The Dragon and the Wolf

"Sometimes when I try to understand a person's motives, I play a little game. I assume the worst. What's the worst reason they could possibly have for saying what they say and doing what they do? Then I ask myself, 'How well does that reason explain what they say and what they do?"

Rose revels in the feeling of the warm winds blowing strands of hair across her face. The heat of the sun should make her feel calmer, but the surge of the waves beneath her and the vision of King's Landing looming over the waters, coming towards them, turns her rigid.

"How many people live there?" Jon asks.

Tyrion grimaces, bleakly at the Red Keep. "A million, give or take."

Rose frowns. "Last I heard, it was half a million."

"The Riverlands are burned and winter is here." Tyrion squirms at her side as the boat gives a sudden, rocky jolt. "Hundreds of thousands will have migrated to the capital by now."

"That's more people than the entire North," Jon mutters. "Crammed into that. Why would anyone want to live that way?"

"There's more in the city," Tyrion replies. "And the brothels are far superior," he adds, glancing at them over his shoulder with a lifted brow. A smile twitches the corners of Rose's lips. He manages a small grin, then steps away from the bow, heading back to the deck.

Rose squints in the sunlight. Her teeth grit when she feels Jon's eyes flitting to her, troubled. "Still not talking to me?" he asks. Squaring her shoulders, she moves towards the steps, but he grabs her arm. Her head whips around to glare at him. "I understand you're angry, but you're the one who taught me the importance of being a united front," he tells her, exasperated. "Can you at least pretend you don't hate me in front of Cersei?"

His face is so sincere, a sharp pain stabs at her chest. But, you gave away my crown. You did it all behind my back. You betrayed me. Swallowing, she stares down at his hand clasping her arm and shrugs out of his grip. Without a word, she turns and storms down the steps. Jon can do nothing but sigh after her.

On the deck, Theon stands near Varys, having watched the quiet scene with a frown on his face. It morphs into a soft smile when she approaches him. Rose stands at his side, gazing out towards King's Landing and the looming Red Keep. Her insides flutter when his hand brushes against hers, entwining their fingers.

The main road is a stream of pure dust, lined neatly with trees. Jon and Rose walk at the front of the procession, a horde of Dothraki surrounding them on either side. The Hound saunters at the rear of the group, lugging a donkey cart with him, which carries the padlocked crate in which their imprisoned wight resides in.

As a layer of sweat begins to gleam on her brow, Rose is glad she traded in her furs for a fitted leather waistcoat embroidered with the direwolf sigil. Tiny winter roses are woven into her golden hair, which is pulled backwards in an elaborate, braided knot. Her hand remains locked around the hilt of her sword, eyeing the area for wildfire or other Cersei-like traps.

"Why did they build it?" Missandei asks from behind her.

Rose follows her gaze to the fractured stone walls of the Dragonpit, which peek upwards from behind the treeline. "Dragons don't understand the difference between what is theirs and what isn't," Jorah explains. Rose bites her lip, suppressing the urge to snidely comment: 'like their mother'. "Land, livestock. Children. Letting them roam free around the city was a problem."

"I imagine it was a sad joke at the end," Tyrion muses. "An entire arena for a few sickly creatures, smaller than dogs. But in the beginning, when it was home to Balerion the Dread . . . it must have been the most dangerous place in the world."

Davos squirms, staring straight ahead of them. "Maybe it still is."

Rose sucks in a breath when they reach the bend of the road. A company of Lannister soldiers, dressed in their scarlets and golds, come around the corner. At the front of the procession, she's surprised to see Bronn, dressed smarter than she'd ever seen him. He looks like a lord.

Her eyes blow wide when she spots Brienne and Podrick standing amongst them. Instantly, their eyes lock, and Brienne has the good sense to look ashamed. Rose grits her teeth, but says nothing.

"Welcome, my lords," Bronn greets. He eyes the Dothraki flanking the group but remains at ease. "Your friends arrived before you did," he says, gesturing to Brienne and Podrick. "I've been sent to escort you all to the meeting."

He steps aside, extending his arm. Compliantly, the Lannister soldiers part, forming a narrow walkway for the procession. The Dothraki are the first to move, clutching their spears, surly looks on their faces. Rose keeps her eyes fixated on Brienne, and quickly moves into the group to walk at her side.

"You shouldn't be here," she hisses.

Brienne swallows. "Sansa sent me to represent her interests."

"And now my sisters and my brother are in Winterfell, unprotected," Rose counters, her hand clenching, tighter around her sword. "You swore an oath. Your being here is breaking that oath."

"Sansa declined your invitation to King's Landing so she could do as she promised," Brienne protests, struggling to keep her voice even. "To stay in Winterfell and rule in your stead. She's doing a marvellous job." Rose sighs, exasperated, but nods her head, a flicker of pride warming her insides. Brienne visibly relaxes. "I know the South. I know the Lannisters. I provide an extra sword to your service, should you need it."

Rose looks down at the dirt road, wincing. "What about Littlefinger?"

Brienne stiffens. "He's been advising her."

Rose lets out another sigh. She lifts her chin, training her gaze on the looming Dragonpit. "You left her alone with him," she accuses. The hurt that flashes across Brienne's face makes her feel so small, that she adds, "I left her alone with him."

"It was a difficult decision, Your Grace," Brienne insists.

Rose feels her palms beginning to sweat. "Should Jon and I die here, the North will be left in her hands," she murmurs. "I'd feel much better about that if I knew my husband wouldn't be whispering in her ear." She sucks in a deep, bracing breath. "If it comes to a fight, don't risk yourself defending me. Go back to the North and keep her safe."

Brienne blinks, alarmed. "Your Grace—"

"That's an order," Rose interrupts.

She tilts her head to give her a firm look which makes Brienne swallow. After a moment's thought, she nods her head but winces as though she hates herself for doing so. She slows her pace until she has fallen back, walking near the Hound, who is still dragging along the cart.

The Dragonpit is a large coliseum in tatters. The vast stone walls are broken, the sun and the sky acting as a ceiling, debris scattered around the edges. For Rose, it feels like walking straight through history: all the stories she heard about dragons when she was a child. It is equal parts fascinating and terrifying.

Lannister soldiers are stationed here and there, scattered around the podium. A series of chairs, separated into three distinctive groups, seat on top of it, shaded from the sun's glare with a crimson pergola. Despite her anger, Rose finds herself inching towards Jon, who casts her a warm, but knowing look. She avoids it, swallowing her pride.

Then, she feels a hand brushing against hers. Theon has quickened to her side, looking painfully handsome in his Ironborn armour, with a heaviness to his eyes. She understands instantly, and it aches — Bronn gestures them in separate directions as they climb the steps to the podium.

Her hand closes around Theon's. She can do nothing but give it a small squeeze. He takes a moment to study her and then, with a nod, Theon lets her go and follows Jorah, Varys, and Missandei to the far left of the podium. Rose heads for the right, where four chairs are stationed.

No one sits down. The Dothraki have swarmed to the left side of the podium, leaving Rose feeling oddly vulnerable as only she, Jon, Podrick, and Brienne remain. This quells when the Hound crosses over to them, avoiding her gaze.

"Come on, Pod," Bronn calls, patting him on the shoulder. "Let's you and me go have a drink while the fancy folks talk, eh?"

Podrick glances at Brienne. She gives him an encouraging nod, which he returns before the two of them saunter off. Rose watches them disappear into the darkness of a side entrance, half-wishing she could follow them.

The Dragonpit falls into a rigid silence. The Lannister men surrounding the podium remain in a strict formation close to the entrances, their faces giving nothing away. Eyes flit between the groups. Rose finds herself looking across at where Theon stands. Like her, he has his hand closed around the hilt of his sword, his brow furrowed.

Rose counts the seconds in her head. The seconds turn into minutes, and she sighs with irritation. Until the clanging of armour and marching footsteps makes her turn. The first person she sees is the Mountain — he is enormous, bigger than she remembered, every inch of him coated in thick armour.

Standing behind him is Cersei. Rose has to catch her breath. Her golden hair is cropped over her ears, and she no longer wears the pretty silk dresses she remembers so clearly. Instead, she is cloaked in black, with fur and metalwork on her dress.

And Jaime — his hair, the colour of beaten gold, is shorter than she remembers, too. His golden, metal hand peeks out from underneath his sleeve, catching the sunlight. Standing near him is a man she doesn't recognise, but from the sneer on his face, she knows this is Euron Greyjoy.

Mustering her courage, Rose walks over to her chair and stands in front of it, waiting. She spots the disconcerted look on Jon's face, as he struggles to look at ease. Cersei brushes straight past them, not even glancing in their direction, heading for her ornate seat, which is positioned beneath the Lannister banners.

Jaime follows her, and Euron behind him. Rose grits her teeth when she notices him sneering at Theon, smugness written all over his face. Not trusting herself, she removes her hand from her sword and clasps both of them in front of her.

Finally, the gathered lords and ladies sink into their seats, and she does, too, hers positioned right between Jon and Davos. The Hound steps away from his post next to Brienne and crosses the podium towards the Mountain, who steps in front of Cersei, towering well above him. Rose wishes she were close enough to hear the quiet exchange but settles for finding the most comfortable position in her seat.

After what feels like an age, the Hound turns his back on his brother, who steps back into position, and stalks off the podium, towards the slender lining of steps.

"Where is she?" Cersei asks, coldly.

Tyrion's gaze remains trained on the ground. "She'll be here soon."

She wrings her hands. "Didn't travel with you?"

"No."

Cersei rolls her eyes, her jaw clenching. The brief, cold exchange sends goosebumps prickling over Rose's arms, in spite of the stifling heat. She bites down on her lip, chewing anxiously. Waiting, and waiting, and waiting—

A distant, thunderous roar erupts from the sky, followed by the flap of beating wings. Jaime is the first to leap up from his seat, clutching his sword as he staggers out from the pergola. The sound flutters the fabric, noisily above them. With a small sigh, Rose also rises to her feet, squinting in the sunlight as she searches the skies.

The enormous dark shadows cross over the stone walls, and soon, everyone is on their feet, stepping further out, onto the podium to watch. Cersei, however, remains rigidly seated. Rose glimpses her swallowing, and cannot help the grin that crosses her lips.

Drogon and Rhaegal come into view, circling the clouded sky. Rose can see the flash of silver hair before she comes into view — Daenerys guides Drogon down onto the lip of the Dragonpit, his claws crushing the fractured stones.

The Lannister soldiers surrounding the entrance near him scatter, perturbed looks on their faces, as Drogon lets out an ear-splitting roar. His head lowers a little, revealing his mother seated, calmly on his back. A beat of his wings sends the dust billowing up in clouds around them. The stones continue to crumble beneath his weight as he clambers down the stands towards the ground.

In steady, smooth movements, Daenerys slips from the dragon's back and climbs, with odd calm, down its wing. As she crosses over to the gathering, Drogon soars back into the air, sending the dust billowing again. The two dragons swirl in the sky, rising higher and higher, keeping themselves in plain sight.

Rose bites down, hard on her lip, as Daenerys climbs the steps to the procession. It takes her a while to realise what this must mean to her; to be in a place steeped in the history of her ancestors. Another reason she has a better claim to the throne than Cersei.

But not my throne. Not my crown.

Forcing the thought aside, Rose takes her seat. The procession — the most powerful gathering of people in the world — follows suit, most of which daunted into silence. Daenerys's eyes flit to Cersei, locking their gazes.

"We've been here for some time," Cersei spits.

"My apologies," Daenerys replies, softly.

Cersei stares back at her, her hands clenched together in her lap. For a short while, no one dares to speak. Then, Daenerys gives Tyrion a small nod, and he gets to his feet, crossing to the centre of the podium. "We are all facing a unique—"

"Theon," Euron calls. All heads whip to where he sits, next to Cersei, his sneer still intact. "I have your sister. If you don't submit to me here now, I'll kill her."

A lump forms in Rose's throat. She looks across at where he sits, and her heart breaks at the anguished expression on his face. For the briefest of moments, Theon meets her gaze, then drops it to the floor. He looks ashamed.

"I think we ought to begin with larger concerns," Tyrion murmurs.

"Then, why are you talking?" Euron asks. He rises from his seat and saunters over to face him, eyes gleaming. "You're the smallest concern here."

Tyrion frowns, bemused. He turns to Theon. "Do you remember when we discussed dwarf jokes?"

"His wasn't even good," Theon snarls.

"He explained it at the end. Never explain. It always ruins it."

Euron's face sets as he gazes down at him. "We don't even let your kind live in the Iron Islands, you know," he murmurs. He leans closer to him, venom gleaming in his eyes. "We kill you at birth. An act of mercy for the parents."

"Perhaps you ought to sit down," Jaime barks.

Euron doesn't look around. "Why?"

"Sit down, or leave," Cersei commands.

The Mountain plods forward from his post, his body swaying awkwardly with his own, heaving weight. At the sound of his rumbling footsteps, Euron turns, and his smile wavers. His eyes dart around the gathering, and with a raspy chuckle, heads back to his seat.

Theon looks, directly at Rose, then. She lets her lips twitch up into what she hopes is a gentle smile, and his face visibly softens.

Tyrion takes a few bold steps forward. "We are a group of people who do not like one another, as this recent demonstration has shown," he begins, tersely.

Instinctively, Rose's eyes flit to Daenerys. She's surprised to see her staring back, and her face hardens. At her side, she feels Jon stiffen, indicating he noticed this silent, cold exchange.

"We have suffered at each other's hands," Tyrion continues. "We have lost people we love at each other's hands. If all we wanted was more of the same, there would be no need for this gathering. We are entirely capable of waging war against each other without meeting face-to-face."

"So instead, we should settle our differences and live together in harmony for the rest of our days?" Cersei demands, her voice biting.

Tyrion grimaces. "We all know that will never happen."

"Then, why are we here?"

Jon, his face set, gets to his feet. All eyes swivel to him as he crosses to stand near Tyrion, looking out of place under the weight of his furs. "This isn't about living in harmony. It's just about living. The same thing is coming for all of us. A general you can't negotiate with. An army that doesn't leave corpses behind on the battlefield. Lord Tyrion tells me a million people live in this city. They're about to become a million more soldiers in the Army of the Dead."

Cersei smirks. "I imagine for most of them, it would be an improvement."

Jon's face hardens. Ignoring the flinching from the Lannister soldiers, he steps closer to her chair — Rose knows that look and catches her breath; for the briefest of seconds, he is properly, properly angry. "This is serious," he growls. "I wouldn't be here if it weren't."

Cersei remains unfazed. "I don't think it's serious at all. I think it's another bad joke." Her eyes dart to Daenerys, and she stiffens again. "If my brother Jaime has informed me correctly, you're asking me for a truce."

"Yes," Daenerys replies. "That's all."

A dark smile twists up Cersei's lips. "That's all?" she repeats, leaning forward in her chair, her hands clenched around the arms. "Pull back my armies and stand down while you go on your monster hunt. Or, while you solidify and expand your position. Hard for me to know which it is with my armies pulled back . . . until you return and march on my capital with four times the men."

"Your capital will be safe until the northern threat is dealt with," Daenerys promises, remaining composed. Rose flinches, as the words echo what she had told her on the battlements at Eastwatch. "You have my word."

Cersei's teeth grit. "The word of a would-be usurper."

"There is no conversation that will erase the last 50 years," Tyrion pipes up, cutting through the tension like a knife. His doe eyes, warm and imploring, bear into his sister's. "We have something to show you."

Footsteps make Rose's head turn. The Hound re-emerges, this time straining with the weight of the crate on his back, which is supported with tightly wound ropes. His teeth clench together with the effort of lugging it towards the podium, up the slender steps, and stopping in the middle. Crouching, he sets it down behind him with a clumsy thud.

The Hound straightens up, the gathering watching in silence as he removes the ropes, chains, and padlocks binding it shut. Rose glances at Cersei to try and gauge her reaction — she frowns, half-impatient, half-irritated as the seconds tick by.

Finally, the Hound pushes the lid to the ground and staggers to the side, warily. Nothing happens. Frowning, the Hound clutches his sword. People crane their necks to try and see over the rim of the crate, but whatever is in there, isn't stirring. Cersei tilts her head, exasperated. Rose hums in distress, her eyes locking with Jon's. It'll all be for nothing if it doesn't move. All of this will be a huge waste of—

With a sigh, the Hound slams his foot into the crate, knocking it onto its side. The wight lets out a squawk and topples out, the entire procession flinching and gasping in their seats. Snarling and gnashing, it bolts straight for Cersei, who recoils in her chair.

The Mountain steps forward, drawing his sword, but the Hound gets there first. The wight is jerked backwards, falling to the ground. Behind him, the Hound holds the chain fastened to the wight's collar. It writhes on the ground, spitting and hissing. Jaime and the Mountain surround it, their swords in hand.

The wight lurches to its feet and charges at the Hound. He draws his sword and swings it across its waist, slicing it in half. The two parts of the wight crash to the ground, both still jerking and writhing. Rose looks to Cersei; for the first time, there is genuine fear on her face, and Jaime's, who stands in front of her, his hand on his sword.

The wight's torso crawls closer to the Hound, screeching, its shattered teeth gnashing. With a grunt, the Hound slashes his sword, and it cuts through the wight's arm, which falls a distance away. Again, it doesn't let up, the arm flexing and grasping at the air.

She doesn't see Qyburn rising to his feet. But, she frowns when he crosses the podium towards the creature, no hint of fear on his withered face. Instead, he leans down and picks up the hand. His head tilts as he studies it, fascinated.

Rose rises to her feet. Davos does the same and crosses over to Jon, who takes the squirming, decapitated hand from Qyburn. Davos lights a flint, the flames roaring, and hands it to him.

"We can destroy them by burning them," Jon announces, lighting the hand on fire. The wight lets out a shriek in response, and Jon drops the blazing hand on the floor. "And, we can destroy them with dragonglass."

He glances at Rose, his face solemn. Sucking in a breath, she draws out the fashioned dragonglass dagger on her belt, which had taken the place of Robb's gift. "If we don't win this fight, then that is the fate of every person in the world," Jon declares, points to the wight's torso as his sister circles towards it.

He gives Rose a nod. Bracing herself, Rose leans down and grabs the wight by its remaining wrist, hoisting it upwards. With all her might, she plunges the dragonglass dagger into where she assumes it's heart once was. It lets out another loud screech, then crumbles to the floor, lifeless.

Rose lets it go. She looks up, swallowing when she sees all eyes fixated on her and the creature at her feet. Her eyes meet Cersei's. With a pointed grimace, she sheathes her dagger and crosses back over to her seat.

Jon steps closer to Cersei, his face imploring. She stares back at him, her face unreadable. "There is only one war that matters. The Great War. And, it is here."

Daenerys nods. "I didn't believe it until I saw them. I saw them all."

Cersei blinks, remaining silent and in thought.

"How many?" Jaime asks, quietly.

"A hundred thousand, at least."

Euron, who has been rooted to his seat since the wight had crawled out of the crate, finally stands up. He no longer has a sneer on his face. Gingerly, he walks over to the bones of the lifeless creature and crouches down next to it. His hand brushes over its head and recoils instantly. "Can they swim?"

"No," Jon replies.

"Good." Euron straightens to his feet and turns to face Cersei. "I'm taking the Iron Fleet back to the Iron Islands," he announces.

Cersei's eyes narrow. "What are you talking about?"

"I've been around the world," Euron murmurs. "I've seen everything, things you couldn't imagine, and this," he falters, glancing back over his shoulder at the fallen creature, "this is the only thing I've ever seen that terrifies me."

Rose frowns. "I've spent my share of time with the Ironborn," she pipes up and heads swivel to face her. She ignores the lot of them, suspicious as she studies Euron. "They believe your lands are named for the fierce, unbending traditions of the Old Way. You pride yourselves on warfare. Running isn't in your nature."

The sneer returns to Euron's face. He saunters closer to her. "Tell that to your lover over there," he snarls, gesturing to where Theon is now on his feet, swallowing. "He tucked tail and ran from his sister's fleet like he was born to it." His dirty eyes trail over Rose, and he leans closer. "Shouldn't waste your pretty cunt on a coward like that."

The words feel like a punch to the gut. Jon steps towards him, but Brienne gets there first, striding to Rose's side and drawing her sword. Euron eyes her, and chuckles, darkly. Giving Rose a wink that makes her skin crawl, he heads over to Daenerys instead.

"I'm going back to my island," he tells her, ignoring the flinching from the Dothraki soldiers at her back. "You should go back to yours. When winter's over, we'll be the only ones left alive."

With that, he turns on his heel and heads for the steps. Rose watches him leave, then looks to Theon. He doesn't look back at her, instead, his eyes fixated on his uncle as he walks away. He looks so defeated, Rose feels herself trembling with rage.

"He's right to be afraid," Cersei mutters.

"But, a coward to run," Rose counters, harsher than she intended. Her head whips around to meet Cersei's gaze, the anger boiling through her veins. "A fool to think he can wait out this war," she adds, pointedly.

Cersei stares back at her. The two queens share a long, thoughtful look that has the entire coliseum holding its breath. When was the last time Rose had seen her? At her son's wedding. She had cradled his head in her lap as the life left his body, as he choked and spluttered, clawing at his neck. The memory still makes Rose smile to this day.

But, then she remembers the last conversation they had. How she had told her that her mother and brother were dead. Rose resists the urge to bite her lip. How far they had both come since losing the ones they loved most.

"I agree," Cersei replies, eventually. Her gaze darts over the gathering. "If those things come for us, there will be no kingdoms to rule. Everything we suffered will have been for nothing. Everything we lost will have been for nothing." Her lips purse as she looks at Daenerys. "The Crown accepts your truce. Until the dead are defeated, they are the true enemy."

Rose exhales. It seems the entire procession lets out a breath of relief.

"In return, the King and the Queen in the North will extend this truce," Cersei adds. Rose's smile falls as her gleaming green eyes flit between her and her brother. "They will remain in the North where they belong. They will not take up arms against the Lannisters. They will not choose sides."

"Just the Northern rulers?" Daenerys asks. "Not me?"

Cersei scoffs. "I would never ask it of you," she hisses. "You would never agree to it. And if you did, I would trust you even less than I do now." She looks between Jon and Rose, contemplative. "I ask it only of Ned Stark's children. I know Ned Stark's children will be true to their word."

All eyes swivel between the King and Queen in the North. Rose feels heat rising to her cheeks under their gazes. From where he stands, in the middle of the podium, Jon looks to her. The two siblings share a long, loaded look, as though waiting for the other to speak. Rose knows the right answer. It's on the tip of her tongue. And her jaw sets when she sees Jon make the decision in his eyes. It sends her heart plummeting to her stomach.

He turns back to a waiting Cersei. "I am true to my word. Or, I try to be." He pauses. Rose opens her mouth, prepared to stop him, but again, he beats her to it. "That is why I cannot give you what you ask. I cannot serve two queens. And, I have already pledged myself to Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen."

The gathering shifts, the movement rustling in the wind. Rose leans back in her seat, incredulous. Across the podium, Daenerys's lips part in shock, her brow creasing. He risked everything, Rose fumes, silently. He risked everything, and again, he doesn't consult me.

"You are not the only one who speaks for the North," Cersei whispers.

When Rose looks up again, all heads have turned in her direction. Momentarily, she is at a loss for words. Her mouth opens and closes. Cersei's gleaming eyes penetrate hers, challenging, furious.

Jon swallows. "My sister is—"

"Your Queen," Cersei finishes. "Your word does not stand above hers. I want to hear what she has to say." Again, she fixes her glare on Rose.

Rose takes a deep, trembling breath. Her brother stares at her, his face pained and pleading. The anger inside of her withers away, the longer the silence goes on. Still, she doesn't trust herself to speak.

Yet, she knows what Cersei is doing. She wants their enmity. She wants them to turn against one another. To start a civil war amongst themselves — another thing that is not in Rose's capability. The thought slams straight into her.

I am not capable of hurting my brother.

Her throat constricts, but she swallows back the pain. "The North loves my brother," she begins, keeping her voice stable, forcing herself to look, directly at Cersei. "Almost as much as I do. They respect him because he makes tough choices that represent their interests. I trust that he's making the right decision now."

With this, Rose fixes Jon with a hard, pointed look, and he exhales in relief. He holds her gaze, saying 'thank you' with everything but his words. It breaks her heart all over again. But, you still betrayed me. And I couldn't betray you. For a split second, she has to force herself not to burst into desperate tears. He sees this.

"Then, there is nothing left to discuss." Cersei rises to her feet, and her small procession joins her. "The dead will come north first. Enjoy dealing with them. We will deal with whatever is left of you."

Jon opens his mouth to protest, but she sweeps past him. The Lannister procession follows after her, Jaime included, heading for the steps. Rose's eyes drift shut. When she opens them, Brienne has rushed past her, following after Jaime with a frantic plea she cannot hear.

Rose pushes herself to her feet, feeling the strong urge to punch something as the Lannister forces march down the dirt road.

"I wish you hadn't done that," Davos murmurs.

Daenerys gets to her feet and marches straight to Jon's side. "I'm grateful for your loyalty," she says, her voice trembling. Anguished tears spring to her eyes. "But, my dragon died so that we could be here. If it's all for nothing, then he died for nothing."

"I know," Jon sighs, frustrated.

"I'm pleased you bent the knee to our queen," comes Tyrion's strained voice. "I would have advised it, had you asked." He whips around, a dark frown on his face. "But have you ever considered learning how to lie every now and then? Just a bit?"

Jon swivels around. "I'm not going to swear an oath I can't uphold."

"You had no trouble doing it before," Rose snaps before she can stop herself.

He flinches and turns to face her. "Rose—"

She sighs, her anger ebbing. "I admire honour," she interrupts, closing the distance between them. "I always have. But, if you put too much value in it, it will prevent us from doing what needs to be done to win this war. The North will suffer because of it."

"Everything I've done is to ensure that doesn't happen," Jon insists. "I'm not going to lie to Cersei just to appease her. And I won't play her game on her terms." She gives him a frown that makes him sigh, irritated, and turns to scowl at the rest of the procession. "Talk about my father if you want, tell me that's the attitude that got him killed. But when enough people make false promises, words stop meaning anything. Then, there are no more answers, only better and better lies. And lies won't help us in this fight."

"That is indeed a problem," Tyrion muses, still rigid. "The more immediate problem is that we're fucked."

"Any ideas as to how we might change that state of affairs?" Davos asks.

Tyrion gazes out at the dirt road, contemplative. "Only one," he murmurs, sounding grim. When he turns back to face them, his brow is knitted together. "Everyone stays here, and I go and talk to my sister."

Daenerys steps forward, her fists clenched at her sides. "I didn't come all this way to have my Hand murdered," she snarls.

"I don't want Cersei to murder me either," Tyrion insists, looking at her with such gentleness, it sends Rose's heart racing in her chest. "I could have stayed in my cell and saved a great deal of trouble."

"I did this," Jon calls. "I should go."

Tyrion frowns. "She'll definitely murder you."

Rose rolls her eyes. "My brother is an expert at evading death," she points out, exasperated. "Cersei hates you far more than she hates us."

"She still believes you had a hand in murdering her son," Tyrion counters, raising his voice, making her wince. "Imagine how she'll repay the favour, should you confront her with Jon at your side." His face softens when Rose sucks in a tense breath, sharing a glance with her brother. His words had clearly struck a deep nerve. Calming himself, he looks to his Queen. "I go see my sister alone. Or, we all go home and we're right back where we started."

Daenerys stares at him a long moment, as though she can silently change his mind. When she realises she can't, her head drops to a nod, wringing her hands in front of her. Tyrion returns this. His eyes dart around the gathering, searching their faces. Then, he turns on his heel and follows the Lannister procession down the road.

An hour passes. The heat of the sun becomes almost unbearable, blended with the tension lingering in the air. Rose remains on the podium, her hand brushing the hilt of her sword, watching Jon and Daenerys from afar. They stand in the doorway of one of the stone entrances, conversing. The sight of them, talking, laughing and smiling at one another, sends a flood of pain to her chest.

She hears footsteps and the gentle clank of armour. Turning, she cannot help but beam, her insides warming when Theon approaches her side. He smiles back down at her, but it dims, quickly. "I'm sorry for what Euron said to you," he murmurs, averting his gaze to the floor.

Rose shakes her head. "He didn't say anything true."

Theon's eyes flicker upwards to meet hers again. A warm, handsome smile breaks out across his face — she decides it is one of her favourite sights in the whole world.

A sudden thought strikes her, and it furrows her brow together. "Varys told me Euron made an offer of marriage to Cersei," she murmurs. "That she was going to accept, should the rest of us be defeated." Her frown deepens. "Doesn't seem likely he'd give all that up because he was afraid."

Theon swallows. "He has a right to be." He looks over his shoulder at the fallen crate and the remnants of the wight next to it. When he turns back to her, he has a lopsided grin on his face. "You fought an army of that."

Rose arches an eyebrow, coyly. "Yes."

"And, you survived," he finishes.

She lifts her shoulder in a half-shrug, squinting in the sunlight to gauge his reaction. He chuckles as he studies her, and an uncontrollable smile twists up her lips.

He has that look on his face — like it is taking everything in his power not to grab and kiss her. Rose feels that same, familiar desire bubbling up inside of her. It would help if his chest didn't look so broadened in his armour.

Quickly, she averts her gaze and stares out at Jon and Daenerys, who remain huddled in the darkness of the entrance. Theon follows her eyeline, and his laughter vanishes. Rose sighs, sadly. "He's falling in love with her."

"You know he's only trying to do the right thing."

"The right thing would've been to consult me before he bent the knee."

She sighs, biting down on her lower lip. At this, he moves instinctively closer to her, and she drops her watery gaze to the ground. It takes Rose a second to realise he is shielding her from the gazes of the remaining procession in case she abruptly explodes into tears. Her heart warms at the gesture.

"When all this is done, we have to go back to Winterfell, to all those lords who put their trust in us to lead them," she whispers, brokenly. "With a southern ruler at our backs." She scoffs, angrily, glancing at Jon again. "He broke a promise to me and he hasn't even apologised for it."

Theon sighs, putting a hand on her shoulder. "I don't doubt your strength, you know that," he begins, his eyes penetrating hers. "But without Daenerys and her dragons, you wouldn't be standing here. She put her life on the line to save you. The North needs her. Her dragons and her armies. You got what you came for."

Rose gazes back at him. "We came to secure her assistance. We'd done that, and he still bent the knee." She grits her teeth together, arching an eyebrow. "As I said, he's falling in love with her."

His hand drops from her shoulder, his jaw clenching as he swallows. Whatever response he had in mind vanishes at the sound of someone crossing the dirt road. Both of their heads whip around to see Tyrion, drained and exhausted, walking towards the steps.

Rose takes a few, eager steps forward. Jon and Daenerys emerge from their quiet place, rushing up to the podium. The world stands still as they stare at Tyrion, waiting for an answer.

And the answer comes marching up the road behind him. Rose's palms sweat at her side as the Lannister forces reappear, along with Jaime, the Mountain, Qyburn, and Cersei. She has the same reserved look on her face, but something about the clench of her jaw suggests she is swallowing back her pride.

Jon steps forward, reaching Rose's side at the front of the procession. Her heart pounds the closer the Lannisters march until they are climbing up the slender steps towards them. Cersei comes to a slow halt, and the rest of them do, too.

She glances at Tyrion before speaking. "My armies will not stand down," she announces. "I will not pull them back to the capital." A long pause makes Rose gulp, but she remains still, waiting. "I will march them north, to fight alongside you in the Great War. The darkness is coming for us all. We will face it together."

Tyrion grins from the sidelines. Rose hears Jon blowing out a puff of air in relief, but something keeps her from doing the same. She eyes Cersei, watching the words falling from her lips, but cannot understand why they sound so bizarre.

"And when the Great War is over, perhaps you will remember I chose to help with no promises or assurances from any of you," Cersei finishes, turning cold, again. "I expect not. Call our banners," she orders, glancing to her flank. "All of them."

Rose purses her lips. She remains rooted to the spot, unable to wipe the frown from her face. Cersei's eyes glint as they lock with hers. It's as if she knows. It's as if she can read her thoughts.

She's lying through her damn teeth.

"What would Cersei have to gain from deceiving us?"

"Daenerys has already committed herself to the Northern cause," Rose explains, struggling to keep calm. "Our forces will be stationed in Winterfell to hold back the Army of the Dead while Cersei expands her position in the south. She'll wait until we're occupied with the Great War before retaking lands under our command. Storms End, Riverrun—"

"She saw what's coming for us," Jon interrupts.

"And, it's coming for the North first." Rose puts her hands on the desk in front of her as the boat rocks them, waves crashing against the window behind Jon's seat. He continues to frown at her, confused. "There's a fair chance her foes will wipe one another out. One of us is going to win. The North, or the Night King. But, that someone will be weakened from the war to come."

Jon blinks. "You fought them, Rose. They don't weaken. They don't stop."

"And, if they win, Cersei will have had plenty of time to hold them off at the Neck," Rose concludes, her fists clenched on top of the table. "If not, she could leave Westeros behind and carve out a whole new kingdom for herself. She'll certainly have the army for it." She bites down on her lip, watching Jon shake his head, unconvinced. "You know I'm right," she half-pleads.

He sighs and runs a hand over his face. "I don't know," he confesses. His tired eyes drift shut for a second. "I don't know what to believe anymore."

Rose's heart does a jump in her chest. "It certainly isn't me," she mutters, straightening up and sniffing, indignant. "You've made that very clear." The weight of her own words comes crashing down on top of her. My own brother.

Jon gazes up at her. Those warm, brown eyes. She refuses to meet them, knowing it will crush her again. He opens his mouth, but a knock at the cabin door silences him. Davos pokes his head around. "Pardon, My Lady." He outstretches his hand. "A raven for you."

Rose casts Jon one last, glum look, then takes the scroll. Davos glances between the siblings and, sensing the mood, backs out of the room. She waits for him to leave before opening it, her thumb brushing against the direwolf in the wax. Sansa's neat handwriting comes into view.

Jon rises to his feet, watching her read. He frowns when her hands begin to tremble as she clutches the scroll, tighter with her fingers. Her mouth parts and she sinks backwards into her chair, eyes sparkling. "What is it?" he asks.

Rose says nothing for a long while. Her eyes remain fixated on the scroll, and whatever she reads has startled her into silence. Then, resolve sets her face, and she takes a deep, bracing breath. "I need to be alone," she whispers, not looking up. She blinks, forcing back the tears.

He decides not to push. Instead, Jon circles the desk and walks straight past her, heading for the door. Rose hears it shut and instantly spurs into action. She gets up and walks over to take his place behind the desk, setting the scroll down onto the table.

A surge of different emotions flood through her; rage, frustration, anguish, self-loathing. For a long while, she sits, not moving a muscle. Just staring down at the words on the paper as her mind reels. As much as she despises herself for it, tears begin to spill down her cheeks, dripping onto her lap. She wipes at them, sucking in a calming breath.

Her hand feels numb as it reaches out and grabs a quill. Then, glancing at the door to make sure no one is looking in, she whips out a fresh piece of parchment and, hating herself, signs a sentence for immediate arrest.

Jon's finger runs along the map in the Chamber of the Painted Table, deep in thought. "If we have the Dothraki ride on the Kingsroad, they'll arrive at Winterfell within a fortnight," he says.

"And the Unsullied?" Daenerys asks.

Jon points again. "We can sail with them to White Harbour and meet the Dothraki here on the Kingsroad, then ride together to Winterfell," he explains.

"Perhaps you should fly to Winterfell, Your Grace," Jorah suggests. His face is creased in concern. Daenerys looks to him, thinking. "You have many enemies in the North. Thousands fell fighting your father. All it takes is one angry man with a crossbow — he'll see your silver hair on the Kingsroad and know that one well-placed bolt will make him a hero. The Man Who Killed the Conqueror."

Rose finds herself nodding in silent agreement. Daenerys says nothing, still in thought.

"It's your decision, Your Grace," Jon insists. "But if we're going to be allies in this war, it's important for the Northerners to see us as allies. If we sail to White Harbour together, I think it sends a better message."

The room waits in a silence that is oddly tense, as Jorah and Jon exchange a long, loaded look. "I've not come to conquer the North," Daenerys says, eventually. Her eyes dart, pointedly across the room, and land on Rose, her chin lifted. "I'm coming to save the North."

Rose grits her teeth. The delusion in her words is enough to make her want to scream, feeling the anger coiling in her stomach. Instead, she glares back at her, venom glinting in her eyes.

Unfazed, Daenerys looks to Jon. "We sail together."

Jon nods, struggling not to smile. Rose watches the long, silent exchange between them, as they both try to keep the glee from their faces. Across she room, she catches eyes with Theon. Knowing she is about to explode, she turns on her heel and heads for the door, leaving an uncomfortable silence in her wake.

Theon marches from the throne room, up the winding staircases to her chambers. He doesn't bother knocking. Fuelled from his conversation with Jon, he bursts in to find her standing next to her bed, folding her clothes into a case. She looks up with a tired smile at his entrance. "As much as I love the sea, spending weeks trapped on a boat with Jon making doe eyes at the Dragon Queen isn't exactly what I—"

He crosses to her in three large strides, grabs her face in his hands and crashes his lips into hers. Rose gasps into his mouth, taken aback. But then, a part of her understanding, she rests her hands on his hips and draws him closer to her. She can hear the blood tremoring in her ears, her heart thumping against her chest.

His mouth softens against hers. When he pulls away and gazes down at her, she's surprised to see tears brimming over in his eyes. One by one, they slide down his cheeks. A lump forms in Rose's throat — she knows what he is going to say. And, she's not prepared to hear it. "Theon, I—"

"I love you," he murmurs. He sighs, like the three words have been forcing him to hold his breath for a long time. "I have always loved you." Rose's face crumples, and he reaches up to brush the strands of hair from it. "I should have told you before Ned took you to King's Landing. Before Robb sent me to Castle Black, or after we rescued you from Winterfell. But, I didn't because . . ."

Theon's breath hitches, and he hangs his head, shaking it. Rose waits, feeling as though her chest is about to burst with the surge of anguish and euphoria. She lifts a hand to cradle his face, tilting his chin up to look at her.

"I'm a coward," he finishes, quietly. "Because nothing, not Euron, or Cersei, or whatever is marching beyond the Wall to slaughter us . . ." another sharp breath cuts him off. He puts both of his hands on her cheeks, his thumbs grazing the soft skin there, ". . . none of it scares me as much as my feelings for you." He sniffs, grimacing. "I'm sorry."

Rose blinks. "What are you sorry for?" she whispers, her voice trembling.

Theon averts his gaze. "It's selfish. You deserve better."

Rose is shaking her head before the words have even left his lips. She reaches up and puts her hands on his shoulders, the vision of him blurring against her tears. "There is nothing better than the feeling of being in love with you," she croaks. "And there is nothing worse than the thought of losing you . . . after everything that's happened to us." A sob tears through her.

Theon's arms circle her waist, drawing her closer. Their heads tip together as she tries to regain control of herself, her hands clenching his leather tunic. They stand together, her wrapped up in his arms, for a long while, neither one of them saying anything.

Finally, Theon pulls his head up. "Jon's right," he murmurs, in a steadier voice. "My father, my real father, lost his head at King's Landing." His hands rub up and down her arms. "I won't choose. I'm going to save Yara. Together, we'll take back the Iron Islands. Then, if I'm not too late, I'll sail north to fight for Winterfell." A frown creases Rose's brow. He matches it in confusion. "What is it?"

Rose bites down on her lip. His thumb reaches up and tugs it from between her teeth, his eyes twinkling at her stubborn habit. "I just really wish I was going with you," she confesses, sounding surprised at herself. She flinches at the selfish thought.

Theon peers at her, then his face breaks out in a smile and he tugs her to his chest. "Me too," he sighs. His chin rests on top of her head, and her arms encircle his waist, listening to the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear.

"You stand accused of murder. You stand accused of treason. How do you answer these charges . . ." Sansa's eyeline shifts as she finishes, in her soft, patient voice, ". . . Lord Baelish?"

From where he stands, hidden in the corner of the room, Littlefinger blinks as though someone has just slapped him across the face. A smug smile breaks out across Arya's face. All heads in the room swivel to him, Sansa's eyes penetrating as she awaits his answer. Littlefinger's eyes, wide and startled, shift from her to the Northern lords gathered. For a painful minute, he cannot speak.

"My sister asked you a question," Arya says, an edge to her voice.

Littlefinger glances at her, and her complacent smirk. Stepping forward from the wall he leans against, he struggles to compose himself. "Lady Sansa, forgive me . . . I'm a bit confused."

Sansa frowns. "Which charges confuse you?" she asks. "Let's start with the simplest one. You murdered our aunt, Lysa Arryn. You pushed her through the Moon Door and watched her fall. Do you deny it?"

Littlefinger glances to Lord Royce who stands on the opposite side of the hall, glaring at him, coldly. He pauses, then turns back to Sansa. "I did it to protect you—"

"You did it to take power in the Vale," Sansa interrupts. "Earlier, you conspired to murder Jon Arryn. You gave Lysa Tears of Lys to poison him. Do you deny it?"

Littlefinger stares at her. His cheeks are starting to redden, sweat gleaming on his brow. Cautiously, he steps into the centre of the room, standing before the high table. "Whatever your aunt might have told you . . . she was a troubled woman. She imagined enemies everywhere." As he speaks, his eyes search the faces of the gathered lords, trying to find one that doesn't glare back at him in disgust.

"You had Aunt Lysa send a letter to our parents, telling them it was the Lannisters who murdered Jon Arryn, when really it was you," Sansa continues, ignoring him. "The conflict between the Starks and the Lannisters, it was you who started it. Do you deny it?"

Littlefinger shakes his head, stricken. "I know of no such letter."

"You conspired with Cersei Lannister and Joffrey Baratheon to betray our father, Ned Stark. Thanks to your treachery, he was imprisoned and later executed on false charges of treason." Sansa leans forward in her seat, teeth gritted. "Do you deny it?"

"I deny it," Littlefinger insists. He looks, wildly around him, at the steaming procession. "None of you were there to see what happened. None of you knows the truth—"

"You held a knife to his throat," Bran calls. Littlefinger freezes. He pivots on the spot he's rooted to, to see the boy staring back at him with a patient coldness that sends a shudder down his spine. "You said, 'I did warn you not to trust me'."

Arya draws the Valyrian steel dagger on her hip, the sharp scraping sound making him turn. "You told our mother this knife belonged to Tyrion Lannister." Her beautiful doe eyes gleam in a frightening way. "But that was another one of your lies. It was yours."

Littlefinger swallows at the steel glint. He crosses the room in three, large strides and puts his hands on the high table. "Lady Sansa," he whispers, urgently. "I have known you since you were a girl. I've protected you—"

"Protected me?" Sansa spits. "By selling me to the Boltons?"

"If we could speak alone . . . I can explain everything."

Sansa leans back in her seat, composed. "Sometimes, when I'm trying to understand a person's motives, I play a little game," she muses, and his eyes drift shut, anguished. "I assume the worst. What's the worst reason you have for turning me against my sister? But that's what you do, isn't it? That's what you've always done. Turned family against family, turned sister against sister. That's what you did to our mother and Aunt Lysa, and that's what you tried to do to us."

Littlefinger straightens up, watching from the corner of his eye as Arya steps forward, standing deliberately in his eyeline. Her hand is closed around the hilt of the dagger. "Sansa, please—"

"I'm a slow learner," she admits. "It's true. But, I learn."

"Give me a chance to defend myself," he pleads. "I deserve that."

Sansa stares back at him. Slowly, she rises to her feet so her face is levelled with his. "When you brought me back to Winterfell, you told me there's no justice in the world. Not unless we make it." Her eyeline shifts again, this time looking to the waiting knights and lords, who watch the scene unfold with grim satisfaction. "A few days ago, I sent word to the Queen in the North. She has ordered the immediate incarceration of Petyr Baelish, Lord Protector of the Vale and Lord of Harrenhal, to be detained here at Winterfell."

As the words leave her mouth, knights instantly begin moving towards Littlefinger, who stares back at her with shining eyes. Sansa gazes back, her lips twitching into a half-smile. "In the name of your Queen, in the name of my sister, whom he has betrayed, defiled, and conspired against, I call upon you to seize him," she orders, smoothly. "To take him to the dungeons to await her justice."

Swords scrape against sheathes as the gathered knights draw them, pointing their blades at Littlefinger. He staggers backwards, stricken as they glint in the torchlight. One last time, he looks to Sansa for mercy but finds none there. He finds nothing of the helpless girl he saved from King's Landing all those years ago.

Rose stands at the stern of the ship. She can hear the wind whistling in her ears, feel the rock of the waves beneath her feet. Her hands rest on the wooden barrier as, across the waters, the Ironborn ship vanishes in the horizon, the kraken sigil blurring in the distance. A powerful ache fills her chest knowing that the man she adores is on that ship. Knowing there is a good chance she will never see him again.

Steeling herself, Rose glances upwards at the sky bleeding into a sunset and crosses over the deck. Around her, men prepare for the rough journey ahead, shouting orders at one another, dragging crates of dragonglass and other supplies. She passes them with a small smile, stopping at the bow of the ship. Watching the beautiful waters move beneath them.

Sailing her home.

A/N: Rose is going home! And Season Seven is done. I can't believe there's only one season left. This story has been so much fun to write, and I've never become so invested in a character's growth before. Rose is, by far, one of my favourite personal creations.

Littlefinger's ending has altered slightly. Rest assured, he will be suffering plenty for all his crimes. Perhaps his death won't be so swift as the flick of a dagger . . . we'll see. It just feels right, after all he has done to Rose, after how badly he's treated her, that we see her confronting him for his crimes against her family.

Rose is at odds with Daenerys, and now Jon, too. Tensions will be reaching a boiling point next season. And plenty of exchanges between Rose and the other characters. For me, it isn't just about saying goodbye to her, but also to the relationships she has built.

Thank you to all who have stuck by this story for the past few months. I look forward to taking you into the final season! It will be uploaded at the start of August.