32 The Pack Survives

"Words cannot describe the gratitude I have for your actions that night, Lady Sand." Atop the Black Throne of Aegon the Conqueror before his formation of a united Westeros, the munificent smile on Daenerys' face was completely genuine. Had it not been for Tyene Sand, Jorah would have died and Euron would have probably taken the twins - her fists clenched at the thought of him. No body had been found by the search teams. 'He got away!' If she ever found the Ironborn again, Dany vowed to have Balerion burn him alive.

As it stood, she owed the Dornish resistance leader a huge debt. One she hoped to repay.

Tyene, on her part, curtseyed modestly. "Anyone with a sense of morality and honor would have done the same, your Grace." She swallowed, remembering what her mother had made her vow after Oberyn's dead. "The innocent among us do not deserve to be harmed." 'I understand that now.' "You need not reward me."

"But I shall." Straightening her back, Dany radiated power and prestige, black woolen dress with a red trim and a silver dragon pendant around her neck. There was no denying she was a queen. Violet eyes quickly made Varys', the rotund eunuch nodding ever so slightly. Advice and confirmation was what advisors were for - but this decision was hers and Jon's. "And if the future King was here, he would agree. Tyene Sand, do you bend the knee and swear allegiance to me?"

Without hesitation, Tyene did so. The Martell creed was 'Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken,' but Tywin Lannister's campaign of rape and death had driven them to desperation. Daenerys Targaryen would be a kind ruler, a benevolent one. "I swear myself and my people to Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, first of her name."

Rising from her throne, Ser Jorah and Greyworm not far behind in protective pose, Daenerys slowly walked until her toes were mere inches from Tyene's hand resting on the smooth granite floor. "As the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms," she began, placing her palm on the Sand Snake's shoulder. "I hereby legitimize you with the name of your father and his house, and name you the rightful heir to your family's title. Rise, Tyene of House Martell, second of your name, rightful Princess of Dorne and Lady of Sunspear."

Eyes bugging out in shock, Tyene stood. All composure had left her as her jaw was slack. 'Legitimized… me?' Never in any of the various scenarios did she ever imagine this to be one of them. Not only to be the pretender to the throne of Dorne against her cousin, but as a legitimized daughter of Prince Oberyn. "My Queen, you overwhelm me with this honor." Still standing, Tyene nevertheless kept her eyes downcast. She was taller than the Dragon Queen but still felt her inferior in every way.

A soft, melodic laugh left Daenerys, grasping Tyene's hands. "It was my betrothed, Jon Snow, that suggested it. He is just as grateful to you for saving our children, the Crown Prince and Princess, regardless of him not being able to attend this audience."

"Please extend such to his Grace as well." She returned the Queen's smile. "He and I are not dissimilar, since Lord Snow and I share a common status at birth."

"Watch yourself," hissed Greyworm, face in a deeper scowl than usual. The Unsullied commander had grown an immense respect and gratitude to Jon after he saved Dany from Euron, almost as if he was glad for her to have a man that would protect her.

Tyene, though, lowered her head. "Forgive me my Queen, I did not mean offense." Being a bastard was less of a stigma in Dorne. She was sincerely trying to form a bond.

"It is alright," Daenerys said. "Jon has come to terms with his ancestry, considering it is not something to have little pride for." Now was not the time to reveal the truth, much as the truth made Dany swell with happiness. "Most of my advisors have departed for Winterfell, to secure our new alliance. As the Princess and Warden of Dorne, I hope you attend."

Grinning, she curtseyed again. "At your command, my Queen."

It was surreal for Daenerys. Boots clacking on the granite floors, intricate carvings of ancient Valyrian conquests adorning the walls, she was in awe at how far she came. As long as she had rested her feet on the grass and snow of her ancestral homeland, for the girl that had lived on Essos for the vast majority of her life it still was hard to fathom. She was home. Daenerys Targaryen had returned to reclaim her title.

And the voices she began to faintly hear proved that it wasn't just her title she was fighting for. "Poppa, are the bad men still out there?" Dany heard the fear in their voices.

She wouldn't be fighting for her title alone, either. "They won't hurt you, my sweet daughter." Jon's tone seemed flat, but it was actually brimming with emotion. Most couldn't be able to tell, but Daenerys could. "I would do anything to protect both of you. Your mother, your aunts and uncles, our dragons, my direwolf…"

"Will we get to meet the direwolf, poppa?" A small smile curved on her lips at Rhaegar's childhood enthusiasm. They would be alright, despite the trauma of Euron's raid.

Dany heard Jon laugh. "Of course. He'll love both of you. Don't be scared of him, he only harms enemies of the Starks."

"We're Starks, right?" Arya seemed adamant. "Momma is a dragon, but you're a wolf. We're dragonwolves."

"You are. My dragonwolves." After some muffled sounds and two kisses, Jon entered their chambers. Black circles under his eyes, he rolled his shoulders and groaned in melancholy. About to stomp tiredly to the bed, he looked up and stopped in his tracks at the sight of his betrothed. "Dany… I didn't hear you come in."

Wordlessly, Daenerys walked into his chest and hugged him tightly. "How are they?" she asked, face buried in his chest.

Jon sighed, wrapping his arms around his beloved. "Getting better." It had been her idea, allowing him to watch over the children for the last days. He deserved to know the blood of their blood - bond with them as deeply as Dany had. Running his fingers gently along her spine, Jon enjoyed the contented purrs against his chest. "They're happy during the day, but still have nightmares." He felt Dany grow hotter from each word he said.

"I will burn Euron Greyjoy alive." She had every intention of having Balerion do the deed. "Him and Joffrey both."

Tightening his hold, Jon used his inner ice to cool the fire. The wolf warring against the dragon. Steel versus passion. His beloved was all fire, while he had Stark blood to temper the Targaryen. "Daenerys… I cannot lose my family." He pulled back, exposing him at his most raw. "Arya, Rhaegar, Sansa, Robb… If I lost even one of you…"

Heart breaking at his pain, she kissed him. "You will not lose us. You have Longclaw, I have Saracen, and we both have armies and dragons." Daenerys wished she felt as confident as she sounded. "We will relocate to Winterfell. It'll be safer for the children there."

"Until the Night King comes." Nowhere could his family be safe, all corners of the world either in Joffrey's reach the Night King's. He could not take both at the same time, not even with six dragons and tens of thousands of men. "Daenerys, do you believe me about the Army of the Dead." Jon grabbed her waist. "I need you to believe me."

The chill in his gaze left Daenerys colder than she had ever been. "I believe you."

It was Jon who then kissed her. "The Night King is the greatest threat to mankind, but the Wall shields us from him. I can't see how he gets through, not at this time. Joffrey, though, is an imminent threat." Images of Euron nearly atop Dany were seared into his memory. "He will never stop. Tyrion is right. The only way to obtain our united front is for him to die - for us to kill him and take the Seven Kingdoms."

Daenerys smirked darkly. "We will end his horrid reign. You and me, my love." The exhilaration morphed into a gasp of lust as Jon ran his hand along her stomach. Searing their lips together in a passionate kiss, the two royals fell onto the bed.

"I need you Jon," Dany gasped. The mood changed suddenly to frantic lust - Jon from a wolf to a dragon in a heartbeat and she loved it. His lips blazed a trail of licks and bites down her neck and shoulders, sucking at her flesh. "Don't make me wait."

Jon shoved his trousers down without even bothering to unfasten them. Unperturbed by the ripping fabric, he hiked her dress to find nothing beneath it. "No underclothes?" he asked her, eyes meeting hers, which were so dark a violet to be almost black.

Nodding, she wrapped her legs around his hips, urging him inside her. "Ahhhh." Her dragonwolf always stretched her going in. It defied logic but Dany grew even wetter. "Take your dragon, Jon. Make her roar."

Growling, Jon slammed their lips together as he began a furious pace. A groan bubbled up from deep within him, her walls deliciously tight around his length. 'Gods, she is perfect.' Jon wanted to shatter her beneath him. To tame the ferocious Dragon Queen till she was nothing but a limp rag. The sounds of their hips smacking together again and again mixed with the ripping of fabric, her hands tearing his tunic apart from sheer lust and nails digging into his back. Pulling out to only slam into her again, Jon realized that she was wearing too much.

A gasp left Dany as her betrothed ripped the top of her dress, exposing her breasts to his hungry mouth. "Jooooonnnn…" she moaned, him latching onto a nipple as he continued to fuck her harder and harder. Daenerys ran her nails down his back, screaming as she suddenly tumbled over the edge. "FUCK, JON!"

Pumping harder into her to draw out her climax, Jon couldn't help but wince at the sting. Once the cloud of contentment dissipated, Dany looked at him with concern. "You scratched up my back, Dany," he chuckled.

Dany smirked, rolling them over until she was straddling his still hard cock. "Let me make it up to you, my King."

Rows and rows of golden armor, the glare of the sun reflected off the metal nearly blinding for miles around. Chimera, Lion, Archer, and other banners from various Westerlands and Stormlands houses fluttered in the breeze. It seemed as if all of Westeros was marching to war against the Dragon Queen and the Northern Bastard.

Cersei Lannister knew better. Though impressive and vast, the total size was no larger than thirty thousand. A considerable amount, especially with the hope of reinforcement at Harrenhal by the loyal Lords of the Riverlands, but nothing comparing to the Dothraki Horde or tthe main Lannister army.

Despite the threat the Dragon Queen and her bastard lover posed to her son's rule, Cersei cared not about it. No, her attention was riveted to something else entirely. Elite Lannister heavy infantry in the van, directly behind were the army's commanders. Lord Randyll Tarly, Lord Paramount of the Reach. His son and heir Dickon Tarly, Randyll's initial heir having proved unworthy. Lord Selwyn Tarth of Evenfall Hall, sworn to Lord of the Stormlands Tommen Baratheon despite his daughter and heir being sworn to Sansa Stark. Lord Leo Lefford of Golden Tooth, one of her father's best subordinates from the Westerlands. And finally, atop a snow white stallion was Jamie Lannister, former Kingsguard and heir to House Lannister. The one who drew Cersei's rapt attention, eyes riveted on the faint but instantly recognizable form of him.

A tear flowed down Cersei's cheek, burning a hot rivulet along the pale skin. "Jamie." Watching him march off to war was hell on her. 'Never enough time. Never enough.' Their moments together were always fleeting. Robert, drunk and smelling of the perfume of various whores, stumbling in her bed every now and again. Whenever their father visited it was impossible. And then Jamie's capture and what followed. 'I was such a fool.' Blind in her anger at being left alone for so long, alone to suffer the wrath of war and her son's gripping madness, she had spurned Jamie.

'Damn me. Damn…' She caught her thoughts, stopped from condemning her firstborn to eternal damnation in each hell. But it was hard, watching him and his madness. Knowing that each step he took from it brought her closer and closer to breaking her love for him. Cersei had learned a lot as her son devolved into something akin to a beast. Learned of the madness within her as well. Jamie helped her, he comforted her. She needed him and now he was gone.

Unlike before, she would not cry over him but welcome him when he returned. Picking herself up, Cersei wiped the tears away and headed down from the balcony to her quarters.

An old man blocked the middle of the hallway. Clad in a dirty burlap shift, brown and marred with dirt, he gingerly moved a wet rag across the stone. Back and forth, back and forth. Water sloshing as he wiped away the grime. Cersei paid him no attention aside from annoyance. There were no guards to protect her at this moment - they were rarely there anymore, likely a sign of how far she'd fallen in her son's favor - so she addressed him herself. "Out of the way." Instead he stood, and her eyes widened and fists clenched. "High Sparrow."

Smiling wanly, the once wicked man gentlemanly stepped aside. "Of course, Queen Mother. Do pass by. No need to mind me."

Most of the small council's motivations were easy for Cersei to figure out. Littlefinger's was power. Qyburn's was knowledge. Pycelle's was luxury. The High Sparrow, arguably the second most powerful figure in the Seven Kingdoms, was an enigma to her. Someone she both feared and regarded as beneath contempt. 'Ridiculous, he could live in a gold palace but chooses to wash the floors.' She forced herself to be polite. "Thank you."

He held up an extra rag. "If you so desire, cleaning the floors works wonders to clean the spirit."

Her eyes glared at the rag with disdain. "A man of the people? Is that your game? Is that why my son keeps you around?"

"Dearest Queen Mother, do you take me for someone so petty and cynical?" He bent to grab another bucket, sloshing some of the soapy liquid onto the stone. "My only desire is to serve the gods."

"Do not expect me to be that naive," Cersei spat. "Is it gold you want? Or women? Give me my son back, free from his madness, and I will ensure you more luxuries than you could ever desire."

A slight chuckle left his lips. The High Sparrow looked anything but intimidating, but Cersei could see there was steel underneath the aging frame. "Baelor the Blessed tried to bring piety and honor back to this land, but he failed because those around him viewed his piety as madness." Cersei blinked, the old man believing the long held rumor that Baelor died not of starvation, but of poison by his family and advisors. A martyr rather than a zealous idiot. "The great King has his zeal and passion, passion that will bring the Faith of the Seven back to this land after so long ignored."

Laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of it all, it began to die out once Cersei realized he was serious. "You are no better than I, High Sparrow. At least I admit that I act from my family's best interest."

"I remind myself of my humility whenever I can, and serve your son because he is chosen by the Seven. He understands this." Standing tall, his piercing green eyes bored into Cersei's. "Selfishness among the great houses is the reason our beautiful land is in such a sorry state. We must all make sacrifices, offer our hearts and bodies to the Seven. And we must all be punished for our crimes, from the lowliest street urchin to the highborn children of Tywin Lannister. Whatever high crimes against the Gods they commit."

Cersei's blood turned to ice. 'Does he know?' No one really knew. Ned Stark and Stannis were dead, Tywin refused to believe the rumors, Jamie would never tell a soul, and the other small council members were too terrified of Joffrey. 'How could he know?' "You have no proof of any crimes of mine, nor Jamie's." She said, finally. "Try not to yank the lion's tail unless you have a plan for the teeth."

The High Sparrow went back to his task. "Enjoy the day, Queen Mother. I shall pray for your brother's safety." Eyes narrowed, Cersei simply walked away.

Dashing through the halls of Winterfell in a slow jog, Podrick Payne's brow was furrowed in a slight panic. Dragons spotted far off, the hue and cry had already been made to prepare for their arrival. As such, he forgot to knock on the door of the room he sought to enter. "Lady Stark, we've spotted... " At the sight before him, a bright red blush formed on his face and he turned away, mortified. "Forgive me, my Lady."

Clad in her sleeping shift, Sansa had been brushing her hair at her vanity table when Podrick burst in, initially startling her into a little jump. Eyes grew wide in irrational fear, sweat beginning to mat her skin - Ramsay's favorite pastime was bursting in on her like this. The culprit was visible through her mirror. "Pordrick, get out!" Hearing the door shut closed, she brought her hand to her heart, feeling it beat nearly out of her chest. Sansa closed her eyes and willed away another flashback. 'If anyone isn't Ramsay, it's Podrick.' It was quite obvious the awkward squire was just in a hurry and nothing sinister was going on, but her mind still went there.

'Yet he would never have been in a hurry if it wasn't important.' Sliding her grey dress over her form, she made her way to the door. 'He's not Ramsay. Ramsay is dead.' As Sansa imagined he'd likely do, he was pacing and cursing himself under his breath - seeing her, he went white. "Lady Sansa, please forgive me. I shouldn't have…"

Sansa held up a hand. "It's fine Podrick. Just please knock next time." She couldn't help but smile at his frantic nod. It was oddly endearing. "What is happening?" The sounds of a hustle and bustle were resonating through the castle walls.

"Lord Snow and Queen Daenerys' dragons were spotted heading to Winterfell." Brienne and Robb had already alerted the entire castle.

'Jon is back.' The thought made her smile wider. She couldn't wait to lift another worrisome problem from his shoulders. "Let's go then, everyone in the courtyard."

All the inhabitants of Winterfell were assembled in the courtyard, air cold as ever but with the rare sun shining brightly above. Just like before. Of course, Sansa, Robb, Catelyn, and Rickon were the only ones left that remembered the fateful morning when Robert Baratheon and his retinue arrived. The visit that started it all. Started the wars and massacres and tyrannies. Yet they endured. 'When one wolf dies, the pack survives.' Eddard Stark had passed into the next world, yet his pack remained strong - and even grown by three members, four if Aemon was counted.

Glancing at him, separated by Sam, Gilly, and little Sam, Sansa leaned in to whisper to the rotund highborn. "He seems nervous."

Sam chuckled. "He is meeting his long lost great niece. Aside from Jon he's never seen a family member in decades." He leaned down to ruffle his son's hair, coaxing a giggle from the boy. "Jon doesn't count, cause he thought himself a bastard for most of it."

To her left was Catelyn, Rickon, Robb, Margaery, Davos, Tyrion, Melisandre, and the rest of the line, many else behind them. "Another King arriving in our home," Catelyn remarked.

"Our true King," Sansa said. It was different. Before, the arrival of the guests of honor led to great sorrow. Now, the arrival of the guests of honor would lead to the renaissance of the world. Of this Sansa was uncharacteristically optimistic. She didn't have faith in most, but she did in Jon. "Our true King and Queen, mother." Catelyn remained silent, resigned to the coolness from her eldest children.

Twin roars echoed through the air as dark shapes shot across the skies over Winterfell. Many jumped, but the Starks and nobles stood firm. Dragons were fearsome and awe-inspiring. Their riders were the benevolent Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow. If anything, the dragons would bring only safety to them. Circling, they gradually lowered in the air until the hooting beasts hit the ground with a thud, folding their wings.

Jon descended first. Longclaw at his hip, drey Stark direwolf hanging across his neck and a red Targaryen dragon emblazoned on his black armored tunic, he looked every inch the cross of ice and fire. Before even greeting anyone, he moved to help Daenerys from her dragon. She was dressed similarly, in a northern gown colored in red and black. Sansa, as the acting Lady, was the first to move towards them. "Lord Snow… Queen Daenerys." She curtseyed.

Looking at her like she sprouted two heads, Jon chortled. "Seven hells, we haven't been gone that long, sister." And with that he scooped her into a brotherly hug.

Laughs erupting all around, the formality of the situation lifted and a throng of people crowded among the royals. "Jon, good to see you in one piece." Robb thumped him on the back. "Thank you for preventing the Dothraki from tearing him limb from limb," he quipped to Daenerys.

"They won't, yet," she smirked at Jon, earning another chorus of laughs. Greetings exchanged all around, the pack was still as close as ever. "Oh, Jon. Shouldn't we…"

Beaming, the same smile that Ned used to wear when watching his children spar, Jon waved over two small forms. They had hung back near the dragons, but now stood close to their mother and father. "Everyone, this is Rheagar and Arya. Crown Prince and Princess." They looked everyone over, smiling at Catelyn. She smiled back, happy to see them again.

Robb, first to react, knelt before them. "Hello, your graces."

"Uncle Robb?" Arya said hesitantly, looking up at her father to ensure that she got it right. Jon nodded. The ice broken, soon the entire Stark pack was fawning over their youngest members.

"Direwolf!" The twins' eyes lit up as Ghost trotted out. Sparing his father and mother a lick to the palm, he basked in the attention of the twins. They shared the same smells as both Jon and Dany, screaming 'friend' at the highest volume. The young dragons soon joined, excited at the return of so many of their loved ones. Once again, happiness returned to Winterfell after such a long absence.

Squeezing Jon's hand, both of them enjoying the sight of their children - all of them - enjoying life together, Dany heard a throat clear. "My lady." The voice was old, worn out with over a century of pain and experience. Her breath hitched. Something in her told Daenerys exactly who it was.

Turning around, she came face to face with Maester Aemon. Aemon Targaryen. Toothless, stooped over, hair grey, and wrinkles marring his skin, the eyes remained a bright amethyst. As bright as when he was in his prime. "Uncle…"

A tear fell down his cheek, Ameon reaching up to slowly slide his hand down her face. Daenerys remembered Jon warning of his near blindness, so she didn't mind. Her family, together at last. "You look just like your mother."

The rooms provided were not significant - a mere infinitesimal fraction of the King of Qarth palace. A sitting room, a latrine, a room for bathing, and a single spacious bedroom, all for Brandon Stark's entire retinue and guards. There was little moonlight from the crescent above, but he could see perfectly. Jojen resting on a cot in the corner brought in for his use. Hodor snoring on the plush chair, something far more comfortable than any bed he had ever used. And right next to him on the large bed, separated by two feet of space, was Meera. As the only woman, Bran's more gentlemanly urgings had led him to offer her the most comfortable position. It amused him to see her long blush before she accepted.

We must speak, young Stark.

Hitting him like a mounted charge, the flash of light momentarily filled Bran's eyes before the darkness returned. It was him… the one from his visions. Disappearing since joining him at the outskirts of Joffrey's capitol, now he demanded an audience in the middle of the night.

Wiggling out from under the heavy covers - an insistence of his that drove Meera insane, given the far-southern heat of Qarth - Bran reached for the small ceramic bottle on the nightstand. It looked like any potion bottle, but inside it contained shade of the evening.

The blue liquid was strictly prohibited outside the Warlocks' private stocks, but Bran knew the risk was worth it to have some by his side. Drinking about half of it, he wondered quietly if it would work outside the House of the Undying. Something about the magical energy present in an apprentice warlock only in certain places… a rush of dark blurs belied what Pyat Pree called his innate power.

A mist surrounded Bran, humidity drenching his skin with a soaked pallor as he glanced around him. "Hello?" Nothing, not even an echo. "Is anyone there?"

Another swivel found the cloaked figure of the man in his dreams, old and gnarled. Bran yelped and almost fell, but caught himself. A raven circled above the man's head. His face was set into a grimace. No warmth to be found. "Danger lurks everywhere."

"Wha…" Before he could even ask his question the world began to spin around Bran. Faint cries rang in his ear, as if he was passing by at high speed. Holding up his hands, a wave passed through him as he came to a halt. It was a cozy tent, log fire crackling in the fireplace. Stag banners fluttered lazily, though these had no crown between their antlers.

A muscular figure clad in armor - oddly familiar for some reason - swept past Bran as if he didn't exist at all. Stepping forward, the young Warlock watched as the man gulped down a cup of mead, unfurling a letter that was gripped tightly in his hand. Reading with great difficulty, the man shook, white as a ghost. Bran could only just pick out one of the lines of the letter...

Robert, I have tried desperately to do my duty as my father requested of me, but I cannot. Your very touch fills me with revulsion, knowing that not hours before it was on the bare skin of some whore. Rhaegar would never dishonor me so, and it wouldn't matter if you were King and he a peasant for I would always choose him...

'Robert... King Robert?' True enough, the figure was the Usurper himself, minus about fifty pounds. With an enraged snarl he tossed the letter into the fire. "Ned! Ned!" he screamed out into the world. "She's not here. I don't know where she could have gone."

Head pounding, Bran found himself shooting into the blackened air. One vision to another. He was now in an alcove, somewhere in an ornate building of red brick and marble. "You must take this, place it in his evening wine. A Dornish white would cover the taste." A man, swathed in expensive cottons and silks. Clipped to his belt was a gold-hilted Valyrian steel blade. One Bran recognized immediately.

"And then we can be together?" said the other figure, a woman.

"Of course." He kissed her brow. "The fat one will have no choice but to pick him as his Hand. That is when I will strike." There was more but Bran heard not. His eyes rolled into his skull, transported to yet another vision.

The torches flickered in the darkness. Bran found himself somewhere familiar, the hallways of the great pyramid of Meereen. A wail, which quickly morphed into a girlish giggle echoed in Bran's ear. "Oh Jon… Your Queen commands you to be here." Further giggles left Daenerys Targaryen's lips, an empty chalice of wine in her hand. Had she tried to drink away her loneliness?

"My Queen?" Entering through the doorway, there was the sellsword. Bran didn't remember his name, but remembered his smug attitude and skill at combat. "Are you alright?" Beaming, face flushed with inebriated serenity, Dany attempted to stand but stumbled. "My Queen!" The sellsword caught her in his arms, holding her. Quite closely.

"Mmmmm…" Dany's eyes peered at the man holding her. "Jon, is that you?"

Silence held for several long moments. "It's me," the sellsword finally said.

Giggles erupted as Dany haphazardly flung her arms around his neck, convinced in her drunken state that he was her beloved. "Take me to bed, my wolf." Bran wanted to yell the truth as they moved away but he found the irresistible force pulling him back.

"She failed!" someone spat, faces and shapes obscured by the shadows. All around Bran rested heads, mounted on the walls and eyes closed in a serene death. "The girl is still Arya Stark." 'Arya?'

A sigh followed. "She had potential, great potential, but a girl does not get a third chance." A pregnant pause. "A waif knows what to do…"

The image evaporated in a flash, replaced by a dingy tavern room. It stank of piss and spilled beer. The light was low, but such accommodations did not discourage the heated conversation by those seated at the table mounted in the middle of the room.

"How can you still be under contract? Meereen has fallen!"

"You weren't taken to Westeros, Naharis. What is a sellsword who isn't being paid to fight?"

Sitting in the middle of the cluster of men was the sellsword, face set in stone. "I have sworn my loyalty to Queen Daenerys Targaryen." His statement was plain, but Bran detected a sadness behind it. The resentment of a lover spurned? "My word is my bond."

"Of course, your oath is so valuable. That is why you killed your commanders at Yunkai after swearing an oath to them."

Before the sellsword could draw his blade, another spoke. "Shut it, Tazal." An older man, rough and wise, bore his eyes into the other. "Daario, the Dragon Queen seeks to end the chaos in the world. We thrive on chaos. She will bring ruin to all sellswords."

"What would you have me do, Strickland? Betray her?"

"No, stay loyal to your own kind."

The remaining words and voices grew faint as the old man stepped in front of Bran. "For the great ones. The Lightbringers. Grave danger lurks everywhere." Before Bran could speak further light enveloped him.

Sweat drenching his sleepwear, a loose shift that drew favor in Qarth, Bran sucked in gulps of air as he returned to the conscious realm. His head spun. 'Danger… it surrounds Jon.' Instinct told him that the Targaryen queen was now with his brother… cousin, and they were both surrounded by sharks and snakes. But what could he do? An apprentice Warlock halfway around the world, only rare visions allowing him to peer into what he sought. Bran groaned in futility.

"Bran…" came a sleepy voice to his left. "What's wrong?" Leaning over him, Meera looked him over with concerned eyes. "Please try to get some sleep before training tomorrow." Nodding, Bran watched her snuggle into the covers, serene. It was a beautiful sight, something he hoped wouldn't be corrupted with what was to come.

'Jon, Daenerys, be prepared.'

"I must say, Lord Snow, never have I seen our Queen so… serene." Felt boots crunching on the patches of dust-like snow that marred the stone floors - though many in the north would consider the white substance the epitome of beauty and purity - Tyrion Lannister craned his neck to look up at his future King. "I would have to ask Ser Jorah, but it is a decent assumption that it be true years before I even met her."

Arm strung on the parapet, Jon smiled at the sight of his betrothed. She was engaged in animated conversation with Maester Aemon, the two walking in tandem through the empty courtyard. Two dragons reunited - while Jon was one, he knew his looks were fully that of a wolf while both Dany's and Aemon's were classically Valyrian. While Maester Aemon had a joy about him that brought his aged form galloping back to life, it was Daenerys that entranced Jon. Surrounded by the family that had so eluded her entire life, Tyrion was right. She was happy.

At the longing look on his face, Sansa couldn't help but cover her lips in suppressed mirth. "Lord Tyrion, I believe we all know the cause for her Grace's newfound happiness." Though she did not trust him completely, Tyrion had a decent heart and wasn't cruel. Daenerys trusted him and she had began to trust Daenerys. Still, if he was there to give advice to Jon, Sansa found no reason why she shouldn't be present as well. Happy shouts drew her attention, and coaxed a genuine smile. "The children are enjoying themselves."

"Darest I say that the Prince and Princess haven't seen snow before." Tyrion chuckled, watching Arya and Rhaegar tossing snowballs at each other. "They have taken to their father's ancestral home quite well."

Jon laughed. "Aye, they have." He felt happiness course through him watching the twins tackle their mother, all three of them laughing merrily. Something not seen in House Targaryen in decades. Perhaps it was the Stark influence.

"It is good to enjoy these times while they last, brother," Sansa remarked.

As the twins began to throw sticks for Ghost to catch, Jon sighed. 'I almost lost them.' Joffrey Baratheon lurked to the south, a malevolent shadow ready to strike at the ones Jon loved the most. 'And the greatest shadow is still to the north.' Fists clenched. The threats existed but Jon wasn't a simple brother of the Night's Watch anymore. He was the heir to Rhaegar Targaryen, the rightful King and betrothed to the Dragon Queen. "When do the northern lords arrive?" The Vale lords were already at Winterfell and Catelyn could speak for the Tullys.

Sansa detected an icy steel to his voice. 'The wolf in him.' "Lord Hornwood has returned, and I received a raven from Deepwood Motte saying that the Glovers will be here by the end of the week. They should all be here by then, I believe." It was not an exact science, but the Northern word was its bond. If the lords said they were coming, then they were coming.

"They will not take the news of our betrothal well," Jon remarked acidly. Resignation was on his face. "I cannot begin to think what they will say about my heritage."

"You are a Stark." Sansa wanted to pull Jon's hair out if he said it again. "Aunt Lyanna's blood runs in your veins just as much as Rhaegar's. The fact that you have Targaryen blood is an asset."

"I agree with Lady Stark." Tyrion was impressed. She may have been a late bloomer, but the years of hardship had shaped Sansa Stark to be the true inheritor to her mother's cunning. "With Rickon just a boy and your older brother's… let's just say his past tenure as King will leave many to seek new blood. As the trueborn son of Lyanna Stark, who even I heard was beloved in the North, I don't think they would ever hold it against you as long as you take the Stark name."

Jon blinked. "First, if I'm a legitimate Targaryen, wouldn't taking the Stark name mean I renounce the title to the Seven Kingdoms?" While the old Jon would have jumped head first at the chance to claim the Stark name as his own, what reason would Tyrion want for such if Dany wished him to rule by her side as a Targaryen King. 'You know nothing, Jon Snow.' Ygritte's taunting voice in his head reminded him that it could be for some valid reason. "Second, I doubt the Northern Lords would accept Daenerys as their queen, marriage to me or not."

A sigh left the Imp's lips. "Yes, that is an issue. While they will undoubtedly be loyal to you, even my nephew and the… problems to the north may not be enough to have them abandon their irrational hatred of the Targaryens."

"Irrational as in how the Mad King burned their Liege Lord alive and had his eldest son strangled to death?" Watching Tyrion wilt slightly, Sansa softened her tone. "But if we show Lyanna wasn't raped… and there's something that could be done, Jon." Her eyes sparkled, a bright contrast with their usual emotionless pallor. "One that would allow you to remain King in the North while also having Daenerys rule over the Seven Kingdoms."

"And how would we manage that? Not easy to keep your kingship if you must bend the knee," Jon remarked sarcastically.

"Sam told us something about the history of Valyria. You would be both King in the North… and alongside Daenerys... Emperor."

Jon raised an eyebrow. "Emperor?" Hearing Sansa and Tyrion explain it to him, the brooding northerner couldn't help but feel his doubts dissipate as to the feasibility of it all. But… it was then that he realized all his concern had been masking something else - something deeper. He would have gladly fought for his and Dany's birthright with the same passion as he fought to save the Wildlings or reclaim Winterfell, but… "I don't want to rule. I never did." He turned away. "I am not an autocrat. I try to be honorable, but it isn't enough." 'I tried, but was killed anyway.'

Stroking his beard, Tyrion wracked his brain for a line of thought that would persuade his reluctant ruler. 'The King shits and the Hand wipes.' Although this was less wiping than preventing the King from shitting over himself. "Lord Snow… what has past tradition gotten us? Mad Kings? Idiot Kings? Slavery? Rebellions? Never ending war? You do not wish to rule, but doesn't that prove to the world that you are the one to accept the challenge? That her Grace is the one to join you in challenging the old order?" He watched as Jon's lips pursed, eyes closing.

"Jon." Sansa set a comforting hand on her brother, rubbing his back softly. "Sometimes, Jon." She took a deep breath, her experiences coming to mind. "The only way to set things right is to break with the past. If we are to survive this coming war against the Night King, you and Daenerys are the only ones that can shrug off the hatreds of yesterday." It was profound - it was as if just yesterday that Sansa remembered begging her mother that father betroth her to Joffrey. They had all changed.

Digesting both their words, Jon glanced back at the courtyard. Dany was kissing each of the twins' cheeks, love written on her face as she poured her love onto them. After conversing with Aemon, Catelyn Stark took the kids with her, saying something about their lessons. Ghost trotting behind them, Jon heard both Rhaegar and Arya calling her "Grandmother."

'Grandmother.' The woman that had tormented, ridiculed, and disparaged him since birth was now the grandmother to his children. Feeling the bitterness rise up, Jon let it melt away when he saw Catelyn's face. She loved the twins. Loved them like her own, it was written all over her face. Jon hadn't yet confronted her about the past - he simply wanted to just avoid the issue - but with the bitterness remaining inside him it didn't seem to be reciprocated. Whatever resentment had left her, and for something so profound it couldn't have just been learning of his heritage. "Aye. Perhaps we do need to break the hatreds of yesterday."