command. The Reach will answer.”

Jaehaerys clasped the man’s forearm in thanks before moving on toward the Citadel steps.

Behind them, Archmaester Vaelor cleared his throat. “The Citadel will honor its oath, Your Grace. Oldtown shall stand with House Targaryen.” His words were precise, but his eyes flicked toward Drogon as though measuring the truth by the shadow of the dragon’s wings.

Jaehaerys inclined his head. “You’ll have my gratitude for as long as the realm remembers this day.” He turned then to Archmaester Theobald, the old man who had guided him through days of ink and steel, unrolling maps and piecing together truths buried for decades.

“You’ve given me more than knowledge, Theobald,” Jaehaerys said. “You’ve given me the means to see it put to use.”

Theobald’s thin lips curved into something close to a smile. “Then see it well used, Your Grace. Words and truths are only weapons if wielded.”

Jaehaerys gave him a final nod, the moment lingering before he stepped out into the wind once more.

Drogon was waiting on the hill beyond the gates, the earth scorched where his talons had pressed. The dragon lowered his great head as Jaehaerys approached, a low, rumbling growl vibrating through the ground. Jaehaerys set a hand to the warm scales, feeling the steady pulse beneath.

“Home,” he murmured, though Sunspear was no true home. Not yet.

With a flex of muscle and sinew, Drogon crouched, and Jaehaerys swung into the saddle. The city spread out below him—stone walls, silver river, and a square where the people of Oldtown had bent the knee.

The salt tang still clung to the back of his tongue, and the scent of burning pitch from the crowd’s torches lingered in his nose. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled—slow, measured, like a heartbeat fading into the sea.

He told himself there was still time.
But the pieces wouldn’t wait.

Drogon leapt skyward in a storm of wings, the wind tearing at his cloak, the roar of the city falling away until there was only the rush of air, the taste of salt, and the endless blue ahead.

???

Location: At sea, Narrow Sea

The wind off the Narrow Sea had teeth. It gnawed at the edges of the sails until they groaned, white canvas stretched taut against a sky the color of beaten lead. Spray lashed the deck in fine, stinging sheets, leaving salt crusted in beards and eyebrows alike. Beneath the steady boom of waves against the hull, the ship’s timbers creaked like an old man’s bones.

He stood at the prow, unmoving despite the roll of the deck, a shadow cut against the shifting horizon. A strip of black cloth bound his left hand at the wrist, hiding what lay beneath. The other rested on the rim of a long, weathered chest lashed to the deck—a chest older than the ship that bore it, its surface etched with strange, curling marks that seemed to shift when the light caught them wrong.

Inside, something slept.

The men gave it a wide berth, keeping their eyes fixed on the ropes and the sea. They didn’t speak of it, not above a whisper, and never when the wind blew from the east. One man had tried. He’d stopped speaking altogether three days later, his voice burned out of him as if by some unseen fire.

The captain—a broad-shouldered, salt-scoured figure whose face was more scar than skin—had been gone from these waters for years, vanished into the fog of Essos with his ships and his killers, but the realm’s rot had a way of calling men like him back.

And now, it had.

The news from Oldtown had already run ahead of the wind. Whispers rode the waves now, skipping from ship to ship in the narrow sea: A Targaryen had claimed the city. The Citadel had bent the knee. Every retelling came sharper, truer, or more dangerous, depending on the tongue that shaped it.

He gripped the rail, eyes narrowing at the thought. A city could fall in a single day, but the ripples could drag down a realm. And somewhere in the southern sun, Jaehaerys Targaryen was already moving his next piece across the board.

A bargain had been struck in the shadows of another place—one king in all but name offering another the only crown he’d ever wanted. Not of gold, but of blackened steel and salt spray. The promise of the Isles, free and his to rule, if he delivered the one thing the crown wanted most.

A shape began to form in the sky ahead—dark against the lighter clouds, moving fast. Not wings, not yet. But soon.

The wind shifted, carrying with it a strange heat, faint but undeniable, like the breath of a forge banked for war. The men stirred uneasily, some glancing upward, others toward the chest as if both held the same danger.

One of the younger deckhands leaned to another, voice pitched low. “Maybe it’s the Dornish. They say the prince there flies under the dragon banner now.” The older sailor grunted but kept his eyes on the chest. “Dornish don’t bring this kind of heat, boy.”

It was the same heat he had felt once before, years past, when a shadow in the shape of a beast had passed over the deck and blotted out the sun.

He glanced down at the chest. The metal bindings were cold beneath his palm. “Soon,” he said, voice low and hoarse, the word almost lost in the wind.

Somewhere beneath the roar of the sea, a faint, unnatural hum answered—deep and resonant, like a great beast turning in its sleep.

Sansa

Location: Storm’s End – Great Hall

The sea had a voice in Storm’s End. You could hear it even here, in the marrow of the castle, the deep boom of waves striking the cliffs like an unending drumbeat. The Great Hall smelled faintly of salt and woodsmoke, the air warmer than the spring wind outside but still touched by the chill that came from living so near the sea.

Sansa sat at the long table beneath the high, arched windows, her gown of deep blue wool trimmed in white fur. The choice was deliberate — Northern colors, Northern cloth — a quiet reminder to every lord and lady here of where her loyalty lay. Brienne stood to her right, a silent tower in pale steel, and Tyrion was to her left, cup in hand, watching the room with the wariness of a man who had survived more courts than most men survived winters.

Lord Gendry sat at the head of the table, broad shoulders squared, his black and gold surcoat crisp against the torchlight. His wife, Lady Maris, moved with quiet grace beside him, speaking easily with the visiting Stormland bannermen. There was a natural authority in the way she carried herself, as if she had been born to this hall rather than married into it.

The feast had begun with warmth — platters of roasted duck glazed in honey, bowls of oysters steeped in brine, loaves of steaming bread torn and passed down the tables — but beneath the clink of cups and the rise of voices, there was a hum of unease. The lords spoke in hushed tones when they thought she was not listening, the words Oldtown and dragon surfacing like reefs in shallow water.

She caught more than one glance aimed her way — some curious, some calculating. She had worn those looks before, in the Red Keep, in the Vale, even in the cold stone of Winterfell. Always the same: weighing her worth, measuring what she might yield, never seeing the steel beneath the silk.

When she reached for her wine, her fingers hesitated on the stem. A fleeting image flashed — snow-pale fur streaked with blood, a wild grin under a tangle of red hair, an axe flashing in the dark. The fierce giant, roaring against the tide so she could flee. The memory was a sharp thing; one she carried in the quiet between breaths.

Gendry leaned toward her then, voice pitched low. “Last I heard, Tormund was with you in King’s Landing. But I didn’t see him in your party?”

The question caught her in the chest like a sudden freezing wind. She set her cup down, fingers lingering on the rim. “No,” she said, her voice steady but softened by grief. “He… stayed behind, so we could escape. Held the yard against Grey Worm and the Unsullied.” She paused, swallowing the image before it could choke her. “He fell buying us enough time to ride.”

Gendry’s broad features tightened, the flicker of pain unhidden. Lady Maris, seated beside him, reached under the table and took his hand, her fingers closing around his with quiet strength.

“He was a good man,” Gendry said after a moment. Then he pushed back his chair and rose, raising his cup high. His voice carried easily over the low murmur of the hall. “A good man — no. A hero. Tormund Giantsbane — who stood when others might have fled, who gave his life so others might see another dawn. The realm will be poorer without him, but richer for the memory of what he did.”

A cheer rose from the hall, not loud and raucous, but deep and resonant, the kind that spoke of respect. “To Tormund Giantsbane!” Gendry called.

“To Tormund!” voices echoed back, Stormlanders and Northerners alike lifting their cups.

Sansa felt the heat behind her eyes and didn’t bother to hide it. Beside her, Meera’s mouth tightened against the same emotion, and even Brienne — still and steadfast — inclined her head in a small, solemn salute.

When Gendry sat again, the hall slowly returned to its rhythm, but the moment lingered — a thread of shared loss binding stranger to stranger.

Lady Maris broke the quiet first, her eyes keen, her voice steady. “Whatever sails in these waters, it will not find Storm’s End sleeping. My husband keeps his oaths. I keep mine.”

Sansa inclined her head, accepting the words, though she knew oaths were as fragile as the men and women who swore them. Every fortress is a gameboard, every guest a piece to be moved.

Beyond the high windows, the night deepened, and the sea’s voice grew louder, as though the waves themselves strained to carry some distant warning. Somewhere to the south, Jaehaerys was moving, Oldtown now his. Somewhere to the north, the king and Lord Hightower would be sharpening their plans. And here, in the middle, she played the part of a guest — but every part she played was also a mask.

She let her gaze drift toward the dark water beyond the walls, where moonlight skated on the restless surface. If the winds shifted, they could carry salvation or ruin to Storm’s End. She would be ready for either.

And when the winds did change, she vowed, she would not be the one caught unprepared.

The council chamber of Storm’s End was a world away from the warmth of the feast. The sea’s voice was louder here, a constant percussion beyond the arrow-slit windows, the wind carrying brine into the torchlit room. A long oaken table dominated the space, its surface scarred by years of maps, goblets, and the weight of decisions made under duress.

Sansa entered with Tyrion, Brienne, Meera, and the Northern lords and ladies who had escaped King’s Landing—Lady Sarra, Lord Glover, and Ser Mollen among them. Gendry was already there with Lady Maris at his side, flanked by his council.

Ser Corryn Estermont, a grizzled knight with a voice like crushed gravel, loyal to the Baratheon name above all. Maester Rennic, sharp-eyed and sharper-tongued, his chain clinking softly as he adjusted the maps before him. Ser Ryon Wylde, young and eager, the sort of man who saw war as a stage for glory. And Lord Edric Connington, lean and fox-faced, his smile never quite reaching his eyes.

The air thickened as soon as the doors shut.

Maester Rennic was the first to speak, his bony finger tapping the map. “If Oldtown truly stands with Jaehaerys, the Reach will be divided. That gives us opportunity—but it also invites chaos. The Hightower will move quickly to seal his grip on the south.”

Ser Corryn snorted. “Then we strike before his hand closes. March north, break him at the Mander before he can reach for more.”

Lord Edric shook his head. “And leave the seas unguarded? The Ironborn may be scattered, but the waters are never empty. There are whispers—fleets sighted off Lys, flying no banner. I’ll not risk Storm’s End’s shores undefended.”

“Storm’s End can hold,” Ser Ryon argued, his hand resting on his sword hilt. “Better to take the fight to them than wait for war to find us.”

The back-and-forth sharpened, voices overlapping until Lady Sarra’s clear tone cut through. “We should unite with Jon in Dorne.”

The room stilled.

Tyrion leaned back in his chair, studying her with that faint, knowing smirk. “Jaehaerys,” he corrected softly. “And yes—though he’s not alone. His brother, Aegon, is with him. That complicates matters.”

“It does more than complicate,” Lord Glover said. “We know the Stark, but the other? This Aegon? A dragon we’ve never seen fight for our cause? I don’t trust him.”

“Nor do I trust Dorne,” Ser Corryn added. “The Martells smile at you while sharpening their spears.”

Meera crossed her arms. “You don’t have to trust them. Just trust that Bran and Reynold fear them. That makes them useful.”

Sansa let the debate run its course before she spoke, her voice calm but edged with purpose. “We cannot fight this war divided. Bran has too many eyes, too many hands, and too much reach. Alone, none of us can stop him. But together—with Jaehaerys, with Dorne—we stand a chance.”

Gendry nodded slowly. “I agree. If we hesitate, we lose that chance.”

The room murmured again—doubt, agreement, caution—until finally, details began to take shape. In two days, they would sail south, splitting their forces: one fleet hugging the coast to avoid notice, the other striking straight for Sunspear. Storm’s End’s galleys would lead the vanguard, Northern ships falling in behind.

When the plans were set and most of the lords and council had taken their leave, only Sansa, Tyrion, Brienne, Meera, Gendry, and Lady Maris remained. The sea’s boom felt closer now, more insistent.

Lady Maris spoke first, her tone softening. “I’ve heard of Jaehaerys for years, back when he was Jon Snow,” she said, almost dreamily. “In a world of cruel men, they say he was… different. A good man, through and through.”

Sansa felt heat rise in her cheeks before she could stop it. “He was… is… a good man,” she said, the words slipping out more softly than intended.

The Lord of Storms End caught the flicker of color in her face and smirked. “Always knew there was something more between you two,” he said, the teasing warmth in his voice a stark contrast to the hard-edged lord she’d seen in council.

“Gendry—” she began, but Tyrion leaned forward, the corner of his mouth curling. “Oh, I’ve suspected for years. The looks. The silences. The way you say his name.”

Even Meera joined in, a rare grin breaking through her usual guardedness. “I noticed it in the tunnels. The way you lit up when you heard he was alive.”

Sansa tried to defend herself, but the laughter—light and genuine—was contagious. She let it wash over her, choosing to surrender to it for once.

Gendry raised his cup, eyes glinting. “About time you two got your heads on straight and admitted what everyone else could see. The realm’s full of liars, schemers, and fools—but the Seven help us, at least our heroes might finally have the sense to see what’s in front of them.”

The words lingered in the air, brighter than the torchlight, and for a heartbeat, the war felt just a little further away.

The laughter faded, leaving only the low crackle of the torches and the steady boom of the waves. The others began speaking again—small talk, passing jests—but their voices seemed to drift to the edges of her hearing.

Sansa turned her gaze toward the dark window, where the night sea glimmered faintly under the moon. The thought of sailing south was no longer an abstract plan on a map—it was real, looming, pulling her toward a place and a man she had not seen since the world had last torn itself apart.

She could still picture him in the snow at Winterfell’s gate, shadows in his eyes and the weight of the realm on his shoulders. She remembered the way his voice softened when it was only for her, the way it hardened when it was for everyone else. Jaehaerys now, she reminded herself. But the name in her heart had never changed.

A flicker of fear threaded through the warmth in her chest—not fear of him, but of what seeing him again might break open inside her.

Gendry’s words echoed in her mind. About time you two got your heads on straight…

She drew a slow breath and let her lips curve into the faintest of smiles, one she hid in her cup. The war could wait a few days. For now, she could carry the thought of him across the water like a secret.

Jaehaerys POV

Location: Sunspear – Outside the City Gates

The Dornish sun was a different kind of fire than Dragonstone’s cutting wind or Oldtown’s salt-stained air. It pressed close, heavy and golden, baking the pale stones until they shimmered. Even before Drogon’s shadow swept over Sunspear’s towers, the city had felt him—streets stalling mid-step, market calls faltering, the collective intake of breath before the beat of his wings broke over the rooftops.

Drogon banked low, his roar rolling across the bay and rattling the glass in Sunspear’s windows. Instead of diving into the city’s heart, he swept above its golden roofs and leveled out toward the main gates. The earth shuddered as he touched down just beyond the walls, talons tearing deep furrows into the sunbaked ground. Heat radiated from him in waves, turning the air into a wavering haze.

Jaehaerys swung down from the saddle, boots sinking into the dusty earth with a muted thud, his cloak still carrying the wind and smoke of Oldtown. The gate guards—men hardened by years under the Dornish sun—stood frozen, their eyes locked on the black mountain of muscle and scale towering behind him.

The great gates of Sunspear groaned open. From the shadowed archway appeared the welcoming party—Aegon at the fore, pale hair bright in the sunlight, followed by Arianne Martell with her measured grace, Trystane at her side, and the rest of Aegon’s council fanning out behind them. Davos came next, arms crossed and gaze already searching for wounds. Aurane Waters carried his usual air of effortless confidence, Asher Sand leaned on the pommel of her curved sword with a sly grin, and Kinvara, robed in flame-red, regarded Jaehaerys as though searching for the fire in his soul.

Aegon strode forward first, a wide grin breaking across his face before pulling his younger brother into a firm embrace. “I told you,” he murmured with a laugh in his voice, “you were the prince who was promised.”

Jaehaerys shook his head, chuckling as he clapped him on the back. “If that’s true, the gods have a strange sense of humor.”

Arianne followed, ignoring formality. Her hands were warm against his jaw as she kissed both his cheeks, lingering close enough for him to feel her breath. “You keep Sunspear waiting far too long,” she said softly, her dark eyes glinting. “I was beginning to think Oldtown had stolen you from us.”

“I always come back,” he replied, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Qoren Yronwood clasped his forearm in the grip of warriors. “You made the Reach bend,” he said. “Let’s see if the rest of Westeros will follow.”

One by one, the others greeted him—some with warmth, others with measured curiosity—but all with glances that inevitably flicked to Drogon. The dragon gave a low, rumbling growl, the kind that resonated in bone and belly alike, and even the bravest among them shifted their stance.

It was Davos who broke the spell, stepping forward with the half-scowl of a father about to scold his son. “Seven hells, lad,” he muttered. “Flying straight into the Citadel’s jaws with only a dragon between you and half the Reach—reckless doesn’t begin to cover it.”

“That’s one way to make friends,” Asher said with a laugh, elbowing Aurane.

“Aye,” Aurane grinned, “if you count setting the board on fire as diplomacy.”

Jaehaerys smirked faintly. “Worked, didn’t it?”

Davos shook his head but let the matter drop, stepping aside as the group began to fall into step toward the open gates. Above them, the bells of Sunspear tolled the hour, deep and resonant, their notes carrying out over the glittering sea.

For now, he let himself walk among them—some loyal, some ambitious, and some whose motives remained unreadable—knowing each greeting was another step closer to the war none of them could avoid.

The heat inside Sunspear was a slower, heavier thing than the wind outside the gates. Cool stone corridors swallowed the roar of the crowd until only the soft scrape of boots, and the distant rush of the sea stayed. The group wound their way toward the Sun Chamber—long, arched windows spilling light over a table already laid with maps, wine, and bowls of pomegranates split open like fresh wounds.

Aegon took his place at the head, posture loose but gaze sharp, the quiet authority of command settling over him like a mantle. To his right, Arianne slid gracefully into her seat, the silk of her gown whispering against the carved wood. Her shoulder brushed his as she leaned forward, but her eyes stayed fixed on Jaehaerys, as though measuring every shadow in his face.

To Aegon’s left, a chair stood empty—deliberately so, its position opposite Arianne a silent acknowledgment that when Jaehaerys sat, it would be as an equal at the table, perhaps even as the sharper blade in the hand they now held.

“You’ve been gone long enough to move the board twice over,” Aegon said, his tone somewhere between welcome and challenge. “Now sit, brother—before the pieces decide themselves.”

Arianne’s smile curved faintly as she gestured to the empty seat. “We’ve kept it waiting for you. Sunspear holds many places of honor, but this one was always meant for more than an ally.”

Jaehaerys crossed the chamber without hurry, the scrape of his boots against the stone a quiet counterpoint to the muted shuffle of the others. When he lowered himself into the seat, it was as though the lines of the table had redrawn themselves—no longer a head and its council, but two points of command with the rest arrayed between.

Davos leaned forward at once, weathered hands braced on the table. “Word from Oldtown spreads faster than the tide. Hightower will be fortifying even as we speak.”

“Asher confirms the same,” Aurane added from his place by the map, tapping the Reach with a callused finger. “Riders from the inland towns are already being turned back or pressed into Reynold’s levy.”

Qoren’s voice was slow but steady. “We can muster men from the closer Reach towns before Reynold’s grip closes. Hedge knights, bannermen still loyal to the old blood—if we move now.”

Kinvara’s gaze slid to Jaehaerys. “And if you don’t?” she asked, the words carrying an edge of prophecy.

“We do,” Jaehaerys said without hesitation. “We gather them east of the Honeywine—less open ground for Reynold to sweep in, and within Drogon’s reach if the Three-Eyed Raven makes his move sooner than expected.”

That drew murmurs—approval from some, unease from others. One of the newer councilors, a lean, sun-browned knight named Ser Caldris, shifted in his seat. “Why not ride for the North instead? Or the Vale? Rally those who still see the Starks as the realm’s heart.”

“Because the North’s heart is in King’s Landing,” Jaehaerys replied, his tone like tempered steel. “And until she’s free, it will not beat for us.”

The council had circled the same arguments for the better part of an hour—where to strike first, how to hold the momentum from Oldtown, whether to risk thinning their lines in the east to press the Reach. Maps lay spread across the table, their parchment curling in the heat, pins and carved tokens marking castles, fleets, and the thin threads between them.

Qoren Martell leaned forward, tapping a finger against the map where the Honeywine spilled into the Whispering Sound. “Strike here and we choke Reynold’s grain before he can feed his armies. The man’s walls won’t matter if his soldiers starve in them.”

Aurane Waters countered, tracing a line from the Arbor up to Oldtown. “His fleets will break our choke before it takes hold. We hit his ports first, burn them, and the Reach bleeds coin and ships.”

Kinvara stood with her hands resting lightly on the back of an empty chair, her voice a measured thread. “If you spend yourselves breaking his gates, the Raven will move in the north. The storm will not wait for you to finish your siege.”

Across from her, Trystane shifted, the Martell sun catching on the rings at his fingers. “Then what? Let him tighten his hold while we stand idle?”

The voices rose again, steel under velvet, each proposal sharper than the last.

Jaehaerys said little, listening, his hand absently turning the carved wolf token in front of him. He could feel the weight of every plan—how each would cost time, blood, and the trust of allies already fraying at the edges.

It was then Aegon lifted his hand, palm open, cutting the noise in half. The room settled into a restless quiet.

“Before we decide,” he said, his tone even but carrying across the table, “I received two ravens this morning.”

From his belt, he drew two parchments—one marked with a crowned stag, the other with a grey direwolf. He had already broken the stag’s seal.

“This one’s from Gendry Baratheon, Lord of the Stormlands,” Aegon said as he scanned the contents. His voice strengthened with each word. “Sansa Stark and the Northern lords who escaped King’s Landing have reached Storm’s End. He’s mobilizing his armies now, and in a matter of days, they’ll sail south to join us here in Sunspear. The North and the Stormlands will stand with Dorne against the Three-Eyed Raven.”

A low ripple of approval passed through the room. Even the harder-faced captains allowed themselves a faint nod.

Aegon set that parchment aside and held up the other. “This one,” he said, passing it to Jaehaerys, “is for you. Gendry says you’re to read it as soon as it reaches your hands.”

The weight of the seal felt heavier than wax and parchment had any right to. Jaehaerys broke it, the crack of the wax loud in the stillness, and unrolled the page.

It was her hand.

The first lines lit something in him—a spark he hadn’t let himself feel in moons. She was alive. She was safe, for now. She was coming south. He could almost hear her voice in the turns of the words, see her in the neat, deliberate strokes of ink.

But then the words turned. Her script held steady, but the meaning tightened like a noose. She wrote of Bran—not her brother, but the thing wearing his face—and of the truth she had kept until now. Of how, in the shadows of the Red Keep, he had spoken her cousin Robin Arryn’s name like a blade, laying out in cold detail what would happen to him, and the Eyrie should she refuse Reynold Hightower’s hand.

I could not let him fall for my defiance, the line read, and so I bent, though I have not yet broken.

She urged haste. Not just for her, but for the Eyrie, for the Vale. Someone—something—had already been set in motion.

His pulse quickened as his eyes raced ahead, the last lines pulling the ground out from beneath him. The spark of hope collapsed into a cold, hollow weight.

His breath left him in a sharp exhale, the parchment trembling once in his hand before he stilled it.

“What is it?” Arianne’s voice was softer now, her hand brushing his forearm.

Jaehaerys’ gaze lifted, and in it was something that silenced the table more than Aegon’s raised hand had moments before. He rose from his chair, the parchment still clenched in his fist.

“I must get to the Eyrie.”

Chapter Text

Sansa

Location: Storms End.

Storm’s End, dawn through midday

Dawn rose grudgingly over Storm’s End, more a slow bruising of the sky than any true morning. Gray smothered the horizon, fusing sea and cloud into a single unbroken mass. Each wave that battered the cliffs sent a tremor through the keep’s bones, as if the old stones were bracing themselves for something they could not yet name. Salt rode every draft, clinging to hair and wool and the iron rings of armor.

Inside the Great Hall, the air hung thick—damp wool, banked smoke, the metal-bright tang of sharpened steel. Torches hissed when the wind found a crack in the shutters, their flames bowing low before snapping back upright. The sound was almost like breath, quick and uneasy.

Maps lay unfurled across the oaken war table, stretched thin at the creases like old skin. Wax dripped in pale rivulets along their edges, fossilized into shapes that traced coastlines and battle routes. Sansa stood at the table’s head, fingers grazing the worn parchment, feeling the grit of sand trapped beneath its edge. That small rasp steadied her more than any title ever had.

To her right, Brienne held herself with quiet vigilance, plate catching the torchlight in dull silver glints. On her left, Tyrion leaned over his cup and quill, the ink staining his fingertips like fresh bruises. His expression hovered somewhere between concern and a wry amusement he didn’t quite dare voice.

Across from them, the room split into two uneasy camps. The Northerners stood shoulder to shoulder—Lord Glover stiff as a frost-bitten pine, Lady Sarra Locke composed but sharp-eyed, Ser Mollen silent and immovable. On the other side, bold colors marked the Stormlanders: Gendry Baratheon with his black hair damp from the sea air, Lady Maris poised behind him like a drawn blade, Maester Rennic’s chain glinting dully, and scarred Ser Corryn Estermont absorbing the room with the stillness of a man who had buried too many friends.

A thick forefinger tapped the map—once, hard—right atop the line of the Prince’s Pass.
“If Dorne rises,” Gendry said, voice like iron on stone, “we meet them halfway. Call the banners. We march south and take the Pass before Hightower’s dogs choke it.”

A groan rippled from the timbers overhead as another wave hit the cliff.

Lord Glover answered with a slow shake of his head. “Ye’ll not make the Marches afore they do. A fortnight if the gods are generous, and they’re not. Riders from Oldtown hold every crossing.” His jaw clenched. “You’ll leave a trail o’ bones from here to the Pass.”

The maester’s chain rattled when he inclined his head. “A fleet of this size will be spotted long before it clears the coast,” Rennic said. “Sail, and every eye from Driftmark to Lys will be upon us.”

“Roads are watched, seas are watched,” Tyrion murmured as he smoothed a crease in the parchment. “The realm excels at staring. It’s almost admirable, if deeply inconvenient.”

No one laughed. The torches guttered again, throwing the hall into a momentary half-darkness. In that flicker, banners whispered above them like uneasy spirits.

A memory stirred—her father’s hand above a different table, tracing the lines of the realm with calm certainty. The ache that followed hit swift and clean, then receded, like the tug of a tide that refused to leave her be.

“Enough,” Sansa said.

The word cut clean through the room. Even the wind seemed to pause.

“We sail,” she continued, letting her gaze move from the Northerners to the Stormlanders. “Every hour wasted is another Bran strengthens his hold. If the Vale falls, the North follows. We cannot give him time.”

A murmur stirred among the Northern contingent. Glover’s beard twitched; he looked as though wrestling with duty and dread both. At last, he inclined his head. “If it must be ships… then aye.”

Lady Sarra added, “By land, we doom our own. At sea, at least we choose the tide.”

Rennic inhaled to object, but Lady Maris spoke first, her tone clipped and controlled. “Storm’s End will carry its share. Some hulls still mend, but they’ll hold.”

“See they do,” Gendry replied, not harsh but leaving no room for delay.

“They will be mended,” she returned, eyes never leaving the map.

A ripple of restrained humor passed among the Stormlanders. The Northerners did not join in, but their stiffness eased by a fraction.

Tyrion set his quill aside. “The gods adore decisiveness. They rarely reward it, but one must try to impress them somehow.”

Sansa offered him only a small tilt of her chin. “We sail with the tide.”

Brienne’s gauntlet creaked in a subtle nod. Gendry straightened, rolling his shoulders as if settling the weight of armor he had not yet donned. “Then Baratheon leads the vanguard.”

“The Stag beside the Wolf,” Tyrion murmured. “Some bard will write that down poorly.”

A breath, half a smile—gone before anyone could remark on it.

When the council dispersed, the echo of their boots lingered long after the doors closed. She stayed until the wax hardened, until the stones beneath her feet seemed to hum with the sea’s roar. Duty, Father would have called it. Mother might have said faith. To Sansa, it felt like necessity, bitter as winter salt.

Her palm pressed a moment longer against Dorne’s painted coast. Then she turned for the stairs.

The passage down carried the cold of a vault. Light thinned with every step until breath came out in faint white wisps. Two boys hurried past with coils of rope slung between them, grinning at the weight until they noticed her. Their smiles faltered into stiff bows. Respect, fear—she had learned to live with both.

The courtyard opened in a burst of noise and motion. Hammers rang against fresh timber. Pitch smoldered in thick, sweet coils. Ropes creaked beneath the weight of men and sails. Black-and-gold Baratheon stags snapped beside gray-and-white direwolves—two houses with too much history to ever be simple allies, yet bound here by the storm.

Ghost padded close at her heel, ears flicking at the cacophony. Tar and burning pitch offended his senses; she brushed a hand over his ruff, steadying them both.

Shipwrights and captains approached with questions—stores, arrows, water barrels, the cracked mast already bound in iron. She answered each in turn, voice calm, movements sure. Check, then trust. Never the other way around. Her father’s counsel lived in her bones.

At the far edge of the pier, spray beaded across polished armor. Gendry stood half-armored, jaw set against the wind, testing his breastplate with a thumb.

“You’ve a steady hand,” he observed, eyes narrowing against the sea’s glare, “for someone about to risk her life on a ship.”

“A steady hand keeps others from noticing the tremor,” she said. “I prefer they remember one and forget the other.”

A soft huff of laughter broke from him. “That’s what makes you a queen.”

“Or a fool,” she replied, letting the wind swallow the words.

He looked toward the horizon, where the fog hung like a waiting veil. “Storm’s End bows to no weather. I’d sooner face the tempest head-on.”

“Then we’ll face it,” she said quietly.

A sudden flutter tore through the air—ravens exploding upward from the cliffside, their black wings cutting through the gray sky. Shouts rose as men crossed themselves. Ghost stiffened, a growl rumbling low.

Her gaze followed the birds until they became small smudges against the clouds. Something flared at the edge of the world—too white for lightning, too sharp for sunlight on water. It vanished as quickly as it came, leaving only the sea, ancient and watching.

“The tide’s turning,” she murmured.

“You can hear it,” Gendry said, voice gone rough. “In the stone.”

Foam dragged back through jagged rocks with a low, breathing sound. Bells began to toll—one, then another—until it felt as though the entire coastline had begun to sway.

“Ready the fleet,” she commanded. “We sail with the tide.”

Ghost’s growl vibrated through the planks beneath her boots. Orders rang out across the harbor. Oars scraped forward. Ropes flew free. The wind shifted, tasting of something old and cold and rising.

Beneath the waves, deeper than anchor or keel could reach, something stirred.

Sansa did not step back. The world leaned against her like a test, and she met it with squared shoulders—unshaken.

Jaehaerys

Location: Sunspear, the Water Gardens

Heat lingered long after sunset, clinging to Sunspear’s walls like breath trapped in a dying man’s chest. The stones sweated salt; arches exhaled air that tasted of iron and lemon rind. Somewhere in the lower courts, a musician worried a slow, uncertain tune from his strings—half lullaby, half lament. The sound climbed the palace like smoke, brushed the bronze latticework of the Sun Chamber, and thinned into the hush of the sea.

Sunspear did not sleep. It waited. The whole keep felt drawn tight, like a bowstring held too long.

Only one candle burned in the chamber. Its flame leaned and straightened with each sly push of the inland wind, bowing toward the open archway as if to some unseen fire beyond. Wax had slipped down into clear, cooling rivulets. Around it sprawled a chaos of maps and letters, corners curling where heat met ink.

Beneath his palm, paper breathed.

Sansa’s letter lay pinned by a shard of obsidian, the direwolf seal long shattered. The parchment had gone soft at the fold where his thumb kept worrying the same place, rubbing the line almost to silk.

I bent, though I have not yet broken.

The ink there glimmered faintly, polished by his skin. He had read the words until they blurred, until he knew by feel where each letter lay, yet still they cut. Other lines festered beneath it:

Tormund died to buy me time. Grey Worm cut him down so I could run.

The Unsullied march again. Not for a queen, but for a boy in a crown of shadow.

If I refuse Lord Reynold, Bran and the Hightowers speak of Robin’s death as if it were a weather change. If he is not yet dead, he soon may be. If the Vale falls, the North will not stand long after.

The brazier sighed, scattering orange across the tiles. Deep in the stone, something older answered. Drogon’s slow breath thrummed through the foundations, a pulse as steady as the tide. The chamber inhaled with him.

“You mean to fly north.”

Aegon’s voice cleaved the quiet. There was no knock; there never had been. His boots crossed the floor in measured strides, soft soles whispering over mosaic. The candle caught on the silver ring at his hand as he set both palms on the table, bracing himself on either side of the maps.

“You’ve been standing there since moonrise,” he said, eyes tracking the letter, then Jaehaerys’s face. “Tell me you’ve changed your mind.”

“I haven’t.”

“Alone?” No surprise in it, only a tired resignation.

“We’ve no time to raise banners,” Jaehaerys answered. “If the Eyrie falls—and if Robin dies—the Vale is his. After that, the North is a throat with no shield. Once both are in his grasp, the realm hangs by a breath. I won’t wait for that.”

A coal burst in the brazier, rolled until it died at his boot. Smoke rose in a thread and was gone.

“You speak as if you’ve seen it,” Aegon said.

“In the way the wind moves,” he murmured. “And in what it leaves behind. He’s reaching through things that don’t have names—through men, through ravens, through walls. Sansa feels it. So do I.”

“Always the North,” Aegon said, mouth twisting in something that wanted to be a smile and failed. “You stand with the sun on your shoulders and a dragon at your back, and your mind is still wrapped in snow.”

“I learned honor in snow,” came the reply, soft but solid. “I won’t forget it for heat.”

A draft brushed the candle, sending shadows shivering over painted spear and sun. The silence that followed stretched taut—two brothers held on either side of a blade they had not forged but now had to carry.

Aegon’s fingers tightened on the map until the silver of his ring bit into parchment. “You were never meant to carry all of it,” he said at last. “The crown, the beast, that damned prophecy. I spent my life trying to bring order to madness—one council, one alliance at a time. You take the madness itself and call it duty.”

“You wanted prophecy,” Jaehaerys said. “Now live with what it costs.”

A shadow stirred at the doorway, dark silk against darker stone.

“You Targaryens,” Arianne drawled, her voice smooth and dry as old wine, “have a gift for making wounds sound like virtues.”

She slipped into the candlelight, old-wine silk sighing around her hips. Gold thread winked where it wound through her braids, catching the brazier’s glow. The scent of her—jasmine, sun-warmed salt, the faint tang of oiled steel—softened the room’s sharp edges. Her gaze passed over the maps, over the letter, but did not settle until it reached his face.

“You’ve won the Reach,” she said quietly. “Oldtown bends. Lords who swore they never would now look to you when they wake and when they sleep. And now you’d leave—for a girl held in another man’s fist?”

“For the Vale,” he said. “For Robin. For the North that stands behind him. For the realm that will follow if it all falls.”

“Every man who burns believes he’s saving something,” she replied, drifting closer. Fingers brushed the edge of the parchment until they reached the painted spine of the Red Mountains. “You leave this chair empty, and Dorne will say you never truly sat it. Our oaths run hot, but they cool quickly when slighted.”

“Dorne will hold,” he said. “You’ll see to that.”

Her eyes lifted to his—dark, bright, and too honest by half. “You set much by what I will do, vaedar,” she said, the Dornish endearment landing somewhere between fondness and accusation. “Men follow you because they see a shape of the future in you. Take that shape away, and the sands shift under all our feet.”

“I’m not Rhaegar,” he said, and the words tasted of ash and old songs.

“No,” she agreed, a faint smile ghosting over her mouth. “He wore music like armor. You wear silence. Either can kill a king.”

Movement rippled at the far archway. Kinvara stood half in shadow, flame reflected in her eyes as though she had swallowed a coal and kept it there.

“When fire reaches for frost, one must yield,” she murmured, her voice somewhere between prayer and warning. “Mercy is a fair word to men, Your Grace, but the Lord of Light does not teach mercy. He teaches victory.”

“The gods can keep their lessons,” Aegon said without turning. “We’re the ones who pay for them.”

“Prophecy brands more than kings,” Kinvara replied. “All who stand near the fire bear its mark.”

Another sound cut through—boots, worn and honest, scuffing over stone.

Davos stepped into the circle of light, sea-weathered face folding into something like exasperated concern. “Seven hells, lad,” he said, eyeing Jaehaerys up and down like a ship he wasn’t sure would hold water. “Crown’s barely warm on your head and you’re already lookin’ to fling yourself at the sky. You don’t mend a cracked realm by crackin’ your own skull on it.”

“I don’t mean to die,” Jaehaerys said.

“Good,” Davos answered, corner of his mouth twitching. “Then don’t fly like a fool. Oldtown’s mustering men as we speak. The Reach lords will march. You could wait for them.”

A soft snort came from the column to the left. Asher lounged there, one boot braced against the stone, fingers resting lightly on the pommel of his sword.

“He’s right, you know,” he said. “Gods help me for saying it, but he is. Give it a few days, Your Grace. Let the banners gather. Even mountains flinch when they see an army walking toward them.”

Aurane stood beside him, arms folded, expression more thoughtful than flippant for once. “The Vale’s no small fortress,” he added. “Bloody thing’s half sky. Robin Arryn is not so easy to pluck out. If you go now, you go blind. Let us at least open our eyes before you leap.”

“If the boy dies,” Jaehaerys said, “the Eyrie falls to them from within. You can’t shore up a wall once the foundation’s already gone.”

Silence followed. No one argued—not truly. They all knew what a hostage heir meant in a realm like this.

The candle guttered; shadows jumped.

Aegon’s hand shifted from the table to the thick, leather-bound volume lying half-buried under a map—the Citadel tome, its cracked spine etched with runes so old they might as well have been scars.

“You dragged this monster out of Oldtown,” he said, resting his fingers on it. “If there’s anything that can tell us what we’re facing, it’s in here. I’ll have the maesters in Sunspear and half of Oldtown’s best crawling through it by first light.”

“Not just maesters,” Jaehaerys said. “You. Read it yourself. Theobald didn’t look at that book like a scholar. He looked at it like a man afraid of what he’d found and more afraid to leave it buried. Whatever Bran is… whatever he’s become… some part of it is written there.”

Aegon studied him for a long beat. Brother—nothing else now. “I will,” he said. “I swear it. I’ll find what’s hidden before it finds us.”

The words landed heavier than any oath of fealty.

Arianne moved again, closer this time, until the candle painted soft gold along the line of her throat. From the fold of her sleeve she drew a length of deep red silk, narrow and finely embroidered with tiny suns and spears. For a moment, it lay between them like a question.

“In Dorne,” she said quietly, “we give our favor to those we expect to return. Or to those we wish would.”

Hesitation caught him. It felt too intimate, too much like a promise he had no right to take. Yet refusal would cut her before all these witnesses, and through her, Dorne. His hand rose, slower than a sword, and accepted the ribbon.

Her breath left her in the smallest sigh. “If you die wearing that,” she added, voice low enough that only he could hear, “Dorne will never forgive you.”

“I’ll try to spare you the trouble,” he said.

Somewhere beyond the walls, Drogon shifted, stone humming with it.

The brazier hissed low. Outside, a gull cried once and the wind snatched the sound away.

He folded Sansa’s letter at last. The parchment made a thin, brittle sound, like ice under a boot, and slid it into his sleeve above his heart. The movement steadied more than his hands.

“I’ll fly before dawn,” he said.

Aegon’s arm shot out, palm slamming flat on the table, blocking his path. “And leave Sunspear without a heart?”

“Be its heart,” Jaehaerys answered. “You seem to be better at keeping men in line than I.”

“You seem to be the worst at listening.” No venom in it, only bone-deep weariness. Aegon reached across the narrow space and clasped his forearm, grip bruising. “If you go, there’s no turning back from what comes next.”

“There never was,” Jaehaerys said.

The grip loosened. Aegon let him pass.

The corridors breathed heat as he walked. Sand whispered in the seams beneath his boots. Lanterns smudged the walls with smoke where the night wind slipped through old cracks and tugged at faded banners. A pair of guards snapped awake as he passed, hands flying to spear-hafts, then straightened and pretended they had never dozed at all.

This was not a king’s procession. No trumpets, no fanfare. Just the soft echo of one man’s steps and the knowledge that every stone would remember them.

The main courtyard waited, half in shadow, half in fire. Torches spat and hissed along the walls, turning the air into wavering gold. Heat shimmered above the flagstones. Drogon lay coiled by the well, a mountain of black scale and slow, living embers. The ground around him had gone pale and brittle where his fire had kissed it too often.

One great eye opened as Jaehaerys approached. The courtyard seemed to shrink.

Men parted without order being given. Some crossed themselves, unsure which god they meant to appeal to. Kinvara halted at the steps, lips moving soundlessly, eyes flaring bright as if some invisible flame had leapt higher. Aegon stood above on the ramparts, carved against the dark, his knuckles white on the stone. Davos waited near the gate, arms folded, jaw set like a man bracing for a storm he could warn against but not turn.

Off to the side, Asher had lost his lazy slouch; both boots were planted firmly now. Aurane’s hands rested empty at his sides, fingers flexing once, betraying the nerves his face did not.

Arianne stood beneath the shadow of a tall palm, the line of her shoulders straight as a spear haft. The wind stirred the ends of her braids, and the favor she’d given him seemed suddenly heavier at his wrist.

He laid his hand along Drogon’s snout. Heat thrummed beneath the scales, not like flesh but like the heart of the world itself beating just under the skin of it. “North,” he murmured. “Just for a while.”

Smoke rolled from the dragon’s nostrils, soft and thick along the stones. The massive head lowered, accepting him. He climbed, leather straps creaking, metal rings clinking dully as he settled into the saddle. The red silk brushed his fingers when he tightened them.

“Fly clever,” Davos called up, voice carrying clear through the heat. “Come back aye?”

A faint huff escaped him—almost a laugh, almost not. “I’ll try,” he replied.

Aegon lifted a hand, palm open to the night. “Hold the line,” he said. It was not clear whether he spoke to Jaehaerys, to Dorne, or to the thin strip of hope stretching between south and north.

Under the palm’s shadow, Arianne’s mouth moved. The wind stole the words, but he thought he knew them anyway: Do not make me right.

Wings unfurled, blotting torchlight, banners, and stars. The first downbeat rattled the flagstones underfoot. The second tore the air apart. Heat surged up, swallowing Sunspear in a roar of wind and ash.

The city dropped away—walls shrinking to toy ramparts, streets to pale scratches in the sand. The bay became a sheet of bruised silver, the river a thread glinting faintly as it snaked inland. Dragon and rider climbed until the torches of Sunspear were only a scatter of fireflies pinned to the dark.

Air thinned as they rose. The Dornish heat slid from his shoulders, leaving a chill that bit his cheeks and burned his lungs clean. Sweat dried to salt under his collar. The taste of lemon and smoke faded; in its place came the sharper, emptier cold that lived above clouds.

Ahead, the mountains gathered—black teeth gnawing at a bruised strip of sky. Their peaks hoarded the first hint of dawn, a smear of pale light clinging stubbornly to stone. Drogon’s cry split the night, a sound so deep it seemed to drag an answer from the bones of the range itself. Snow shivered loose from hidden ledges, spilling in white veils.

Winterfell rose in his memory, not as towers and battlements, but as a silence between heartbeats. The sound of snow compacting under a boot when no one dared speak. Silence that could be peace—or warning.

I bent, though I have not yet broken.

Gloved fingers tightened on the reins. “Then neither shall I,” he told the wind, the dragon, the woman whose letter lay against his heart, and the boy in the sky-fortress whose life might yet tip the board.

Drogon banked northward. The last curve of the sun slipped below the edge of the world behind them, gilding the desert in molten gold before letting it drown in shadow. Ahead, only snow and stone and whatever waited in the heights.

The wind shifted midway over the range. Salt brushed his tongue where no sea should be. Drogon’s muscles bunched beneath him, a low, uneasy rumble building in the beast’s chest. For a breath, the world tilted wrong—as though the air itself remembered some other shape and tried to fall back into it.

A hand pressed flat to warm scale. “Easy,” he murmured. “Hold.”

The dragon steadied, wings beating a slow, relentless rhythm. Stone groaned below as ice shifted on rock, the mountains speaking in their own old tongue. Somewhere beyond them, a boy sat in a castle of glass and sky, and a creature wearing his brother’s face watched the pieces move.

Frost crept along the iron ring of the saddle. It cracked under his grip. Lips had gone numb; when he licked them, the taste of salt came again—not Dornish, but older, like the first spray off the Shivering Sea.

“Jelmor (North),” he said in high valyrian—to himself, to Drogon, to the frayed line that bound fire to frost, south to north, promise to peril.

Drogon roared, a sound that sent an avalanche tumbling from a distant slope. Snow thundered down, racing the dragon’s shadow across the valley until both vanished into stillness.

He did not look back.

Sansa

Location: The Narrow Sea, Stepstones

The Stepstones had teeth.

Even before the fog, the world narrowed to rock and channel, to towers clinging like barnacles to black stone and the broken fingers of what had once been a land-bridge. Men called this reach of water the Broken Arm; charts gave it names more polite, but the sea kept the old one. Currents shouldered each other there, quarreling in dark green tongues. The sound of the surf on hidden shoals came thin and steady, like distant applause for men too foolish to turn back.

Stag’s Mercy threaded between half-seen stacks of rock, her hull complaining in low, familiar groans. Twelve ships had entered the channels at dawn—northern hulls and storm land hulls together, banners furled for stealth but still themselves in the mind’s eye: wolves and stags and trout and towers, all bent to the same southward hunger.

By midmorning, the fog began.

It did not roll in from any quarter. It rose.

Threads gathered from the water as if dragged up by unseen hands, laying themselves in patient layers over mast and spar. The first of it was honest enough—harbor-mist, sea’s breath. Then the taste changed. Tar and hemp climbed through it; underneath, something else woke—metal left in the rain too long, old coins at the bottom of a well, the steadier chill of cellars that had never seen the sun.

No sunrise came, only a thinning of dark until sky and water chose to be the same color. The Broken Arm vanished piece by jagged piece, stacks swallowed, beacon-towers gone as if some giant child had swept them from a board. Banners grew heavy, beasts limp as river-drowned dogs. Even the wind forgot itself, creeping over the deck in small, careful steps, like a servant crossing a room where a lord lay ill.

The fleet held together by trust and counting.

Oars spoke through wet wood in the body more than the ear—steady rhythm running from hull to hull, call and answer carried across the hidden water. Stag’s Mercy felt ahead like a knife testing cloth, wary of rock that had forgotten it was land. Men moved with the grave caution of a sept, hands and tongues mindful of every word spent. Somewhere a pulley squealed; grease and a gloved palm taught it modesty.

Wool pulled at Sansa’s throat. The cloak drank the fog and grew heavier, dragging at shoulders that had learned weight by many names—crown, chain, brother. Salt gathered at the back of her tongue; a heartbeat later, iron joined it. And as the distance failed, the eye went hunting smaller truths: the bead of water swelling along the gunwale until it chose a path; the fleeting quiver at a boy’s mouth before he ground it flat; the once-twice flex of a gauntlet, then the deliberate decision to be still.

“It’s wrong,” Brienne said, helm under her arm, hair darkened to copper rope by the wet. Her voice stayed level, a sword kept in a well-tended scabbard. “This fog. Not natural sea-mist. There’s rot in it.”

A tiller-man coughed too confidently—the sound of a man arguing with himself. “Fog’s fog, my lady. Seen worse off Tarth. The Stepstones are always—”

“Seas keep ledgers,” Tyrion cut in gently from near the mast, collar soaked black, salt drawing pale rivers through the beard on his scarred face. “Perhaps the Stepstones are settling an old account, with interest.”

His eyes slid to Sansa. “You should be below. Fog never did learn the proper deference to queens.”

“Neither did the Red Keep,” she said, gaze fixed on a horizon that had become an act of faith. “I will not wait in a box for whatever hunts us.”

A gull screamed once out in the gray. Nothing answered it. The sound went out and did not come back.

Boots rang quick on the ladder. Gendry appeared, hands stained to the wrist with pitch and salt, a rag at his belt the color of a ship’s bad history. “Wind’s swung more northerly,” he said, pitching his voice low as if the fog might steal it. “If this thickens, we’ll lose sight of the rear by noon.”

“And if it thins, will we see better?” Tyrion asked, brow tilting like a coin testing which way to fall.

“Then we’ll see what’s coming,” Gendry answered, plain as iron. No bravado lived in the set of his jaw. The forge had taught him what all good smiths learned: measure twice, strike once.

“If danger hides in it,” Sansa said, “then we ride close. Call the others in.”

“Horns are no good,” Gendry muttered, squinting toward where three familiar silhouettes should have bobbed by count and chart. “Sound goes missing in this. You blow, and it comes back wrong. Stranger’s breath,” he added, like confessing to a childhood superstition.

A Stormlander made seven slow, too-careful points over his breast. The North had no easy signs; its gods were bark and wind and the hush before snow fell from a branch.

Out on the starboard blur a shape declared itself by what it was not—absence where presence ought to be. Then lanterns swam up through the gray, hooded so their light leaked like secrets. The Wolfsblood prowled there, stubborn Northern hull, her decks a map of the North in the slump of men’s shoulders and the reach of their stride. A taller figure walked that deck as if it were a Winterfell yard—broad-shouldered, the length of his step turning planks into packed earth. He lifted two fingers toward Stag’s Mercy: I see you. I intend to see you again, if any gods still mind their bargains.

“He hates water,” Tyrion murmured at her side.

“So do most men,” came a boy’s voice, too soft to belong to anyone seasoned. “Until they drown.”

He could not have been older than Arya had been the first time she’d wrapped her fingers around a blade. His spit made a perfect circle on the deck and refused to spread. Brienne turned her helm a fraction toward him; chastened, he found something very important to study in his boots.

The fog breathed in, a long indulgent draw. Lanterns blurred, fled, returned as smeared halos. Oars rasped old wood songs and were not answered.

“Hold her steady,” Brienne called—a beam laid across a dark hall. “Keep true.”

“Keep… true…” the fog replied, a heartbeat late.

The hairs lifted on Sansa’s wrists beneath damp wool. “That wasn’t echo,” she said, and only realized she’d spoken when the helmsman twisted toward her.

“M’lady?”

Another sound drifted through the gray—not rope-song, not oar, not surf on rock. It was a slow, wet drag somewhere ahead, as if something large drew itself along the underside of the world.

“Reef?” Gendry asked reflexively, already knowing better.

“There’s no swell,” Brienne answered, listening with her whole body. “No birds.”

“Birds withdraw their credit from the world quicker than we do,” Tyrion said, rubbing life into his fingers. “We should take the hint. Still, we stay.”

The air cooled going into the lungs. Not honest winter-cold, but the trapped chill of crypts. Shapes half-formed and, when properly studied, politely refused to be.

“Stranger’s breath,” a man whispered behind Sansa, words scarcely bread-thick. “Saw it off the Arbor once. Lyseni cog swallowed whole. fog sounded like—”

“Keep your tales,” Brienne said, without real rebuke. “Fear makes fools of us as it is.”

“Aye, my lady.”

Work shrank to necessity. Voices learned modesty. The fog had the manners of an irritable king just roused from sleep; no one wanted his eye.

Something moved off the starboard bow—near now, certain.

A seam opened in the gray as if torn with careful hands. Through it slid a ship.

No banner flew. Her hull wore black the way some men wear certainties. Water sheeted down her flanks in clean, unnatural lines, not the disorderly slap of honest sea. Where most lords carve saints or beasts at their prows, this one bore a kraken knotted in on itself, tentacles curling back to bite their own coils. Its eyes were disks of green glass, lit from within by a pulse like a memory resisting correction.

Beneath the figurehead hung the Bell.

At first glance, Sansa thought it a swollen barnacle or some monstrous clapper grown too large. Only as it swung gently in the still air did its shape declare itself—black metal neither bronze nor iron, veined with hair-thin threads of white that reminded her of heart-trees under snow. Runes crawled its flanks in three rings: one that might have been Valyrian, another that might have been First Men scratchings, the last no script she knew at all.

It did not move with the sea. The sea moved with it.

“Ironborn?” someone breathed.

Gendry answered before the question had finished. “No. Not their build. And no smith made that bell.”

Tyrion took one slow step backward, as if distance could be summoned by will. “New,” he said, humor pulled thin as wire. “Or very, very old, and ill-tempered at being disturbed.”

The ship advanced without oar, without sail. No wake swelled behind her. The fog stitched itself closed in her path, neat as any housewife’s seam. Childhood returned to Sansa in a single hard breath—old stories told in whispers of the Drowned God’s halls, of bells rung under black water to call the faithful home. Under those ghosts lay another, newer fear: Bran beneath a heart-tree, eyes too white, ravens blackening the sky.

Ghost appeared at her side without being seen to climb the ladder—white against gray, snow in a dead wood. His ears pricked forward; a ripple ran from skull to tail. The sound he made wasn’t quite a growl. It was the thought of one made flesh.

“See to the men,” Sansa told Brienne quietly. “If they break now, the sea will finish what the Bell starts.”

“Aye,” Brienne answered, visor lowering with a flat, final bite. “If they board, they meet steel.”

Gendry’s voice rose, iron on anvil. “Oars to ready! Archers low! No loose string without my word.” Closer, pitched for her alone: “You tell me when.”

Her fingers sank into Ghost’s ruff. His fur felt like stone dredged from a riverbed. A tooth bared, white as old bone, as the kraken eyes brightened from dull green to a paler, hungrier shade.

Sound thinned. Plank-creak became suggestion. Men’s words evaporated between mouth and air.

Then the Bell stirred.

Not with any rope or hand. The black metal shivered as if a finger no one could see had tapped it, testing. A faint hum slipped from it—low, intimate, like the first note someone finds on a lyre in an empty hall. The vibration crawled into the hulls, into bones, into teeth.

The first toll followed.

It was not heard so much as suffered.

The world broke on it.

Every other noise dropped away, flayed clean from the air. Oars froze mid-stroke. A gull hung above the water, wings outstretched, every feather caught as if painted. Waves that had been shouldering the rocks of the Broken Arm a heartbeat before now stood still, carved in glass. Rain that had started to bead on the rails hung in the air in a thousand tiny quivering spheres.

For a heartbeat, the sea forgot how to move. So did time.

Something in Sansa’s head cracked. The cracking was not pain. It was intrusion.

Voices flooded in.

Not one, nor two, but a tangled choir: a maester reading from a book he had not written yet; Arya at eight, laughing with a mouth full of snow; her mother calling the children in from the godswood; Joffrey’s scream as the poison took him; Tommen falling forever; a raven’s croak dragging syllables into a word. Snow and red leaves breathed at the back of it all.

Sister, said a presence that was not voice and not quite thought.

You see it.

Her knees nearly went. Ghost braced himself under her hand, teeth snapping once at empty air, as if he felt something trying to slip past him into her.

Men bled.

Thin scarlet lines appeared at nostrils, ears, the corners of eyes. One Stormlander clapped his hands over his mouth; when he looked down, his palms were red. Another sailor laughed, high and wild, because his fingers had gone numb and did not feel the blood.

The Wolfsblood, out on their starboard quarter, shuddered. Sansa watched her only by the mind’s insistence that she must exist—her lines were half-swallowed already. Men on her decks moved like puppets underwater. One threw his head back in a soundless scream; another fell to his knees and clawed at his own face as if trying to peel it off.

The Bell tolled again.

This time the note climbed, thin and bright, cutting as winter stars.

A Northern galley three ships back—Black Heron—rose out of the suddenly-stilled sea as if cupped by invisible hands. No swell carried her. The water did not move. Her keel lifted clean; oars dangled loose. The men aboard flailed for purchase not on planks, but on sanity.

For the space of a breath, all her ribs showed, every seam and peg laid bare as if the world had become glass around her. Sansa saw rowers at their benches, saw the lines of old breaks in a mast. Saw, impossibly, faces pressed against the inside of the hull, as if the sea itself had skeletons trying to get back in.

Then reality blinked.

The ship un-made.

No crack, no shower of splinters. One heartbeat there was a galley full of men. The next there was empty gray, and, falling back into suddenly-loosed water, only the thin crushed ring of what had been her Bell.

Twelve to eleven to ten ships, and they had not yet drawn a sword.

Prayers leaked from men’s mouths without permission. “Father.” “Mother.” “Old gods keep us.” A boy whispered “Maester,” because that remained the only word he owned for help. A Stormlander spat “Seven damn it,” but nothing answered.

Warm wet touched Sansa’s lip. She wiped her nose with the back of her glove; the tremor in her arm did not belong wholly to the cold.

Gendry had a bright line of blood running from one ear. He didn’t seem to feel it. “Hold fast!” he roared, but the Bell bent his voice around the note. Men heard him as something else: their wife’s call, their child’s first cry, the wind in red leaves above Winterfell’s pool. A Karhold veteran smiled beatifically and stepped for the rail. Brienne caught him by the collar and hauled him back, plate joints screaming.

He came up with a knife in his hand and the green of ship’s glass in his eyes. Brienne’s pommel kissed his temple—firm, merciful. He folded, breathing.

Under the planks, something turned.

It was not the roll and flex of ordinary sea. The whole hull rose and fell once in a slow pulse, as though she floated on the chest of a sleeping giant. A sound like singing and moaning braided together surged up through the oak. Each man heard what would unmake him: for one, the crack of ice under thin boots; for another, a child drowning in a well; for Tyrion, the rush of wildfire and his own voice begging Bronn to run.

The third toll fell.

This one had weight.

The frozen waves moved again—but not as they had before. Water climbed the Bell’s note like a ladder, rising smooth and cylindrical beneath the kraken-prowed ship. She rode that column of sea up out of the fog, hull dripping in straight rivulets. The Bell swung lazily in its frame, not matching the motion. Its sound came from inside men’s skulls now, not air.

Green light walked under the surface.

A Stormlands galley to larboard—Trout’s Luck—split along the grain. Not shattered. Unzipped. Planks peeled back like the ribs of a barrel. Rowers slid with them, arms pinwheeling, mouths open in screams they could not hear. For a single obscene moment, they hung there—men and timbers and oars like the bones of a great fish laid open—before the sea decided it remembered gravity and closed in. The light guttered. Water slammed shut. Where there had been a ship, there was churned froth and floating debris.

“Nine,” Tyrion said hoarsely. “We are down to nine.”

“Back water!” Sansa shouted, throat tearing around the words.

The fog laid a hand on their chests and did not let them go. Oarsmen heaved, backs straining, but the blades bit nothing. The oarlocks complained without rhythm.

The kraken-ship swung abeam of them—near enough that Sansa could see the runes on the Bell clearly now. Some were burned into the metal like brands; others crawled, rearranging themselves as she watched, letters bleeding into leaf-shapes, then into waves, then into a pattern of rings that made her think of the heart-tree’s eyes.

A shape stood at the prow.

Height belonged to it first. Armor followed—a coat of drowned iron scales slick with brine. Hair hung in ropey gray strands, beard tangled with weed. In one bare hand was nothing at all, yet the flesh of that palm glowed sullen red, as if some forge-coal had been banked there and never allowed to die. Its mouth moved, but the Bell spoke for it.

Not words. Not in any tongue Sansa knew. Yet meaning crawled through the marrow.

What is dead may never die, the sense came, not as a phrase but as an old law the world itself had once signed.

Beneath it, under that, like something listening from the far side of the earth, the whisper of leaves.

We are watching.

The deck disagreed, bucking under them as another vast pulse rolled through the sea. A spar tore loose and fell, crushing a man’s shoulder into three wrong angles with a wet pop Sansa had heard once before, in a locked Lannister chamber. Another rope snapped and whipped across a deckhand’s arm; his skin opened to the bone in a neat red smile. He stared at it, bewildered, until the blood convinced him to scream.

The fog around her thickened like boiling milk. Her lanterns went out all at once, snuffed as if fingers had pinched their wicks. Where her masts had been, there was only bruise-colored smudge.

“Glover!” Tyrion shouted at the nothing. “To the Seven Hells with this—Glover!”

No echo returned.

The Bell’s note sharpened again, rising to a pitch that made teeth ring. Hair lifted along forearms and the back of Sansa’s neck.

“Lanterns,” she said, voice raw. “Two fore, two aft. Hooded. Now.”

Sanity moved down the deck in little yellow islands as men obeyed. Pools of light sprang up, pushing fog back by arm’s breadths. In one of them, a Northern sailor clung to a length of floating spar that had fetched up against their hull, Stark wolf washed almost clean from his torn surcoat. His lips moved ceaselessly.

“What is he saying?” Sansa asked.

Brienne leaned down, visor raised. “He says someone is calling him home. ‘He says fly.’” Her voice went strange. “‘See how high we fly if we fall far enough.’”

“Quietly, now,” she told the man, gentler than any command. “You’re home enough. Stay with us.”

Another toll gathered.

Sansa felt this one before it came, like a pressure behind the eyes. The Bell had become a thing beyond iron and sound. It rang in the marrow. It rang in the roots of whatever trees still dared the coasts.

Something in the fog moved with it. Not on the surface—within it. Bulges slid through the gray, as if giant unseen creatures were swimming just under the skin of the world. Every time one passed through a ship’s ghost-outline in the distance, the hull there shivered. One Stormlands cog simply folded around an invisible shape like a cloak around shoulders and vanished. No splinters. No cry.

Eight.

“Cut free!” Gendry bellowed suddenly. A rope from a drowning galley had snarled itself around one of their cleats, dragging Stag’s Mercy sideways toward… something. A hand grasped the line, fingers white with strain. Its owner had already gone under. Fingers twitched, trying to make a fist.

The axe bit twice. The rope parted. The hand thumped to the deck like a pale eel and slid away with the next sluggish roll.

A boy screamed as a loose block kissed his cheek, unzipping skin to the jaw. Blood slicked his collar. When he tried to cry again, the Bell swallowed the sound, feeding it back to him as his mother scolding him for mud on his boots.

Brienne stepped in front of another sailor just as he climbed the rail, eyes full of some soft home that wasn’t there. The flat of her blade laid itself across his throat, not cutting; the cold of the steel shocked him back into his body. “No,” she said. That word was a rope tossed across a gulf. He clung to it, shaking.

The Bell’s hum reached a pitch that made the air itself seem to flicker. Fine cracks spidered through the world. For an instant Sansa saw them—hair-thin black fractures running through sky, sea, mast, men. Through herself. As if the Bell had reminded the world it was only glass after all.

Something on the other side looked back.

It wore white eyes and ravens’ wings and a boy’s face grown remote.

Meant to take one, brushed against the inside of her skull, silk gone cold. Took more. The sea has learned to listen.

“West,” Sansa managed. “Bring us west. Now.”

Questions died unborn. Orders lived. Men clawed their oars into motion. Stag’s Mercy shuddered, then, inch by inch, remembered how to move through water. The other surviving hulls—seven more, by her count, though her vision swam—dragged themselves into a stuttering line.

They did not flee so much as fall sideways out of the Bell’s direct regard.

As they did, the kraken-ship turned.

It did not tack. It did not lean. It pivoted on that column of frozen water as a weathervane turns on its nail. One heartbeat it faced them. The next her prow pointed north.

The Bell’s tolls began to lengthen, each one pealing farther out across the stunned sea.

“That’s wrong,” Gendry muttered. “Currents don’t run that way here.”

“The currents,” Tyrion said, voice sickened, “have evidently been demoted.” His gaze tracked the ship’s new heading, though there was precious little to see. “North,” he went on, as if forcing the word to sit straight. “Through the Gullet. Through Blackwater Bay.”

“King’s Landing,” Sansa said.

Her throat burned around the name.

“And Bran,” Tyrion added softly. “If the tales are true. If the ravens fly where he looks.”

Another crack ran through the air—felt, not heard. In her mind’s eye, Sansa saw the Red Keep’s towers like teeth, saw the great sept that was no more, saw a boy in a wheeled chair beneath a dead weirwood. Saw the sea beneath the city’s cliffs, listening.

They had thought to outrun war. Instead, war had taken to water.

“Row,” she said. The word came out flat as an order to servants. “We make Sunspear, or that thing makes King’s Landing first. And whatever it serves finds him.”

Men bent to the oars with a kind of broken obedience. The fog began to thin by grudges. The Bell’s note receded, still tolling, but farther and farther away, like some monstrous lighthouse calling ships to a shore where only bones waited.

Seven. Eight… nine? She counted again, forcing her vision to steady.

Nine hulls in all: Stag’s Mercy; two battered Stormlands cogs; four Northern galleys rowing crabwise with damaged banks; one small trader whose crew looked half-dead with shock; a lean Lyseni prize flying no colors. Twelve had entered the Broken Arm. Three were gone without a single piece of honest wreck to mark their graves.

Brienne made her own count in silence. Whatever arithmetic she did remained behind her visor. “Black Heron,” she said quietly. “The Wolfsblood. Trout’s Luck.” Names given not to the sea, but to the ledger Sansa kept in her heart. “Two score hurt badly. More… wrong in the head.”

“I put one down,” she added, still soft. “He wouldn’t stop walking toward the rail.”

“Reckonings keep their own clocks,” Sansa said, palm flat on the rail so the damp could soak through glove to skin, anchoring her to something. “The sea asks no leave, and no pardon.”

Behind them, the fog at last tore itself apart, leaving a bruise of thicker gray on the water where the Bell had been most itself. The stain did not move with tide. It simply sat, like a thought no one wanted to claim.

Ahead, to the east and south, the sky brightened in stingy coins. When the sun finally showed, it wore the color of iron fresh from the forge—dull red at the edges, heart white. Under that wrong light, colors crept back by inches: ropes remembered they were brown, blood dried to brown-black, cloaks found patches of blue and green.

“Sun’ll burn it off,” Gendry said, for the men as much as for himself. He nodded toward where the stain had been. “Fog. Bell. Whatever that was.”

“Or us,” Tyrion replied, mild as any winter sun. “Either way, something will be burned.”

Ghost limped along the fore deck, favoring his wounded side. The cut had clotted, but his gait remained stiff. He refused to lie down. Sansa laid her hand along his spine, fingers careful of the space around pain. “Good,” she murmured to him. “Good wolf.”

It was a poor word for what he had done—throwing himself at a god’s toy—but it was the only one she had that would not break in her mouth.

Work resumed in stuttering fits. Boards were pried up and replaced over splintered ribs. Blood was sanded, salted, forgotten badly, then remembered again in the night. A hammer rang in slow, stubborn beats. Someone wrapped a hand with no owner in canvas and tucked it by the rail, as if reluctant to consign it to the deep just yet. Brienne cleaned her sword with almost priestly care. Tyrion tore a strip from his cloak and bound the split on Sansa’s knuckle she had not noticed until he did it.

“And how shall we tell this tale?” he asked, without even reaching for wit. “What name do we give it? Men endure better when they can sing what hurt them.”

“Not a song,” she said, watching the iron-colored light shiver across the ordinary waves that had reclaimed the Broken Arm. “A warning.”

Somewhere north, too far to see yet near enough to feel, a Bell tolled again. Faint. Insistent.

The sea has never been kind to wolves.

Kindness was not the point. Only that the sea know they knew it. And that, in Sunspear, they would put words around this horror and send them north faster than any ship could run, toward a city of red stone and a boy beneath a tree who had taught the world to listen.

Aegon

Location: Sunspear, the Water Gardens

Heat held the chamber the way a forge holds its breath before the swing. Braziers along the walls burned low and steady, their coals a bed of sullen orange. Somewhere deeper in Sunspear, a chain lifted a portcullis link by patient link; the sound reached the war room as a long iron whisper beneath the crackle of flame.

Sand on the painted map remembered every touch. Aegon’s fingers had carved paths through it so often that the riverbeds and coastlines had taken on a second geography—one made of worry and will rather than ink.

Beside the letters lay the thing Jaehaerys had dragged out of Oldtown’s depths.

The tome sat squat and heavy near the edge of the table, its cracked leather darkened by the oils of hands long turned to dust. Threads the color of dried blood stitched its spine in a crosshatched pattern that suggested binding rather than simple mending. Runes curled along the cover in a script that seemed to shift when the light caught it wrong, as if the lines took offense at being looked at too closely.

No one reached for it. Even the Dornish lords—men who rode sandstorms for sport and hunted vipers bare-armed—kept a wary distance, their gazes sliding back to it in quiet, reluctant passes.

Arianne let her fingertip drift along the drawn river and stop at the mouth where blue thread met painted sea. “A tide that listens,” she mused, voice even as a blade laid flat. “And bells that aren’t bells. I would prefer enemies I can throw a spear at.”

“Most folk would,” Davos said. A little tilt of his head turned agreement into something that felt as inevitable as weather.

The semicircle of lords shifted, silk and leather whispering, suspicion and curiosity trading places. One cleared his throat and discovered he had nothing better than silence to contribute. Another gave Asher a long, measuring look, as though trying to decide whether the North sent men or carved him out of a pine trunk.

Aurane hadn’t moved since the council began. Stillness wrapped around him like another garment, not rigid but poised, the way a ship braces for a sudden crosswind that has not yet shown itself.

“What we can spear, we will,” Trystane said, easing himself between rising tempers the way a careful hand slips between flames. “What we cannot, we will outlast. And some things we will out think.”

“Out thinkin’ is well and good,” Asher put in, consonants clean as frost, “so long as the men at the center know what they’re standin’ for.”

The words landed like a mailed fist laid down hard on wood. Not a challenge; merely Northern plainness, which has never seen the use of speaking around a thing when one can walk straight through it. A few younger lords bristled at the lack of ceremony. The elder among them watched instead, weighing the worth of a man who forgot, or refused, to bow to sentences.

Aurane’s tone came mild as late dusk on calm water. “Sailors don’t ask the sea to change,” he said. “They ask the captain to say which shore he’ll die for and which he won’t. Clarity keeps ships together when the sky turns wrong.”

Aegon did not reach for the scattered letters. Hands remained spread on the map’s edge, claiming the world by its corners and anchoring him to it. “Clarity is why you’re here,” he said.

“Then hear some.” Asher’s voice softened, and that gentling made the weight of it fall heavier. “You’re settin’ a stone in Dorne and another in the North, and layin’ a beam between. Walls and roof—I ken the shape.” His gaze flicked, quick as a snowflake, to the carved wolf on the board. “But if you’re layin’ the roof on a man’s shoulders, you ought to be sure the man is square to it.”

Davos leaned forward a fraction, the motion as subtle as a hand closing on a bridle. “There are ways to say truth,” he offered, “that don’t splash on every lord’s boots.”

“It’s rainin’ on all our heads, is what it is,” came the answer, heat beginning to fog the iron. “And if we’re to stand the storm, we’d best set our feet where our hearts won’t slide.”

Arianne’s smile involved no teeth and a great deal of understanding. “A Northerner speaks of hearts in a Dornish court,” she said lightly. “The singers will want that line.”

“Leave the singers to their cups,” Asher muttered, but a fractional incline of his head took the edge off the words—respect for the room, if not its perfumes.

Aurane spared Aegon the courtesy of directing his eyes to him and not to the watching lords. “Your Grace, the Knight of the Sea has a way of saying caution that spares pride. Best let him say all of it.”

Davos obliged, folding one weathered hand over the other on the table. “Banners and names are one thing,” he said. “Asking a man you respect to be mortar is another. Before you fix him to it, ask whether he”—a pause, light as the slip of a knot through fingers—“is willing to carry that weight as you intend it.”

Silence moved outward from the words, past the table’s edge and into the listening habits of the room. Arianne’s lashes lifted a hair’s breadth, marking that she’d caught the scent beneath the speech. Trystane kept his mediator’s posture, hands open on the wood, but one thumb pressed down until the grain paled.

“You speak of duty as if it were choice,” a minor lord ventured, bravado reaching for bravery. “In Dorne, we ask for both. If your—captain—” the title went to Davos and found its way back to Aegon, “—wavers, bind him with love and law together.”

“Bind a man’s heart wrong,” Asher said, without granting the young lord so much as a glance, “and you’ll win a wedding and lose a war.”

The retort withered before it could reach daylight. Heat from the braziers turned the air heavy. Outside the high, narrow window, dawn moved a finger’s breadth higher along the rim of visible sky, brightening the stone to a dull, watchful gold.

Arianne, to her credit, chose grace over goad. “There is a difference,” she said, “between a heart that will not bend and one that will break if bent too far. We are not in the habit of breaking what we intend to keep.”

“A wise habit,” Aurane murmured, neutral as a chart. “Men follow better when they’re not bleeding inside their armor.”

Trystane took the opening and widened it into a bridge. “We all want the same end,” he said. “A realm that holds while we answer what listens in the deeps. The question is the means. If the bond fails because the heart cannot bear it, we will have traded two fronts for five.”

“It will not fail.” Aegon let certainty sit in his voice until the room leaned a little toward it. Three men dropped their gaze. Two others believed him. “If there is bending,” he added, “I will share the bend.”

A murmur followed, the sound of people measuring whether they had just been comforted or managed. It was a good sentence, and it had cost him more than he cared to show. The coin did not reach his face.

“Then ask,” Asher pressed, soft as cut leather. “Ask the man you mean to set as your wall whether he can be that shape. Not later. Not after you’ve told the masons where to lay the stone.”

The name sat half-formed in his throat, sharp as a shard of glass. Jaehaerys. Brother. Blade he meant to wield and shield he meant to hide behind in the same breath.

Davos moved first, stepping into the impending fracture with a sailor’s ease. “Questions of the heart travel better in small boats,” he said. “Let the council carry the realm and leave the river’s ford to folk who can cross quiet.”

Arianne’s teasing returned, feather-light to keep steel from striking stone. “A heart and a ford,” she said. “Gods help the singers—there’s a whole verse in this room and no one drunk enough to sing it.”

Polite laughter let the air move again, albeit as grudgingly as old hinges.

One of the elder counselors reached up then and cleared his throat. His skin looked like sun-baked parchment stretched thin over bone; his voice sounded carved from the same. “If Oldtown’s letter is true,” he said, “and something tugs at the wards, then marriages may delay panic, but they will not drown bells in deep water. Yet a calm shore makes for steadier hands at the ropes.” His eyes slid to Aegon with the courtesy of a man who had seen princes come and go. “It is not wrong to want both, Your Grace.”

“It is not wrong,” Aegon agreed. “It is necessary.”

The old man’s gaze flicked toward the edge of the table, to the ugly weight of the tome resting there.

Shadows from the braziers crawled across its cracked leather. The stitched spine seemed to tighten in the heat, as if something beneath pulled inward. No rustle came from within, yet the silence around it had its own texture, thick as old dust in a forgotten vault.

Aurane followed the line of that look. “And there is that,” he said quietly. “Oldtown did not bend for dragons and speeches alone.”

A thread of unease tickled the back of Aegon’s neck. “The tome,” he said, though everyone’s thoughts had already gone there. “Jaehaerys said the archmaesters dragged it out from under their own foundations.”

“Carved into the bedrock long before the Hightowers raised their tower,” the elder counselor recalled, eyes narrowing. “Old truths they did not dare name in daylight.”

Fingers hovered above the book for a moment before Aegon let them settle against the leather. The cover felt warmer than the air. Not hot, but living—like a beast in shallow sleep. Runes along the spine shone faintly where his thumb brushed them, then dulled again as if offended.

“We talk of roofs and walls,” he said. “Best know what storm we’re roofing against.”

The clasp yielded with a dry little sigh. The spine cracked in protest as he opened it, the sound like ice shearing on a winter river. Dust breathed up in a fine, grey veil, caught firelit for a heartbeat before sinking to the parchment again.

The script that greeted him wasn’t Valyrian. Wasn’t any maester’s hand, nor the sharp-angled scrawl of the First Men. The marks looked as if they had been carved into the page rather than written—lines that hooked and curled like roots searching for purchase in stone.

Aurane leaned nearer, careful not to let his shadow fall across the ink. “Not the Old Tongue,” he murmured.

“Older,” the elder said, voice softening with a respect that bordered on fear. “Children’s marks. Or whatever wrote in their stead when the world was younger.”

Aegon forced his eyes to follow the lines. The runes seemed to wriggle when he tried to fix them, but fragments rose to meet him anyway, like truths that wanted, and did not want, to be spoken.

“He who sees all threads is no man,” he translated slowly. “He who sits the roots sits the world. To cut him is to cut the weave itself.”

Trystane’s jaw tightened. “The Three-Eyed Raven,” he said. Not a question.

A page turned under Aegon’s fingers with the weight of stone being shifted. More ink. More warnings. The air near the book felt cooler now, as if the flames had drawn back in spite.

“When the Bell rings without sound,” he read, “when the Bell calls without tongue, the roots will wake and the dead will walk living, at his command.”

A subtle shudder moved through the room. Not the kind that makes men reach for steel; the kind that makes them reach for old prayers they no longer believe in.

Arianne leaned forward, voice low. “The Bell? What is that?” Her eyes moved around the table. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

Uncertainty rippled through the others. No one offered an answer.

Asher’s thumb traced the table’s edge. “Could be a riddle,” she said, though doubt pulled at her tone. “Or… an object. But a bell that rings without sound?” She shook her head. “That’s no craft I know.”

Davos exhaled slowly, his hand tightening over an old scar. “I’ve sailed through storms that sounded like singing. Heard whales moan like dying gods.” His brow furrowed. “But nothing like this. Nothing that calls without a tongue.”

A faint chill drifted through the room, dimming the torches as though the walls themselves were listening.

Aurane studied the line again. “Oldtown keeps records of every relic and cursed bauble since the Conquest,” he said. “There’s no Bell among them. No mention at all.”

Eyes shifted across the table — a shared, uneasy silence. Aegon kept his gaze fixed on the parchment, jaw tight, expression unreadable.

“So where does it come from?” Arianne asked. Her fingers stilled on the map. “If no one’s heard of it… who forged it?”

No one answered. The question hung in the dim air, heavy as the prophecy itself.

Whatever the Bell was, none of them had known it existed. And now that they did, none wished to hear it ring.

The ink on the page seemed to darken as Aegon read on.

“Light cannot kill the Seer,” he said. “Fire cannot scour him. Steel cannot cut him. For roots run deeper than flame or forge.”

Heat pressed closer from the braziers, as if arguing.

Davos swallowed once, throat working against whatever rose there. “Then what can?” he asked.

Another section of text crouched near the bottom of the page, lines more jagged than the rest, like a hand had trembled or fought itself as it carved the words. Aegon hesitated, then gave them voice.

“To unmake the Unseeing One,” he read, “‘seek the root that is not rooted, the eye that was never opened, the hand that does not touch. Where the first lie was born, there the last truth must be spoken.’”

Arianne let out a breath that might almost have been a laugh if there had been any humor left in her. “That is no answer,” she said. “That is a riddle wrapped in madness.”

“Madness or mercy,” the elder counselor murmured. “Sometimes they wear the same face.”

Asher’s mouth twisted, head tilting as she turned the words over. “Root that’s not rooted,” she said. “Eye that’s never opened. Hand that doesn’t touch. Sounds like the sort of tripe the old crones in the Frostfangs would mutter when they wanted you to go away.”

“Or the sort of truth that can’t be said straight,” Davos replied. “The first lie might be the Pact. Or the breaking of it. Or the first time men asked the trees for more than they were meant to have.”

“Or the place where it happened,” Trystane added. “Where men first put their hands on whatever power the Children kept.”

The thought of Bran seated in roots older than kingdoms flickered at the edges of Aegon’s mind—the way Jae had described it: eyes rolled white, voice gone flat as still water. A boy king who felt the world like a net pressed to his skin.

He shut the tome.

The sound of it closing was not loud, but it carried. Something in the room seemed to exhale at once, though the air did not feel any lighter.

“This is why Oldtown bent,” he said. “Not for my brother’s name, nor for Drogon’s shadow alone. The maesters knew the thing on the throne is not a king at all.”

Aurane’s gaze stayed on the sealed cover. “And they knew that if it is not stopped, their bells will never ring true again.”

Aegon straightened slowly, hands flattening on either side of the tome. “It changes nothing,” he said. “Only clarifies what was already before us. Bran’s roots reach everywhere—Oldtown’s bells, the fog in the Kingswood, the silence in King’s Landing. If he senses what we intend, Sansa will vanish into whatever shadow has swallowed the rest.”

Davos nodded once, the motion small but final. “Then we move before this Bell rings,” he said. “Or before it rings where we can’t reach.”

The map waited between them, studded with carved tokens: suns for Dorne, towers for the Reach, wolves and krakens and ships. The wolf and the bronze stag lay nearer than they had at the start of the council—some clerk’s inattention, or fate’s.

Aegon nudged them apart with his thumb until each stood clear.

“No banners on the water,” he said. “Drums in threes only. Letters as they are to Yronwood and the Hightower.” Dark eyes met Arianne’s. “Names kept in the scabbard until I have what I need.”

Her mouth curved, a glint like sunlight off a curved blade in the look she gave him. “I’ll ready the lords whose tongues I trust,” she said. “Those who love me will obey. Those who do not will pretend to.”

“See that they pretend well,” he replied, dry as old sand.

Trystane inclined his head. “I’ll speak with the princes of the bone-road,” he said. “Quiet paths. No dust plumes to give us away.”

“Aurane,” Aegon added, turning, “shade the harbor lamps. Let our own captains see enough, and no more.”

“It will be done,” the bastard of Driftmark answered.

“Asher,” came next, the name a quiet permission to stay. “You remain in Sunspear until I send. Your honesty has a place at this table.”

“Aye,” she said simply. The word dropped onto the stone like a pledge.

“And you, Ser Davos—” a faint, wry tilt tugged at his mouth “—choose your crews with your own eyes. Take the Gannet and live.”

“Aye,” the old smuggler answered, and there was more than obedience in it. There was the weary, stubborn agreement of a man who had survived too many storms to pretend this would be anything else.

The council broke as rivers break—branching rather than ceasing. Men gathered parchment and purpose. Women gathered cloaks and the eyes that would follow them down the corridors. Arianne’s perfume etched a curved line toward the arched doorway. Trystane’s shadow fell briefly across the carved wolf before he stepped around it with quiet care, as if to avoid bruising the North with his heel. Davos lingered, fingers tapping twice against the table in a gesture that served as both farewell and benediction.

In time, even he went.

Only when the war room had thinned to the hiss of lamps and the slow breathing of coals did the shape of what had not been said draw itself fully into the air. The sea spoke faintly through the stone, a muted pulse beneath Sunspear’s foundations. Outside, the sun would be climbing, turning the courtyards to white heat and the Water Gardens to shards of light.

Inside, the tome rested near Aegon’s hand like a stone dropped in the center of a web.

He touched the spine with his thumb, feeling the raised pattern of the stitches. “Two walls,” he told the empty chamber, because naming it made it feel less like a prayer and more like a sum. “One roof.”

Jaehaerys upon the Iron Throne, Arianne at his side to yoke Dorne once more to the Crown, and Sansa freed at last—her marriage to him a bridge strong enough to steady the North.

The pairings felt less like strategy and more like the realm arranging its own balance, as if the Seven whispered of a kingdom mended: Jaehaerys to rule, Aegon to guide his hand, and the fractures of Westeros slowly knit closed.

From the doorway, Davos’s voice came low, caught before it could echo. “Ask him yourself, lad,” he said. “Before the sea does.”

No answer followed; none was owed. Footsteps faded down the hall. Silence stepped back into the room and closed the door behind it.

Outside, ropes creaked as men made shadows into ships. Gull cries scraped thinly across the distant harbor. Within Sunspear’s walls, the smell of baking bread began to creep in—small, impertinent mercy in a room that had seen none.

Wax from a broken seal clung to Aegon’s thumb, stubborn as guilt. He rubbed at it until the skin burned, heat finding bone, but the faint stain remained, a red echo pressed into the whorls of his prints.

For the first time since the ravens had come, the thought finished itself clean and whole inside him without cracking.

If he bleeds for it, I bleed with him, he told himself. But I will not be the knife.

The tome offered no comfort. Closed, it seemed almost to listen.

Beneath the stone and far to the north, roots he could not see stretched and strained toward the sound of an unseen bell.

Sunspear inhaled with the sea. Aegon set his hand flat on the map between wolf and sun and learned, in the weight of that moment, how to carry a morning without letting it carry him.