#daniella tumbleweed

[graceverse]

WHAT IF?

Ok, so here’s a thought. What if in Season 8

1. Brienne arrives in Winterfell with Jaime and the Starklings are all: “we don’t want to have an audience with Jaime. Why? What do you mean why? He pushed Bran out of the window that’s why. We want him in the dungeon!” And Brienne goes, “but we’ve all done something that was vile and wrong and we were given second chances!” And the Staklings are still, “Nope, no!” So Jaime gives Brienne a “fuck loyalty, huh?” look before Brienne very gently nudges him inside his cell. She warns him, “I’ll be back, try not to escape.” 

2. Meanwhile Sam and Bran tell Sansa and Arya Jon’s true parentage and Arya is like, ‘No! That’s not true! Jon’s my brother!’ But Sansa tells Sam to send a raven to the Citadel, “I want a written letter confirming the authenticity of this book!” And Sam goes, “You want me to write to the Citadel about the book I stole?” and the Starklings, go, “Uhm, yes? That’s exactly what we want you to do, is there a problem?” and Sam leaves them, on the verge of tears. So Arya asks, “what are we going to do?” And Sansa very regally juts out her chin and says, “what father had been doing all his life, we will protect Jon.” And Arya goes, “Fuck yeah!” And then Sansa very queenly tells her, “There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.” Arya is not sure what this means but Bran merely nods in agreement and Arya is all, “what the fuck is going on here?” 

3. Jaime is granted an audience with the Starklings and he tells them about the Golden Company and then pledges his life to Sansa, and Sansa tells him to arise and all that shit and then she goes, “We will ride for Riverrun. You will pretend to be my prisoner.” And Jaime is all, “are you fucking kidding me?” Sansa raises her eyebrows at him, “does this bring you dishonor? To pretend to be captured by the family whose family you have slaughtered?” And that shuts up Jaime. Sansa declares, “Robb was King in the North and The Trident. I am Catelyn Stark’s eldest daughter, The Trident is mine.” Bran nods and Arya is all, “The Starks are coming for ya!” Sansa tells Arya, “when Jon arrives, don’t make trouble, we need him safe. He must not know yet. No one must know yet. Just make him suffer for bending the knee. But not the ‘I’ll cut your face and wear it’ shit, ok? He’ll cry.”

4. Jon arrives in Winterfell but Sansa is not there. He’s half relieved, half-crazy with worry, esp since Littlefinger is not creepily hanging out at the back. “Where is Sansa?” he asks, all broody and dark eyed and Arya very sadly says, “she’s gone.” And Jon goes all pale and wild eyed with grief and he looks like he’s about to stab himself with Longclaw when Bran says, “hey chill out, she’s out gathering armies for you because Cersei isn’t going to help you and will in fact attack the North with a bunch of Unsullied except only they have cocks, so they’re easier to bribe.” Jon and Dany both go: whaaaaat? While Tyrion is all: oh, shit! Dany announces, “I will go back south and take what is rightfully mine!” But Jon and Tyrion stops her, “you can’t! You promised the North! What kind of Queen are you if you will not hold your word?” Dany and Jon goes off to sulk. Separately.

5. Sansa rallies The Trident, presenting them with the Kingslayer and she tells them that all the women and children can leave for the impregnable Vale, where they will be safest. It would be the last to fall if the wars reach them. She will distribute the provisions the Blackfish had secured in Riverrun but she will need their help. Rumors about the wight in Kings Landing had reached them and because Sansa is honest and bad ass and is the daughter of Cat, the sister of Robb and the one who captured the Kingslayer for justice, they rally behind her. Also it’s winter, if anyone can get them through winter, its the Starks. Winter is coming, they always say and you can bet your ass they know exactly what to do in winter.

6. Cersei, upon hearing that Sansa has Jaime tells the The Golden Company to forget about Dragonstone, she ain’t getting shit from Dragonstone anyway. She wants Sansa and Jaime captured alive so she can punish them herself. She sends the Mountain with them whose sole task is to beat the shit out of Jaime and take the Stark Girl. The Golden Company camp a few miles away from Riverrun, ready to attack. But during the night, they are attacked by a bunch of giant feral wolves. Those that escapes blindly ran into Riverrun and are soundly defeated by Sansa’s army. The Mountain almost takes Sansa, but Jaime very neatly cuts off his legs and well, gravity.  

7. Bran doesn’t need ravens and shit so he announces to the Northern Lords, to Team Bend The Knees, that Sansa has defended The Trident and is – gasp – heading towards King’s Landing. Dany doesn’t take it well and while planning her next move, she made the mistake of calling Sansa’s actions treasonous, punishable with death and Jon is not having any of that. He slams his fist on the table, making Dany jump, “YOU. DO. NOT. THREATEN. MY. SISTER. EVER.” Dany, shaken, lifts up her head and coolly says, “Oh, so now it’s my sister, you think I haven’t noticed how you act every time someone says her name?” and Jon is all, “what the fuck you talking about?” And that is the beginning of TargBowl.

8. The Lords of the Trident forgives Jaime because he saved their queen and he fought valiantly. Sansa tells him that he is longer a “prisoner” but is now her sworn sword. Jaime winks at Brienne and Brienne is as always, none too amused. Jaime tells Sansa she should go back to Winterfell, but Sansa shakes her head, “no, I don’t want to”, all pouty and sad eyed and Jaime figures it out, because he’s so been there and done that. He’s not at all sympathetic, “you foolish girl! You’re in love with your brother. Well, half-brother but… oh, seven hells…look at me and Cersei” and Sansa is indignant, “I am not Cersei and Jon is not you.” She almost tells Jaime that Jon is actually her cousin, thank you very much, but she has more sense than that, thank God for character development.

9. Sansa asks for Theon’s help and Theon pledges all the remaining Greyjoy ships to her cause. Sansa arrives in King’s Landing and tells the people that they need not fear Cersei anymore. Those who do not wish to be part of the coming war are free to go and they can seek shelter at The Trident, The Vale or even The North. Those brave enough can join her in taking King’s Landing from Cersei. Cersei sees the futility of killing the people of KL and burning it down to the ground. She’s done that already. And she hates being redundant. Also, all things considered, this is much better than dealing with dragons and so she readies her remaining armies. The people of KL is already sick of Cersei’s shit, so they wisely flock to Sansa.

10. Jon and Dany battles the Night King and the army of the dead and are triumphant but Drogon fought Viserion to death and now she only has Rhaegal. Sansa and Jaime battles Cersei. 

Meanwhile in KL, Jaime kills Cersei, but not before he gets fatally wounded by Euron (sorry, Brienne + Jamie fans) Euron tries to flee, but is killed by The Greyjoylings. Cersei, Euron and Jaime dies. Sansa does not want the Iron Throne, but she makes the reveal of all reveals: she is taking the Iron Throne, in behalf of Jon Snow aka Aegon Targaryen – no, the other Aegon Targaryen, Rhaegar’s son from Lyanna Stark, the true heir of the Iron Throne and who is fighting in The North so that they will not have to face the horrors of the Night King’s Army. The people cheer for their king because they are sexist shits, but it’s not their fault, that’s how it was during those times. Sansa leaves Edmure and Lord Royce to take care of anything that needs taking care of while she’s gone. Sansa is so done with the South and she immediately rides North.

11. Dany is PISSED. She is FUMING MAD. She did not help the North defeat the White Walkers to be usurped by her NEPHEW. She thinks Jon deliberately did not tell her about his parentage and she was tricked by the WHOLE FUCKING NORTH, the STARKS most especially. Jon on the other hand is terrifically wounded but he’ll survive. He is CONFUSED and MOPEY and he’s all “NO. WAIT. WHAT? YOU’RE MY AUNT? SANSA IS MY COUSIN?!’ And is in no shape or form ready for another war. Dany wants to take Rhaegal and finally take the Iron throne but she is killed by… Tyrion or Varys. Or both of them. I don’t know. No one knows. No one saw it happened. So Jon is all, “but I don’t want the Iron Throne! It does not belong to the Targaryens. When is Sansa coming back home? Will she back soon? I miss her.” And Tyrion is, “well who the fuck does it belong to?” And Bran goes, “to the Baratheons.” And everyone groans out loud because they’ve had enough of these reveals and they make Bran promise that Gendry Baratheon will be the absolute LAST reveal. Sansa returns to Winterfell, triumphant and she’s so happy and she hugs Arya and goes, “the Storm Land is yours.” But Arya is all, “I don’t want to be a LADY!” and Sansa smiling sweetly almost evilly tells her, “yes, of course, you’re no Lady. You’re Queen.” 

The Greyjoys are finally given their right and freedom to rule over their Island provided that they stop being assholes to everyone else. Yara and Theon are only happy to make peace with the rest of the Kingdom. The Vale and The Trident refuses to be parted from their Queen and so The Vale and The Trident are under the protection of the North. The rest of the houses also want the guidance of a King and Queen because they’re all lazy fucks and do not want the headache of ruling separate kingdoms. And so the South is ruled by Queen Arya Stark and the North is ruled by Queen Sansa Stark – because, fuck yeah for Stark women!

12. It takes a year and a half for Jon and Sansa to sort out everything, but they finally do it, to the relief of Tormund, because Brienne had told him she will not be stolen by Tormund unless Jon and Sansa becomes King and Queen in the North and Tormund had begged and begged Jon to just man up and steal Sansa, which Jon finally does. And Tormund could never be happier. He is already planning on how to steal Brienne.

THE END.

Ok. WAIT. 

I think I want to actually write this as a fanfic, be right back.

[raichoose-moved-again]

Starter for @xfaucheuse​

She’s seated in the back of a saloon, occasionally glancing up to see who else enters. Jody has just arrived - like some gun-toting tumbleweed on the wind, if she ever felt cheerful enough to describe herself in such a silly way - and though the bartender has at least served her the requested glass of whiskey, she’s still very much noticed the occasional stares she’s given from those who live in this town, the same stares she’s used to every time she comes to a place touched by the Diamondbacks ... 

... And the same stares another woman is receiving now. 

Jody waits until Daniella draws close to speak. "You new around here?” she says, though not in a cold or confrontational way - if anything, she’s hoping that’s the case. “Me, too, if you are.” 

[graceverse]

The Saddest Ending

(also known as MY FRIDAY THE 13th FIC featuring what I would consider as the most HORRIBLE ending I could ever think of)

Warning: Character Death 

Summary:  She never visited. Not once. Not even when he pretended to sleep. She was still angry at him and Jon actually chuckled at that. Of course she is. He had given away her freedom and then had lain injured and useless as Daenerys no doubt claimed the Iron Throne.

Jon had stopped feeling. Stopped understanding anything. It was just darkness and the softly murmured words, softer footfalls as they tried to save him. He kept his eyes closed and let his body do whatever it wanted. He no longer had the energy to fight off the cold, to bear the heat, to keep his heart beating. Whatever it is that will come to pass, will pass.

The last thing he remember seeing was pure white shards of ice flying towards him as the Night King shattered against Longclaw. Death and steel and then darkness.

Jon did not know how long he had lain, hovering between two worlds, fire and ice, death and life. However long it was, just like everything else, it had to end.

It ended when he finally felt warm fingers touching his face. He smiled. Or at least he tried to. He didn’t know how well that went, but he knew that touch, he would know it in death or in life.

Thin, bony fingers. The tips none too warm. He knew her from her scent: freshly washed tunic, faint-barely-there scent of wet fur, morning sun.

“Arya.” He took her hand in his, felt callouses on her fingers. Left handed Arya. Her sword hand. Needle.

“How are you feeling?” Her voice was the same. How could that be possible? It was as though Jon had been thrown back in time and he very nearly asked if this was the Winterfell before they left, if this was the Winterfell that still knew Ned and his lady wife, the Stark children with their direwolves.

But no, the Arya of that Winterfell would have softer hands. The hands of a proper Lady and not the warrior that she had apparently become, hands that had known pain and dirt and blood.

They had all known about those. Robb. Sansa. Arya. Bran. Rickon.

Jon tried to open his eyes even though he already knew that it was futile. It was a cruel joke. That he is alive, that he is finally with his beloved sister but he is unable to see her, unable to see the world he had helped saved.

He didn’t have too many words to describe how he really is, so he answered as simply as he could. “Tired. Sleepy. But alive, it seems.”

“You’re lucky.”

Yes. No. Did it matter?

“Aye.” And because it will always be darkness that he will see from now on, Jon went back to sleeping.

Now Jon was aware of days and nights of comings and goings of visitors, of Maesters, of Lords and old friends. He knew their voices. Knew their hands. But he no longer knew their faces.

Sam had to tell him one day, even though he had already figured it out long before.

Blind.

Never able to see the winter snow, spring flowers, summer skies, autumn leaves – the color of her hair.

She never visited. Not once. Not even when he pretended to sleep. She was still angry at him and Jon actually chuckled at that. Of course she is. He had given away her freedom and then had lain injured and useless as Danaerys no doubt claimed the Iron Throne.

Had the Dragon Queen ordered her to Lannisport, to fulfill her wedded duty to Tyrion? Was she pregnant now with a Lannister babe?

No. She would not be any of those. Sansa would’ve fought hard to stay in Winterfell. She would have talked Tyrion into petitioning their divorce.

Also, Tyrion had visited thrice and never mentioned anything about going to Lannisport or taking care of newly birthed Lannister heirs. Tyrion made some fancy speech about heroes and sacrifices and rebuilding the kingdom, together, one united front. Jon didn’t say anything. He didn’t want anything to do with uniting a kingdom ruled by frivolous lords whose loyalty could easily be switched, bargained, forgotten. No, Jon wanted no part in that.

Daenerys visited more than anyone. More than Arya, to Jon’s dismay. More than Bran, who only came twice. Once, to remind him that he was still a Stark, despite being the son of Rhaegar. His mother was still Lyanna Stark and he was still of the North. The second to urge him to choose: Stark or Targaryen. His choice still mattered, it seemed. He had to shake his head and groan. There is no choice. He is a Stark. He will always be a Stark. He will never stop being a Stark.

You are to me.

She had insisted it once, in an impassioned speech, her blue eyes fierce and bright and so very open, Jon could feel the truth of her statement deep within his bones, up to very bottom of his soul.  

That was all that mattered to him.  

This would explain Dany’s daily visits but not Sansa’s absence.

Dany commented on his color, not as pale as yesterday, my love. She was a bright warm voice urging him to ride south and live with her in King’s Landing. Or perhaps Dragonstone, the sun and the sea will help him regain his strength.

But his strength lay in wet snow, the cold biting wind, the Godswood, the howling of the wolves that had made Winterfell their home. He didn’t have the energy to explain this to her. He didn’t want to share with her these things that had kept him alive.

Jon tried his best to be patient. A blind man after all has too many things to occupy him. Relearning sounds, scents, textures. Relearning his own room, his own body even. He was whole, scarred beyond healing, but everything seemed to be where they should be. It was only his eyesight that he had lost and all things considered, it was not as devastating as being dead.

He will probably never hold a sword, never fight another battle in his life and this was something he was actually thankful for. He had no more wish to fight. There was nothing left to fight for. Only to live for.

But she still refused to see him.

And so, when Jon had been sure that everyone of importance in the North, in the Vale, in the miserable South, even the Free Folks has visited him – the King, the bastard, the Warden of the North, the Lord of Winterfell, just Jon – he finally asked Arya.

“Where is Sansa?”

There is a strange silence. But Jon didn’t think, didn’t feel it was the mourning kind. He would know if she was gone, wouldn’t he?

“She never visited me.”

“You’re asleep sometimes. How would you know?” Arya asked, the lilt in her voice the same as always. No change in tone, no hint of sorrow or anything.

“I’d know. She smells like lemons and fresh snow and winter roses.” He’d know because when they had lived in Winterfell, together, her scent remained even when she had left the room. It lingered all around him, it seeped into his fur coat and into his skin. If she had visited him, his room would smell of her.

“I’ll take you to her.”

“Aye. Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow then.” Arya promised him and as usual, leaned forward to press a gentle kiss unto his forehead before leaving the room.

But Jon felt something inside him twisting and shivering. Does she still hate me? He wanted to ask, needing to know before he had to be in her presence but he couldn’t make himself know the answer. He decided that yes, Sansa still hated him. And if it was the case, then he would be ready and accepting but he will have to start wooing her. Something he had thought about long and hard, all those many nights he had lain awake thinking only of her. He will tell her how he truly feels, she needs to know first. And then, he will be able answer Dany why he would never join her in King’s Landing.

It would be a lot of work to win Sansa back, but that was something to live for.

And if she had forgiven him, then it would be something he could cherish. Maybe he could finally be glad that he had survived the war.

The following day, as promised, Jon walked with Arya out of his room and into the hallway. There was a hush around them and Jon was certain it was because the people inside Winterfell had never seen Jon Snow and Arya Stark walking its hallways. At least no one alive would have seen them together, dark eyed, dark haired Stark ghosts silently roaming their home.

Her strides were short but confident, as though she already knew that even without his sight, he would know exactly where to go, where the corners would be, were the stairs would start and end, where the windows would allow light and sun and warmth.

And he did. Jon knew Winterfell better than he knew himself. This was the Winterfell he had grown up with, the Winterfell whose nooks and crannies he had explored and mapped and he could see it all clearly in his mind. Knew exactly where the Stark banner would be hanging – he reached out his hands and felt the heavy fabric bearing the grey winter wolf.

He started towards Sansa’s solar, sure that she would be there, but Arya’s footsteps stopped and Jon had to turn back towards her. It didn’t take long for Jon to realize that they were heading outside and he braced himself for the cold, but the air was crisp, not the biting freeze he had expected.

Arya seemed to have sensed his confusion, “Sam thinks that when you defeated the Night King, it shortened winter. He thinks that the Night King and winter were somehow feeding off each other.”

He sensed Arya’s shrug, but he didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure what Arya meant and he didn’t want to question Sam who had skillfully dragged him out of death’s grip.

“I think we just assumed it would be a long winter and it turned out that it wasn’t.” This sounded nothing like his impetuous sister. This sounded like someone who had grown resigned to the mistakes men were bound to make.

And that makes Arya so much wiser, calmer, and surer of herself, of her place in the world that Jon suddenly missed the little girl that had jumped into his arms, hugging him, making him promise that he will visit her in the South or maybe she will visit him at the Wall.

They had assumed a lot of things and ended up being so incredibly wrong and that, Jon could at least understand.  

The chill was familiar but not in a comforting way. He knew this cold, had spent too many times being enveloped by it.

The crypts beneath Winterfell.

He stopped walking so abruptly, he stepped on Arya’s heels.

And now, yes, the scent of tears. Of mourning that was never meant to be spoken of or shared. It rises from her and Jon feels suddenly weak and lightheaded. He fights against this feeling, fights it like he had fought so many months ago, with gritted teeth and clenched fists.

“Is she visiting father?” Jon asked, in the exact same way when he had tried to open his eyes knowing that he would never be able to see again, ever.

“Jon.” And now, yes, that sudden change in Arya’s voice. Like a raw, opened wound that was still profusely bleeding and that will remain open until all the blood runs out. It was exactly how sorrow worked.  

But Jon didn’t wait for another word or worst, a comforting touch. “Take me to her.” Was all that he said, suddenly reminded of Robert Baratheon, years and years and a whole lifetime ago, ordering their father to take him to the crypts.

Darkness never mattered now. He was still surefooted as he was inside the castle. How many days and nights had he spent coming inside these crypts to stare at Ned Stark’s face, asking him for forgiveness for bending the knee, for wanting something he was not supposed to have, for hoping, for demanding, for trying to bargain?

I will save The North, father. I will make myself worthy of her.

His senses were startling in its accuracy and as they walked closer to where he knew Ned Stark’s statue was, Jon was also certain that there was no one else inside the crypt. It was still just him and Arya.

Arya, who very gently takes his hand and stretches it over his head so that his fingers can meet stone, instead of flesh, coldness instead of warmth.

Sansa.

His breath leaves his lungs, noisy and painfully and Jon willed his heart to stop as his hand finds her jaw, cupping it tenderly before moving upward to feel her the smooth roundness of her cheers, turning softly downwards, to her neck and then her shoulder and suddenly, Jon could feel his knee giving way, the weight of this sorrow so sudden, so encompassing it had turned into everything.

This is whole world now: this loss.

It was all the he could know and feel and it consumed him, devoured him like snow storms could swallow up whole armies.

“How?” came out more as a howl and he asked this over and over before switching to “why” and then finally “who?” because his fight was not yet over, he would have to hold his sword once again and he will swing it, wait for the sound of steel slipping between flesh and bones, the heat of blood hissing as it melted the snow. This would not ease the pain, but it will allow him to live with himself.

He had so utterly failed her.

Arya didn’t move, didn’t try to comfort him. “You were still beyond the wall. She abandoned you, remember?”

Jon wordlessly nodded. Dany had apologized for it with tears and careful hands brushing away the anger in his frowns and grunts. She had to. Rhaegal had already died. Drogon barely survived. She only had one dragon left and there was no way she will be able to claim the Iron Throne with a dying dragon. She had to leave.

It didn’t matter. Jon was going to kill the Night King and he will put a stop to this endless nightmare and he didn’t care if he had dragons or Dothrakis or the Unsullied was behind him. The war was now just between him and the Night King.

“She headed North. I was still at Riverrun with Nymeria.”

“You took The Trident.” Jon remembered receiving a raven telling him of the Warrior of Winterfell, the youngest daughter of Eddard Stark, charging towards the Golden Company on the back of the biggest direwolf the kingdom had ever seen and behind her, more wolves, snarling and howling, the fur of their snouts matted and colored with all the shades of blood red.

An Army of Avenging Wolves. Winter finally arriving in the South, jaws furiously, righteously snapping up bones and flesh.  

“I was too late. The Dragon Queen arrived in Winterfell and she demanded the Northern Lords to bend the knee, to give her the army that she had lost fighting beyond the wall.”

And already Jon could see her, standing just outside Winterfell, her head held high, chin jutting out, red hair harsh against the pure white of winter snow. She would not show them that she was frightened; she will not let them see her trembling. She was of the North. The daughter of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Stark. She was the Lady of Winterfell.

“Bran said Sansa had looked up and closed her eyes and it was so, so quiet that even though it was a whisper, even when it had been spoken so quietly, everyone heard it.”

Dracarys.

Jon found himself storming outside, the chilled air seeping through his skin, finding its ways inside his veins, into his blood, wrapping itself around his heart until he could feel frozen air inside his lungs.

Arya grabbed his shoulder, “You can’t.”

“I will.” He shrugged off her hold. “I only regret that I won’t be able to see her face.” The anger inside him – no, not anger, something far more fiercer than that. Fire and blood. A kind of madness.

But Arya planted herself firmly in front of him, “You can’t. She is the mother of your son.”

Jon staggered back. What?

What?!

“You slept with her. On your way here. She bore you a child. Why do you think she is still here, alive? Why do you think her head isn’t on a spike rotting on the table inside my chambers?”

No. No. No. No.

“You have a son. A Targaryen. The first real Targaryen in years. You think I would be able to kill a child that has you face? Your eyes? He is a Targaryen, but his face… it’s your face. It’s father’s face.”

And Jon felt like dying all over again. The Gods were so, so infinitely cruel.

--

Okay, fuck. Fuck. What the fuck did I write? 

It’s like everything I don’t ever want to happen (MagicalTargBaby!) in GoT. 

I just had to get that out of my system. So yeah. There’s the saddest ending I could ever think of. Imagine having to live with the woman who is the mother of your child and who also happen to murdered the woman you truly loved? 

I’m so sorry Jon. 

I will never write anything like this ever again. Like, ok that’s out of my head now. I can now stop thinking about that scenario – which has haunted me many sleepless nights. I know this has a lot of plot holes, so maybe we can consider this as a crack fic? Please don’t hate me.  

[graceverse]

Work In Progress (2/?)

Still untitled and still a rough draft but I’m currently on vacation and have very limited access/time to a computer. 

I uhh, I only have an account in ff.net and that had not been used in a long, long time. When I’m finally done with my vacation I will get this organized and hopefully turn it into something halfway decent. Maybe. Apologies in advance for all the errors, also still unbeta-ed. I’m going to have to consolidate this with ‘Work In Progress 1’, which means that will also have to be heavily edited/chaged. 

So uhm, here it is. This will probably be the first chapter actually. Or just that this will come before this 

Summary:  It had been so long since he had last seen her and he wanted nothing more than to throw his arms around her and give her the fiercest hug; he remembered the last time she had jumped into his arms, how terribly, frightfully small she had been back then. He needed to be able to wrap his arms around her and allow himself to believe that she was really here, alive and well.

It had been so long since he had last seen her and he wanted nothing more than to throw his arms around her and give her the fiercest hug; he remembered the last time she had jumped into his arms, how terribly, frightfully small she had been back then. He needed to be able to wrap his arms around her and allow himself to believe that she was really here, alive and well. 

Arya. 

But she stood a few paces behind Lady Mormont, her face completely unreadable, her head held high, reminiscent of Lady Catelyn Stark, proud, cool and distant. 

They had come unannounced and had taken them all by surprise Jon had assumed that some Lordling or soldier from the Vale will welcome them to Moat Cailin. He had in fact hoped for that, it would have given him more time to prepare Dany for how the North would probably receive them. He did not expect to be greeted by the black, white and green flags of House Mormont and he was especially taken aback by the Stark sigil, flying high over the banners. There were about fifty men wearing the Stark colors and another fifteen with the rampant black bear sewn on their armor. Not at all threatening, at least.  

A tent had been set up for them and Jon was shaken by the immediacy of the meeting between Lady Mormont, Sansa and Dany – such a volatile combination! – only to be thrown into a storm of emotions as soon as he saw Arya.  

Jon could not stop his heart from slowly dropping into the cold earth. He could feel a mild panic rising in his chest and he had to use all of his willpower to calm himself down.

Arya will never bend the knee to any Southerner, with or without dragons. He knew that. But he hoped Sansa had at least explained his reason behind giving up his title. Sansa had believed him about the horrors beyond the wall and Arya would have taken Sansa seriously had she told her about.

Had Sana not told Arya about the army of the dead?

Jon tamped down the irrational fear creeping up his spine. But if Arya was aware of the danger heading towards them, surely she would’ve understood why he had to bend the knee?

Perhaps Sansa had been swayed, yet again by that filthy snake Baelish to turn against him. But Sansa could not have been so easily influenced, not after what they have been through. And yet, there was something dreadfully wrong with the way Arya was refusing to even look at him.

Peeking a quick glance at Daenerys, Jon almost breathed a sigh of relief. She had her eyebrows raised, friendly smile on her face and to her credit, looked both slightly impressed and curios at the chosen welcoming emissary of the North: two girls, dark and somber, swaddled in heavy furs and quilted leather. This might be a sight and refreshing sight for her. She had always dealt with grown men, fearsome warriors, men of power in their own rights, but never with Northern girls with steel on their eyes.  

But Jon knew Northern girls better. They were not chosen to put Dany and her retinue at ease. Far, far from it. Nothing represented the North better than Lady Mormont and Lady Stark. They were neither soft nor dainty, have no use and no love for the long winding, flowery words of the South. They will more likely be wary and so utterly indifferent with whatever Dany or worst, Tyrion, will have to say to them.  

He decided that it was best he opened up the conversation, “Lady Mormont, Ladya Stark.” He gave a small nod towards them, his glance lingering over at Arya. She tilted her head, but her face remained impassive. Jon swallowed hard. This will be a very tricky situation. At least Sansa had not sent Petyr to welcome them. He wasn’t sure how he would’ve reacted. 

Somewhere behind him, he distinctly heard Jorah Mormont clearing his throat.

The young Lady Lyanna turned her cold eyes towards him, briefly passing through Ser Jorah, who Jon could imagine was guiltily fidgeting. This was the girl leading his house now. His first cousin. Jon wanted to look at Jorah and (proudly) tell him that his cousin was a force to be reckoned with, but he didn’t have to. Lady Lyanna gave a convincing display of her stern, no non-sense manner when she raised her eyebrows and in an all too clear, all too forceful voice, greeted him with a simple, “Snow.”

A ripple passed through every one inside the room. Glances were made. He could feel eyes boring in the back and sides of his head. 

Ah. So.

The fickle minded Lords of the North had decided to take the title that they have given him so many moons ago. After everything that he had gone through in Dragonstone and Eastwatch, he was now back to being the Bastard of Winterfell. It would not have hurt as much, had Arya not been there, silently looking at him, her face unchanged. 

Jon did not expect to taste ashes at the back of his mouth as he vividly remembered Lady Lyanna standing up for him, giving him a kind nod, a ghost of a smile as she declared for him. She had been the first one to give him the title King in the North and now he understood why she was here with Arya. Jon’s heart twisted painfully at the contempt and regret clearly shining in her eyes.

Daenerys remained seated, but already Jon could feel her displeasure, it was clear with the way Tyrion had suddenly wobbled up next to him, clearing his voice, “Lord Snow,” the emphasis on the now useless title couldn’t be missed, “has not told us that you will be arriving to welcome us. We have not received any ravens.”

“None were sent.” Lady Mormont answered without a waver in her voice. She looked so thoroughly unimpressed with the Dothraki guards, who admittedly, did not look as menacing, not when they were covered with furs to protect them from the cold that they were so unaccustomed to.  “We knew you were coming and if your intention is to march towards Winterfell, there are certain conditions that need to be met before that is allowed. We’re here to make sure that you agree before we let you pass.”

Jon felt bile rising from the pit of this stomach. Lyanna and Arya will not need an army to stop Dany and her army from passing through Moat Cailin, they would just quietly stand by and watch as the Dothraki and the Unsullied, awkwardly plow their way to inches deep of snow. He couldn’t help wincing as he imagines what the Northerners were thinking.

The Dothraki horde that has never even heard of winter, let alone seen snow, has come to save them. Warrior Eunuchs from god knows where, cockles bunch that had never crossed frozen lakes and icy waters, will fight against the army of dead from beyond the wall. They’d find that funny. And deeply insulting.

They haven’t seen the dragons yet, Jon reminded himself. He could still salvage this disastrous meeting.

“Allowed?” Tyrion asked, glancing first at him and then back at Daenerys who has yet to say anything. “It was my impression that you needed our help.”

“We do.” Lyanna answered coolly, as though that cleared everything up. “We have brought some grains and cloaks for your armies.” At this she let out the smallest of smiles, eyes roaming over the shivering Dothrakis huddled at the corner. “Please consider them as our gift of thanks for the Lady and her Dragons.”

It wasn’t a ripple this time, but an audible hiss that filled that room.

Missandei immediately walked towards them, “Lady? You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn,” but she had barely started her usual introduction, the long litany of Danery’s titles, when Arya started rolling her eyes and Lady Mormont, suddenly and effectively cut her off with her usual deadpanned voice, “I know no Queen, but the Queen in the North whose name is Stark.”

And there it was.  

A roar erupted inside the tent. Swords were drawn, but Lyanna and Arya barely flinched.

Dany remained seated, but he heard her take a deep breath. Jon instinctively tightened his hands around the pommel of his sword, sure of only one thing: he will die protecting his sister.

“Your King has bent the knee.” It was spoken in an eerily calm voice, the anger simmering just below the surface.

“He is no longer our King.” Lyanna answered with a shrug. “If Jon Snow has decided to bend the knee, then that is his choice. But I have not bent the knee. House Mormont still answers to House Stark, as all the Northern houses do.”

Both Tyrion and Dany had opened to their mouths to say something, but Jon beat them to it, hastily trying to ease the tension. “They have made me their King, your Grace,” Jon said, addressing Dany, looking into her eyes, imploring to her to listen to him. He hoped his tone will be enough to calm her down, “they can and have unmade me King.” He paused, letting that sink in, thankful to not have fumbled at the words, to not have shown how deeply it hurt to have everyone in the North, everyone he had been fighting for, turn their backs on him.

Dany gave him the smallest of nods, which he returned. “Titles mean nothing to me,” he added, looking straight at Lady Lyanna, whose face remained as severe as he had remembered it. “We are all here to fight against the darkness that will soon devour not just the North, but the whole realm. This is neither the time nor the place to pledge allegiances.”

“Allegiances will be discussed once you reach Winterfell. But before we let you pass through Moat Cailin, we are here to kindly request, in behalf of Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell, Queen in the North, that your dragons remain here in Moat Cailin.”

Jon had become, over the many weeks spent together with the Dragon Queen, hyper aware of the many subtle changes in her mood. He had learned to read the tone of her voice, the way she clasped her hands in front of her, the way she would throw her shoulder back, the way her eyes would slowly narrow –he had them all catalogued and remember, it was important that he could read her. He had also learned that Tyrion was just as aware as he was and would react accordingly.

Before Dany could even say anything, Tyrion was quick to take hold of the conversation, “and why would we do that? We need the dragons to defeat the White Walkers.”

Arya gave a long suffering sigh, finally stepping forward so that she was just within arm’s reach. “The White Walkers are not in Winterfell. Not yet, at least. Soon maybe, since Eastwatch had already been breached. All thanks to the dragon wight that you have so generously provided the Night King with.”

Jon thought he misheard Arya. Eastwatch, breached? Dragon wight? 

Lyanna gave all of them a withering glare, before stating their condition. “Have your dragons fly over Skagos or Bay of Seals but not over land where they can be targeted, brought down, brought back to life or whatever it is that the Night King does.”  

Jon felt sick. He fought the urge to double over and clutch his stomach. He could envision The Night King astride Viserion, ice blue eyes looking down upon them, nostril flaring, and in one swoop of it’s wing, toppling down the towers at Winterfell, breathing blue fire that can freeze and kill and end everything that he held dear.

“How did you…I don’t…understand…” Tyrion looked to Jon and back to Dany who was clutching her chest. Jon could almost feel the sudden sorrow and anger consuming Dany. Her face had crumpled into an agonized grimace at the thought of her dead dragon – her child, being turned into a monster that can and will destroy her, if not stopped.

But how to stop a dragon wight?!

“Bran had seen it. Tormund had reported it. He barely survived when the wall at Eastwatch came crashing down. So you will understand why your dragons must be kept as far away in land as possible.”

“Seen?” Varys who had remained quiet the whole time, asked curiously. “Strange. I had thought Lord Stark is in Winterfell?”

No one paid him any mind. Dany still could not speak. This was a horrible blow to her. It was like losing Viserion all over again but more than anything, whatever advantage they might have had with the Army of the Dead had just significantly decreased.

“And also because you cannot guarantee that when your dragons go hungry, they will not feed upon what little livestock we have left. Winter is here. The dead are coming. So you can either talk amongst yourselves to decide whether our request makes sense or you would rather arrive in Winterfell upon dragons, who quite honestly, have become more of a liability than a weapon to help save us.”

Tyrion, looking quite defeated by two girls who were barely taller than him, helplessly turned to Dany, raising both his hand in an oddly placating way, a move which Jon had seen more than he would like to admit. Dany immediately dismissed whatever Tyrion was about say with a flick of her wrist. “I would like to a council with my Hand and my advisers.”

Arya and Lyanna gave each of them a long hard look, a look only a Northerner can give, conveying their absolute disbelief that a council needs to be held over something as simple as this. The North dealt with practical problems, it comes with trying to survive the harsh land which they have lived upon since the beginning of time. Dragons were dangerous. Dragons can be turned into weapons against them. What more does the Southern fools want to talk about?!

“We’ll leave you to it then,” Lyanna’s displeasure clearly showing with her weary sigh. “But we expect an answer soon. If we’re going to Winterfell, the more we delay, the harder it will be to pass through snow and biting cold.” They did not have to add that it would be harder for them, the Southern army that was promised to help them.

Jon hopelessly watched as Arya and Lyanna left, the howling wind briefly entering the tent, before their Dothraki guards quickly closed the flap. Whatever warmth that was inside disappeared, replaced by the chilling cold that would settle deep into muscles and bones.

Jon had bent the knee, had lost the North and his family, all for a desperately played gamble that was slowly turning out to be mistake.  

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Ok, maybe “mistake” is such a strong word. Hahaha. I hope that wasn’t so bad.