Chapter Text
Sansa
When Sansa was a little girl she used to dream of being Queen. She would dream of pretty dresses and of a loving husband who would kiss her softly and hold her at night. She would listen with rapt attention while her mother and Septa told her stories about the South. While her sibling were off playing and laughing, growing closer with each childish barb and jibe, she would sit with her Septa and the other ladies of Winterfell sewing dresses and dreaming of her Prince. She was the embodiment of the perfect lady her mother had molded her into.
But that was before. Before her father accepted Robert Baratheon's offer to be Hand to the King. Before her betrothal to Joffrey. Before Lady was killed. Before...everything.
In the South, Sansa's childhood dreams were shattered by the swing of the sword that took her father's head. She had been left in the Lion's den with no one to protect her. So she thought up a new dream. She dreamed of her eldest brother Robb coming to King's Landing to avenge their father's death and take her home. She would lie in bed each night and dream, trying to forget the ache in her bones and the blossoming bruises that marred her back.
That dreamed died too. But it didn't slip away all at once. That childish, stupid dream slowly slipped away with every nicety forced from her lips, every public beating, and finally, her first marriage to Tyrion Lannister. When she found out that her oldest brother had Jaime Lannister as his hostage, she cried in relief. He was coming to get her, she just had to endure. But her hopes were shattered when she heard that Robb found the Kingslayer more valuable staying in his custody than using him as a bargaining chip for her freedom.
Sansa learned the hard lesson that hopes and dreams only brought her more heartbreak and sorrow.
When Sansa was wed again to Ramsay Bolton, she didn't even have it in her to hope for survival. That is until Theon Greyjoy threw Ramsay's lover, Myranda, from the rampart and helped her escape Winterfell for the last time.
For the first time in years, Sansa allowed herself to have hope. She prayed she'd make it to Castle Black alive. She longed to see her family again, even if that family was Jon, her father's bastard. During her trek North with Brienne of Tarth and Podrick, she ran through all the memories she had of her half-brother Jon Snow. She was ashamed to admit that they were few and she was the villain in most of them. She tried to think of a time when she had said but one kind word to him. Of course she couldn't. The closer they got to Castle Black, the more she feared being turned away. It was no less than she deserved.
But when she arrived and saw Jon standing there, older and stronger, sporting an unkept beard and long hair tied away from his face, she felt safer than she had since she left Winterfell the first time all those years ago. Unthinkingly, she threw herself into his arms. She allowed herself to feel a moment of relief when his arms immediately wrapped around her small frame and held her against his chest.
With Jon in her corner, she began to dream again. It was such a foreign feeling that those first few nights at Castle Black she feared being alone. She found herself sitting in the Lord Commanders room with Jon until all that could be heard was Ghost's soft snores and the crackling of the fire.
One night Jon finally asked her about it.
"Not that I don't enjoy your company, but you need your sleep, Sansa," Jon said imploringly.
Kneeling in front of her, he reached out to cup her cheek, running the pad of his thumb along the soft, bruised skin under her eye. Sansa had closed her eyes and leaned into his touch. It had been so long since anyone had touched her with any semblance of kindness.
"I can't," she choked out.
Jon looked at her with such softness in his eyes it made her want to cry.
"I don't want to dream."
She dreamt of what Winterfell would be like without the Bolton's terrorizing the North. She dreamt of reclaiming her home. But most surprisingly she dreamt of Jon.
After her second week at Castle Black, Sansa told Jon about her desire to reclaim Winterfell. She knew it was time to stop being the agreeable 'little bird' she was in the South. She spent months traveling the North with Jon, imploring Northern Houses to help them take back their home. Most of the Northern houses were too craven to go against the Bolton's. Even with the weight of the Stark name behind them, they were struggling to gather enough men to even have a chance of taking back Winterfell.
After being turned away by Lord Glover, Sansa had returned to her tent and sobbed.
House Stark is dead.
Jon found her in her tent, with tears running down her cheeks curled up under the furs on the makeshift cot Ser Davos and the wildings had set up during their meeting with Lord Glover. Without saying a word, Jon shucked off his boots and climbed in behind her, wrapping her up in his strong arms.
"He never should have said that to you," Jon whispered into her hair, his hand curling tighter around her own.
"What if he's right?" Sansa whispered back. She hated herself for asking, but it's all she could think of. The words rattled around in her head.
House Stark is dead.
"He's wrong," Jon said vehemently, "you're alive. House Stark lives on through you."
"And you."
Jon laughed bitterly. "I'm a Snow, Sansa."
"Not to me," she countered softly tucking his hand closer against her chest.
This isn't what brother and sisters do, she thought, lying there in silence with Jon curled up behind her. But her and Jon had never been good at being brother and sister.
The next morning, Sansa woke up with the words House Stark is dead echoing in her mind. If she wanted to win back her home, she'd have to play the game. No matter how much she hated it. Resolutely, she sat down and wrote a letter.
The Knights of the Vale rode for her. They plowed through Ramsay's forces, saving what was left of her and her brother's army. She watched with a satisfied smirk as her husband fled the battle field for the gates of Winterfell.
"Winterfell is yours," Jon told her as he stood over a beaten and bloody Ramsay Bolton.
It was a victory. But a heart wrenchingly bitter one.
Rickon, her baby brother, was dead. When his body was brought back to the castle and prepared for burial, Sansa didn't even recognize him. He was so tall, with wild Tully hair that made Sansa's heart ache. As she ran her hands through his curls, she prayed to the Old Gods and the New that he might be reunited with mother and father.
That night they buried Rickon with Shaggydog next to Robb in the crypts.
Sansa had retired to her chambers shortly after leaving the crypts. The ache in her chest wouldn't go away. All she could think about was how things might have been different if she hadn't left Ramsay. If she had been here when the Umber's handed him over, maybe she could have protected him. It was stupid, thinking that anything she did or didn't do could have changed the outcome of Rickon's end. Her only comfort was knowing that Ramsay would never be able to hurt her family again. It was only fitting that he had been torn apart by the very dogs he had used to terrorize his captives.
She was staring into the flames, lost in what could have been, when a soft knocking at her door had her shooting up out of her chair. It was the middle of the night and she prayed Littlefinger hadn't thought to ambush her in her chambers, demanding payment for the Knights of the Vale.
When she opened the door and found Jon, she breathed a sigh of relief. His head was bowed and his curls untied, falling like a halo around his face. Reaching out, she cupped his jaw, running her fingers through the dark coarse hair on his cheek. She gently lifted his chin up, prompting him to meet her eyes.
"Oh, Jon."
He slumped against her, burying his head in the space between where her neck met her shoulder.
"I tried," he sobbed brokenly into her skin. "I tired to get to him. I tried."
"I know," Sansa carted her fingers through his hair. "I know you did."
Days later, they had sent out the ravens demanding all the Northern lord and ladies appear in Winterfell for a conclave. Jon was anxious to get the word out that the Night King was coming and to get the Northern houses on their side if they had any hope of survival. All of Sansa's time was spent trying to undo the damage that the Greyjoy's and the Bolton's had inflicted. Winter was coming, and if Jon was to be believed, so was the Long Night.
Jon and Sansa had fallen into a comfortable routine while waiting for all the lords and ladies of the North to arrive. Every morning they would break fast together in her solar before going about their duties. They were so busy they would rarely see each other until the moonlight reflected off the ever growing layer of snow in the keep.
Winter is coming.
Every night after supper, Jon would join Sansa in her solar. Sometimes they just sat in shared silence, others they talked about preparations for the Long Night. But every night before Jon left to retire in his own chambers, he would leave a lingering kiss on Sansa's cheek that made her mind go blissfully numb.
Sansa didn't know what to make of her feelings for her half-brother. She'd never been close with her siblings like Jon and Arya had been, or like Jon and Robb were growing up. Was this how brothers and sisters were supposed to act? She was too embarrassed to ask Jon.
In the end she didn't have to. Sansa was walking to the kitchen's to speak to the cook about the menu for the upcoming conclave when she came across Jon and Davos speaking in hushed tones. She knew she should have felt guilty for listening, but Sansa had long ago learned that all knowledge was power.
"She is your sister," Davos reasoned.
"Half-sister. And I know that," Jon spit back. She could see him in her mind, running his hands along his jaw.
"You don't look at her like she's your half-sister. If I've noticed, the lords and ladies at the conclave will too. They'll think you Lannisters if you're not careful."
"She doesn't-" Jon growled, "We are nothing like the Lannisters."
"I'm not trying to pass judgement. Gods know the two of you have been through enough. You both deserve better than you've got. But you need to get your head together before the Northern Houses arrive."
Jon didn't join her in her solar that night. Or any night after that until Howland Reed arrived in Winterfell and asked for a private audience with Jon Snow.
After Jon stormed out of his meeting with Lord Reed, he had not been seen by anyone. When word reached Sansa that her half-brother was missing, she decided to go searching for him. Considering Howland Reed had been with her father in Dorne, before he returned to Winterfell with Jon, Sansa assumed that the old man had told Jon something about his parentage. Sansa slipped away from the great hall and made her way down to the crypts. She had thought to find Jon in front of their father's statue, instead she found him sitting opposite their Aunt Lyanna's. His knees were pulled up to his chest, his arms crossed over them with his head tucked in the space between. He looked like a child trying to hide from the world.
Silently she sat down next to him and reached out with one hand on his curls and the other on his arm. When he didn't acknowledge her presence, Sansa thought he might have fallen asleep, so she softly called out his name. To her surprise, a broken sob escaped his lips. She sat with him, on the floor of the crypts, while he choked out the story of his true parentage.
"All I ever wanted to be was a Stark. And now I'm not even that."
Sansa's heart broke for him and she leaned down to place a kiss on the crown of his head.
"You are a Stark. I don't care if your father was a Targaryen, your mother was a Stark and so are you."
Jon laughed bitterly and in a rough, low voice replied, "That's a sweet sentiment, pretty girl, but it's still a lie."
"What if it wasn't?"
Jon's eyes finally met hers. As she told him of her plan, her new dream, she saw hope reflected in his eyes for the first time.
The night before the conclave, Jon slipped into her chambers, careful to avoid being seen by any of the Northern lords and ladies that had arrived just days earlier.
"Are you sure about this?" he asked her holding her face gently in his hands.
His face was unguarded and his eyes soft as he searched her expression for any lingering doubt.
"I'm sure." She assured him, voice unwavering as she reached up to slide her hand over his.
"You have a choice," Jon reminded her, "I don't want you to feel like you have to do this f-"
"Jon," She took a small step back in order to place her palm over his mouth. Sansa couldn't help but giggle at how absolutely ridiculous he looked with his shocked eyes and her hand completely covering his mouth. "I'm not just doing this for you. In fact, this is a mostly selfish act. When I arrived at Castle Black, I started to want things again. Safety, Winterfell...you. But there is still time. If you have decided you don't want this; that you can't -hmmf"'
In one swift motion, Jon moved her hand away from his mouth and cut her off by covering her lips with his own.
The conclave had gone better than Sansa had expected. Her stomach was twisted in knots when young Lady Mormont stood and declared Jon King in the North. While she knew that having the lords and ladies think so highly of Jon would go a long way in garnering support for their marriage, she was nervous for how they would react to the news of his true parentage. However, her worries were unfounded when Jon stood and told them that he was not in fact, the son of the late Eddard Stark, but actually the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. The hall erupted into chaos until Howland Reed stood up and told the hall of how Eddard Stark found his sister in the Tower of Joy. Sansa felt her throat tighten as she thought of her father risking his new marriage and his honor to protect his nephew from Robert Baratheon's wrath. In the end, Sansa was declared Queen in the North and her betrothal to her cousin, Jon Sand, was not only announced, but accepted by the Northern Houses. Sansa was unable to full relish in their victory because she could feel Littlefinger's eyes boring into the side of her head from his place in the back of the hall.
Jon and Sansa wed a fortnight later in the Godswood surrounded by the Northern lords and ladies. The wedding feast was modest, but it was more joyous than any of her previous marriages. Because this was the marriage that Sansa chose. Jon held her hand, moving his thumb back and forth, while he chatted with Davos. Sansa was doing her best to charm Lord Royce, knowing that his support would go a long way in keeping the Knights of the Vale in Winterfell when she moved against Littlefinger.
"Would you like to dance?" Jon leaned over to whisper in her ear.
"You hate dancing," Sansa replied.
"You don't."
Jon's eyes sparkled as he took their intertwined hands and led her to the middle of the hall.
After their dance, Tormund Giantsbane, a wilding who had been at Jon's side since before his resurrection, stood up and bellowed that it was time for Jon to steal his bride away. Unfamiliar with wilding customs, Sansa let out a surprised shriek as Jon scooped her up into his arms and led her from the hall up to the Lord and Lady's chambers.
Sansa was enjoying the feeling of her husbands beard against the inside of her thigh, when the sound of unrelenting knocking broke through her lust filled haze.
"What?" Jon growled at the barred door.
"Your Grace, it's urgent."
Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, the Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains.
Jon's aunt had landed in Westeros with her three dragons. The raven sent from Dragonstone broke the bubble of marital bliss that Jon and Sansa had existed in since their wedding. When Samwell Tarly sent a raven declaring that an abundant of dragonglass could be found on Dragonstone, Sansa and Jon fought for weeks over whether or not he could risk going to the island to procure what they so desperately needed to defeat the dead.
"We need dragonglass and more importantly we need allies!" Jon hissed when they were alone in their solar.
"I'm not disagreeing with you! But we cannot risk sending you to Dragonstone. Everyone in Westeros knows of your true parentage. If she's decided you're a threat to her claim she could burn you!" Sansa argued while attempting to undo her laces.
"What choice do we have! The Night King is coming and without the dragonglass we don't stand a chance." Jon threw himself into a chair.
Sansa could hear in his voice that he was over this conversation.
"I can't lose you!" Sansa's voice broke into a sob as she leaned over to brace herself against her vanity, her laces forgotten.
"Sansa," Jon breathed, as he rose from his chair and moved to stand behind his wife.
"Jon," Sansa croaked, trying to find the words to convince him to stay. "I know we need dragonglass. I know that dragon fire would help us defeat the Night King. But if you go and don't come back... I don't know how I'd go on. I don't know what I would do without you."
Jon gently turned her around and held her in his arms.
"I know it's a risk," Jon spoke into her shoulder, "but it's a risk I think we need to take. Without the dragonglass, the Night King will win, and you'll lose me anyway."
Jon left the next day with Davos Seaworth and a dozen men to treat with Daenerys Targaryen on Dragonstone. No matter how many times Sansa tried to convince herself that her husband was doing the right thing for their people, for their survival, her heart still broke every morning she woke up alone in their bed. Soon after Jon's departure, Brandon Stark returned to Winterfell and Sansa's heart broke all over again because her brother was not as she remembered. He claimed he was the three-eyed raven and knew things that he couldn't possibly know.
Without Jon by her side, Littlefinger became more bold. Seeking her out in her chambers after the castle had fallen asleep. He told her that he loved her, as he did her mother, and that she should use the men Jon had amassed and the Knights of the Vale to ride South and take back the Iron Throne. Sansa had a guard stationed outside of her chambers from that night forward.
Then Arya returned. But she wasn't the little girl Sansa remembered from all those years ago on the King's road. She was colder and more suspicious. Especially after she learned of Jon and Sansa's marriage. For a time, Sansa felt like she was surrounded by enemies on all sides. Arya had accused her of marrying Jon as a ploy to become Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Littlefinger was constantly hovering around her and whispering in her ear about going South to claim what was theirs, and Bran was speaking in riddles.
When she received a raven from Dragonstone that Jon would be riding North with Daenerys Targaryen and her army to defend the living, Sansa felt the knot in her stomach twist tighter. Her husband had invited an enemy into her home. It had been months since she'd seen her husband. The man she chose to love her and cherish her and protect her. She had heard the self proclaimed Queen of Westeros was beautiful. She wondered what her husband had to do to get the Dragon Queen to agree to march North. But this was the game, she thought bitterly. Sansa had chosen to play the game of thrones and she wouldn't lose. She just hoped that her and her husband were still playing for the same team. She summoned her family to her solar. It was time to eliminate an enemy from their home.
Sansa felt nothing as her sister sliced through Lord Baelish's throat. No longer would she be a pawn in the games of men who sought power above all else. The Stark sisters shared a nod. One enemy down, three to go.
The day her husband finally returned to Winterfell, Sansa felt as if her heart was going to burst from her chest. With Bran and Arya at her side, she watched as Jon rode through the gates with a beautiful young blonde woman at his side. Was this how her mother felt when Ned Stark rode through the very same gates all those years ago holding a baby he claimed as his own, she thought fleetingly. Despite her worries, when her eyes met his, she found herself smiling for the first time since she watched him leave. Jon's eyes lit up at her smile and he quickly dismounted, wrapping his arms around her and lifting her feet off the ground. Sansa's eyes closed and she allowed herself a moment to bask in his strong embrace. His scent threatened to overwhelm her and she felt her eyes prickle with tears. Oh, how she had missed him.
"I missed you," he whispered in her ear, "I missed you so much. Trust me."
Sansa felt herself stiffen at his words. Jon gently set her back on her feet and kissed her temple before turning to introduce her to the Dragon Queen.
"Welcome to Winterfell, Daenerys."
Sansa endured the welcoming feast. Listening to the Northern lords whisper about how her husband had slighted her for the beautiful Dragon Queen had her gripping her wine glass harder than necessary. She didn't miss how the self proclaimed Queen refused to call them by their proper titles, instead calling her husband Jon and her Lady Stark. The woman's familiarity with her husband set her teeth on edge and she had to remind herself that Jon wasn't the type of man to forsake his marriage vows. She knew him. She loved him. And he loved her.
When the feast was winding to a close, Daenerys rose and asked Jon, rather boldly, if he would escort her to her chambers. The only thing keeping Sansa in her seat was Arya's hand gripping her wrist tightly. The other lords at their table looked stricken at her boldness and Tyrion Lannister, her Hand, sent her a sympathetic look. Her stomach churned.
"I apologize, Your Grace. But I've been away for many moons and I must admit I'm craving my wife's attentions," Jon replied diplomatically, reaching over to lovingly caress Sansa's hand. Sansa felt her shoulder's relax slightly at her husband's statement.
Daenerys pursed her lips and looked over Sansa's form with a decidedly unimpressed look before walking away with her advisor, Missandei.
"My apologies, Lady Sansa," Tyrion cleared his throat. "My Queen is still learning Westerosi customs."
"I believe respecting the sanctity of marriage, especially in the home that you are a guest in, is a universal nicety not something that is uniquely Westerosi," Sansa replied calmly, while reaching out to place her hand on Jon's thigh.
"Of course, Lady Sansa," Tyrion replied, looking abashed.
"Your Grace," Jon bit out, "I have forgiven your slights against me and my title, but you will not disrespect my Queen in our home. Are we clear, Lannister?"
That night in their chambers, Jon sat at the end of their bed, his hands gripping his wife's waste as she stood in front of him.
"She's mad, love," Jon whispered into her stomach, "I told her the North wouldn't kneel. Not for her, not for anyone. She didn't like that."
Sansa choked out a bitter laugh, "I'm sure she didn't."
"I had to play to her vanity," Jon said, stroking his arms up and down her waist, "she want's to break the wheel. I told her if she came North to defend the living, showed them who she really is, the North might be open to rejoining the Seven Kingdoms."
Sansa stiffened in his hold. The hand she was running through his hair froze. He didn't.
"I didn't kneel," Jon rushed out. "I promise you, I didn't kneel. Winterfell is yours. I just couldn't think of any other way to get her here. To get her dragons and her men here."
"Did you-," Sansa took a deep breath, staring a hole into the wall behind the bed they shared. She hated herself for asking, but she needed to know. "Did you promise, or do anything else to convince her to come?"
Jon looked startled as he lifted his head from her stomach. He rose to look her in the eyes, grasping her face in his hands.
"No. Absolutely not. If there was any way to get her men and her dragons without bringing her into our home, I would have done it. But never that, pretty girl. Never that."
Sansa felt herself truly relax for the first time in months. She let herself collapse into her husband, trusting him to hold her up.
She spent the entire night reacquainting herself with her husbands touch. She relished in every catch of his breath, every I love you, and every glide of his strong body against her own. When they were both sated, still wrapped up in each other, Sansa whispered into his chest how proud of him she was, how much she loved him, and how sorry she was for doubting him.
Jon just laughed and said, "If a foreign king had asked if he could escort you to your chambers, it would have ended in bloodshed."
He had played the game and quite well at that. They had what they needed to defeat the Night King.
There were times during the following month, where Sansa hoped this day would never come. She had bitten her tongue and placated the Dragon Queen more times than she could count, telling herself it was for the sake of survival. She accepted the Kingslayer's sword. She had welcomed Theon Greyjoy and the Hound into her home, much to her husbands displeasure. She watched as her men spent thousands of hours in the training yard. She even tolerated the Red Woman, Melisandre. Still, when she heard the horn blow for a third time, she would have endured it all 100 times over to avoid this moment.
"Come back to me," she whispered, her forehead pressed against Jon's. Her hands were gripping his jerkin so tightly her knuckles had turned white.
"I promise to try," he replied, grasping at the back of her dress, unwilling to part from her.
Sansa let out a broken sob, before crushing her lips to his for what might have been the last time. She memorized the feel of his lips against hers, the way she could feel his hands on her even through the layers of her dress, the taste of his tongue.
Then, all too soon, she let him go.
She let them all go. Her sister, her brother, Theon, Sandor, Davos, even Gendry. They were all out there fighting the dead. When the doors to the great hall closed behind them, Sansa felt as if her heart had left with them.
"Your Grace? Are you alright?" Gilly, Samwell Tarly's wife, asked kindly. Her son little Sam perched on her hip. Sansa could see the outline of a slight bump protruding from under her dress.
"I will be when this is over," Sansa smiled sadly, reaching out to caress little Sam's cheek.
Sansa prayed for the noise to stop. All she could hear was the sound of the dead screeching and howling. The women and children left in Winterfell were all gathered in the great hall. Mother's were whispering softly to their children, trying to reassure them that the noise would go away soon. The King will make them go away, she heard one mother whisper to her daughter, who looked to be around the age of four. Sansa didn't even want to think about what would happen to her if the dead found their way into the hall.
Sansa couldn't sit still. She alternated between ensuring that there were sufficient beds and supplies in the hall to help the wounded if- when the Night King fell, and talking softly to the children. She told them the story of a princess who lived in a tall tower and the prince who would visit her, hoping one day to free her from the evil witch. The children sat around her completely absorbed in the tale she was spinning. For a blessed minute, even she was able to forget about the danger that was just feet away from them.
A loud crashing sound made everyone in the hall flinch. The dozen or so guards that she and Jon had ordered to stay inside the great hall, flinched when the dead had breached the gates. The women and children in the hall began to scream and cry. All the guards moved to protect the door with their bodies. Sansa knew that the door wouldn't remain in tack for long. She watched in horror as the door began to undulate and the screams of the dead grew louder. The sound of wood splintering sent ice through her blood. She stood frozen in the middle of the great hall where she had grown up, where she had celebrated her wedding, where she had once dreamed her children would celebrate their name days. A hand clutching her wrist broke through her shock. She turned to see Gilly and little Sam both looking at her with large imploring eyes. She was their Queen. She was supposed to have all the answers. But all she could do in that moment was take their hands and whisper a prayer to one day be reunited with the ones she loved.
Then suddenly it stopped. No one dared to breathe. Everyone was too focused on listening to the unnaturally still silence that had enveloped them. This was almost worst than the shrieking, she thought numbly.
"Open the doors," she whispered.
"Your Grace," Jorny, one of the guards, started.
"Open the doors," she repeated louder this time.
All the guards shared a look before slowly turning and opening the doors. The sun was starting to peak through in the distance, encapsulating Winterfell a dark grey hue.
It was over. They had survived the Long Night.
Arya
Arya fell to her knees as the Night King shattered to pieces below her. She stayed on the ground, with her hands planted in the snow below her as she listened with bated breath. The sounds of the dead abruptly ended and all that was left was the sound of bodies. Thousands of bodies dropping to the ground. Arya imagined that the ground might shake under the weight of so many fallen dead. If it had, her brain wasn't able to process it.
"It's over."
Arya slowly lifted her head to see Bran, her all knowing, three-eyed raven, brother, sitting serenely in his fucking chair. Arya sat back on her knees and leaned to the side to rid her mouth of the metallic tasting blood that had collected in her mouth during the battle.
"The others?" she croaked
"I don't know."
"How do you not fucking know?"
Bran looked down at her, his eyes somehow softer, like they had been when he was a boy.
"With the Night King dead, I feel more like...me."
Arya wanted to cry. Her head hurt. Her throat hurt. She didn't know if her family had survived. What if she was too late? What if the wights had already killed them all? She'd never get to tell Gendry that she actually did think she loved him. She'd never get to tell Sansa she was sorry for being such a bitch when she first arrived at Winterfell or how she was actually happy that her sister had found happiness, even if it was still a little disturbing to her that it was with Jon. She'd never again get to tease Jon about his heart eyes whenever he looked at his wife.
Her breath was starting to come faster and faster. What was happening to her? She was breathing, but it was like she couldn't get enough air.
She remembered something similar happen to Sansa one night when the dragon bitch had asked her sister how she had become so popular in Westeros as to not be married once, but three times over. Arya could still hear the hitch in Sansa's breathing and the way Jon quickly whisked her away to their solar. Arya had followed them after making sure to diplomatically tell the dragon bitch to fuck off. She entered their solar without knocking and found Sansa on the floor, with Jon crouched down in front of her pressing her hand against his chest, begging her to time her breaths with his.
"Arya?" Bran called out to her.
She looked at him with panicked wide eyes. If she wasn't so scared she would have laughed at the ridiculousness of it all.
"Can you count with me?"
He wanted her to count with him? Right now?
Bran started to count in low soothing tones. Arya tried to focus on the numbers, forming them in her mind until she could say them out loud with him. When they reached fifty, Arya's breathing had returned to normal, but she felt more drained and exhausted than she had since her time at the House of Black and White.
Arya stayed on her knees until she was sure that standing wouldn't send her face first back into the bloody snow. Rising to her feet, she took an uncoordinated step towards Bran's chair, bracing herself on the arms. To her surprise, Bran took the opportunity to hug her.
"I'm glad you're okay," he whispered.
"I'm glad you're okay, too." She wrapped her arms around his neck. This was the first real hug she and her brother had shared since their return to Winterfell.
They stayed like that for a long time. Until the sun had risen enough to make the snow beneath them glisten prettily. Just as Arya was beginning to pull away from the embrace, she heard a familiar, distinctly female voice from further into the Godswood shriek.
"Nedd!"