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Epilogue: At the Rising of the Sun

(Six Months Later).

The path to the heart tree glowed in the light of half a hundred beacons, wending their way through the darkness of the godswood. Jon was the first to arrive, pausing to admire the effect of the flames. The long shadows of weirwoods and sentinels and Ironwoods shifted and warped over snow banked up around the uneven ground, making the old place seem half-alive, even when he knew it was deserted. A small breeze made the surface of the pool ripple, distorting the reflected moonlight.

He held up the palm of his hand, catching the large, fat snowflakes that drifted down through the branches of the trees. Snow or ash? These days, after living through four dragons deployed in battle, he felt the need to double check. In the heat of the battle, he had seen ancient glaciers melt and vanish into steam, swathes of forest that had stood since the age of the Children, reduced to ash and cinder in a matter of hours. Their air he breathed had been choked with falling ash, just like the snows drifting down around him now.

He paused at the edge of the pool, where the heart tree sunk its roots deep in the glacial waters. All he could see was his own reflection staring back at him, blank eyed and spectral in the fading light. It distorted and rippled as the breeze came again. Ice was still strapped to his back, the pommel visible above his left shoulder. He drew the blade again and held it up to the dappled moonlight. It shone red and blue and grey, the colours running into each other and blending to form a curious pattern.

Even now, several weeks after his return to Winterfell, he could recall the darkest hour of the battle beyond the wall. They had lulled rank after rank of White Walkers into a trap, hemming them into a deep valley lined with Unsullied and Dothraki and anyone else brave enough to form the circle, and rained down arrows made from obsidian. Only the arrows fell far short and the White Walkers had magic of their own. The things they could do with ice had knocked him for six, temporarily throwing him off guard as he struggled to counter their fire power.

They thought the dragons had made them invincible, a trap even he had allowed himself to be lulled into. He honestly thought one dragon would be enough to finish off the White Walkers trapped in a valley. But they'd underestimated the enemy and yet more were spilling down the mountainside, cutting a vast swathe through the troops they had stationed around the edge of the valley. Each dead man rose again, almost immediately. Nothing stayed dead for longer than a minute or two.

Shield walls, block formations, vanguards and rear guards – whole forces of troops from all over the seven kingdoms smashed and resurrected again as wights to do the Others' bidding. It was a war machine that fed itself on its own dead. Every military tactic in the book was useless against them. It was then, after that disaster, that all four dragons were deployed at once. The whole of the North, from the Wall to the Skirling Pass, seemed to be a lake of raging fires.

Footsteps jolted him out of his reverie, bringing him back to the present day. It was Arya, a candle flickered in her gloved hands as she took up position by the side of the footpath. Behind her, Bran was carried piggyback style by Gendry, the new armourer. His mother, Lyanna, approached him and helped him sheath Ice again. She was dressed in a new gown of silk and samite, her hair in a braid that reached her hips.

"You look nervous," she said. "After the last six months or so, you really shouldn't be."

Jon tried not to laugh. "We're all allowed to be nervous on a day like today."

More witnesses were arriving by the second. Wyman Manderly was there with his granddaughter and her husband. The Glovers and Cerwyns all assembled, candles in hand to light the way to the heart tree. After half a year of constant war, it was a beautiful sight to soothe his eyes. Still, he took a moment to recall the many faces who should have been there, but wouldn't be. Although too many to count, Jon did his best. Edd and the boys from the Night's Watch – not one of them had lived beyond the third month of fighting. Great stretches of the wall had come crashing down, hit by the magic of the Others. The Shadow Tower was gone completely, along with everyone inside it. Old Denys Mallister had been manning it at the time.

Lyanna brushed a loose strand of hair from his face, tucking it behind his ear. "There's more coming. We'll be set to begin soon, however. Are you ready?"

Jon nodded and smiled. "Of course. I've been ready for over a year now."

Nerves be damned, he had been looking forward to this night and nothing was going to be allowed to spoil it. There had been times when this night was all he had to hold on to. He remembered, clearly, wielding Ice with blade alight in his hands, taking on White Walkers single handed, dead-eyed semi-decayed wights all around him, thinking he was going to die at any minute, the possibility of this night would pull him through. It was the reason he fought and kept on fighting to the bitter end.

Now, he looked back at his mother and spoke with conviction. "It's time I had my Queen."

She smiled her approval. "So, let us begin."

Jon looked down the shining path that now wended through the godswood. He couldn't understand why Sansa wanted to do this here. It was the same place she had married Ramsay and he felt like he was following in another man's footsteps. But, her wishes were paramount and his pride be damned. He looked to Arya for a bit of last minute reassurance, which she granted with an easy smile and a quick thumbs up. Her grey eyes twinkled in the light of the beacons.

Still there was no sign of the bride and his nerves were twitching. He was more nervous now than before the start of a battle and it was silly. Just silly.

Daenerys arrived alone, carrying a small lantern in red glass. His aunt came and stood facing Arya and Bran. Jon glanced at her, making sure she was all right. But, she well knew how to look after herself; it was just a pity she had no one bring to the ceremony with her. She looked a little self-conscious, standing there on her own with just her little red lantern. Her Unsullied army had gone marching into the jaws of death in a manner so unquestioning, it chilled Jon to the core. Westeros would not miss them, but he still felt the burden of grief and guilt whenever he thought of them. Taken as slaves as children barely old enough to remember their real names, freed and then killed in a foreign war anyway. It was enough to make anyone think the world was sometimes a little unfair.

The worst part was: they hadn't won. Not really. The Others were out there still, retreating into the Lands of Always Winter. However many had survived, Jon couldn't guess. But once they had the Watch up and running again, they would soon try to find out. No. What they had won was a respite. A respite of thousands of years, for all they knew. But that didn't mean the Others had gone away. They were out there still and would, one day, return again. The only difference was that it would be someone else's problem, by then. But for now, for the next however many generations at least, they had some sort of peace to look forward to.

Meanwhile, in the clearing of the godswood, before the solemn face of the heart tree, the ceremony began. Ser Davos was the last to arrive and nodded to Lyanna as he took his place among the guests and witnesses.

Lyanna stood with her back straight, her expression serious as she focused her gaze down the pathway. She issued her challenge in a stern voice that carried over all. "Who comes before the Old Gods this night?"

"Sansa of House Stark," Prince Rhaegar answered the call. "A maid trueborn and flowered, she comes to be wed to Jon of Houses Stark and Targaryen."

Sansa felt a frisson of excitement and nerves run the length of her body as they entered the clearing properly. All eyes were on her, making her blush faintly. It was all so beautiful; like an enchantment from one of the books she read as a child. There was none of that girl left in her now, but this was enough to bring the memories of much happier times stirring gently back into life. Even if only for this one night.

She looked at Rhaegar for reassurance, who returned her gaze and gave her a nod of encouragement. After another brief pause, he let her lean on him as he escorted her to the heart tree. After the wall had partially collapsed, she had been trapped under a fallen tree in the woods just north of it. She was on the right side of the wall, but whatever those things had used to bring the edifice down, she had broken her leg and smashed a few ribs after getting in the way of a falling tree. It was as she lay there, helpless and barely able to breathe, that she heard the screams of dying men smothered in a landslide of collapsing ice and rubble. But still Melisandre's fires burned. Great, towering circles of fire blazing over the ruins to form a protective veil between the Others and the realms of men.

She pushed those memories of war out of her head and looked to the future. She looked to Jon and joined her hand in his.

"Do you give your consent to marry this man?"

"I do," she replied, tearing her gaze from Jon to see Lyanna.

"Do you give your consent to marry this woman?"

"I do." Jon choked his answer.

Lyanna's role was done and Sansa watched as she joined up with her husband before returning to the rest of their guests. From the corner of her eye, she could see Sam and Gilly, with the baby on her hip. The blood of the Others lived on in them.

With no septons or officiators of any kind, a wedding in the old gods fashion was a short and brief affair. In fact, it was almost done already. She and Jon knelt before the heart tree and it was to the Old Gods they made their formal vows by way of a few minutes silent meditation. So, hand in hand, they closed their eyes and lost themselves in the moment.

He had tried to talk her out of having the wedding at Winterfell. He said he'd take her to the Isle of Faces, one of the most sacred spots of their faith. He said he'd take her anywhere to marry her in a place not associated with Ramsay Bolton. But, it wasn't about that for her and Jon still didn't seem to understand.

Winterfell was her home. It's godswood the most sacred place of her home. She would not allow this place to be about her and Ramsay. She wanted to own it again and reclaim it from that monster. When she was old and in her death bed, she wanted to look back on Winterfell's godswood and remember this moment, between her and Jon, and never think of Ramsay again. Even now, she couldn't really remember what he looked like. The finer details were gone, the sharp lines began to blur. Some victories were clear and absolute and this was one of them: Sansa's victory.

When she opened her eyes, all she could see was Jon. After all the years she had been away from him, during her girlhood, she had never forgotten what he looked like. Or Robb, or Rickon, or her father and mother – she recalled all their faces as if she had seen them only yesterday. The people she truly loved always seemed to find a way to stay with her, or so she thought. And that she cherished.

It occurred to her that the deed was done. They were now husband and wife, making her stifle a laugh as they drew closer to seal their deal with a kiss. Already, the guests were filing away, heading for the common hall where a banquet had been prepared. A modest banquet, this deep in a winter that promised to be long, but a fancy do all the same.

Even after all the others had gone, she and Jon remained where they were. Their hands were still joined, their gaze still locked in on each other's. He brought one hand up to her face, brushing aside a loose strand of hair.

"Wife," he whispered, relishing the word. His gaze dropped to her belly, still flat at this early stage. "And baby."

She smiled again. "I think we'll get away with it."

What did it matter if they weren't wed at the moment of conception. It had been a moment of weakness when Jon had returned to the ruins of Castle Black, having ordered the standing down of the troops. They were celebrating and commiserating at the same time. The act itself was intense and fleeting, but afterwards she felt different and she wasn't at all surprised when her moon blood failed to show up.

"Nobody knows," he said. "If anyone says anything, we'll just say your labours came early."

Sansa nodded, even they only found out a few days ago. "Arya knows. But she doesn't care in the slightest about the precise moment her future niece or nephew was created."

"I want our child to be born here, at Winterfell," he said. "I'll need to return to the Red Keep, but Rhaegal can get me there in days, if need be. But when you return, with the baby in your arms, you will have your coronation."

It made her happier still that her eldest, boy or girl, was to be born at Winterfell. It was the seat of the Starks, the root of their power and their family ties. The firstborn son would take the Iron Throne, but he would come to Winterfell to learn to rule. A second son would be its permanent Lord, once she had died.

"It pleases me greatly," she answered. "More so, if we get to the feast on time. The others will wonder where we've gotten to."

Arm in arm, they followed the path back out of the godswood, back into the main keep, where they could already hear the musicians playing the first song.

The heat in Winterfell's common hall was stifling. Every fire was lit, the people all crammed inside. The air Rhaegar breathed was heavy with the smell of furs, horse and burning meat. The musicians played so loud he could barely hear himself think. A situation not helped by the fact that he was drunk and stuffed to the gills with the food that had been on offer. An indulgence he was beginning to regret.

He left the high table after making his excuses to the bride and groom, shouldering his way across the dancing hall. He made it outside just in time to vomit heavily in an empty water barrel. While he heaved, a crowd of rowdy Stark guards gave him a rapturous round of applause. Yes, very funny, he thought to himself, miserably.

"Are you all right?"

Rhaegar wiped his mouth, feeling a bit of a fool as he turned to find Daenerys watching him. "I'm fine, sister. Damaged pride more than anything."

The rowdy retainers had at least found something better to occupy their minds and were no longer cheering him. He also found a barrel of clean water and, after breaking the surface ice, washed his face with it, rinsing the foul taste from his mouth. It was freezing outside, with snowfalls still banking up around the walls. But it sobered him up nicely.

"Well, the war is over and the Others have retreated," she said, taking a seat on a bench. "What will you do now?"

It was a timely question. Ever since he came back, well over two years ago, he had been so preoccupied by the war against the White Walkers he hadn't the foresight to think beyond it. Before Lyanna returned, he hadn't even thought to survive it, never mind work on any kind of retirement plan. He was still young, still royal, but he had no formal role to play anywhere. He couldn't get too close to the throne without being problematic to Jon.

"I think Lyanna would like to have apartments here in Winterfell," he replied, at length. "I think the Queen will be happy to accommodate us. She can help on the ruling council, if Lady Arya would permit it. Other than that: who knows?"

"You can come to Dragonstone," she said. "And Mereen. Lyanna would be welcome as well."

Genuinely grateful, he smiled happily. "Thank you, sister. But traveling will be more problematic these days."

A shadow of sorrow passed her face. "Yes, I know. It will take more time, but you can still travel. You'll just have to use boats, like everyone else."

He had lived without a dragon for most of his life, but had come to rely on Sonar during his short years afterwards. And he knew he would never bond to another in the same way he had Sonar.

"I keep having nightmares about what happened that night," he told her, keeping his voice low. In the hall behind them, the music continued, muffled but intrusive. "I didn't even see that thing until it had pierced his scales."

"That was what was so frightening about the White Walkers," she replied. "You didn't see them until they were almost upon you. The weapons they used, the ice magic, you didn't see it. It blended so perfectly…" her words trailed off as she struggled to articulate what they had seen. "I mean, sometimes you would see the air ripple, and it was one of their ice spears heading right for you."

'Ice spear' didn't quite do them justice, but for Rhaegar it was close enough. And it was one of those that had felled Sonar, leaving them only with Dany's three. Worse, he had been hundreds of feet in the air, on the dragon's back, when the spear cut through the chinks in his dragon's belly scales. The dragon had three heads; but Rhaegar recalled how rapidly he lost his only head as the pair of them plummeted out of the skies.

All the while, the dragon froze beneath him. All his heat melted away and, by the time they crashed through the Haunted Woods, a shimmering crust of ice and frost had completely covered the dying dragon. Even the fires had frozen and Rhaegar had never known cold like it. Struck dumb with horror and grief, he had stood there rooted to the spot and watched as his dead dragon didn't stay dead for long.

It was Lyanna, who had seen Sonar's fall from the skies, who came to his rescue. While still rooted to the spot, she had come charging through the woods mounted on a destrier and grabbed him, pulling him into the saddle without breaking pace, before Sonar rose again. It took the combined fires of Drogon, Rhaegal and Viserion combined to finish the resurrected ice dragon off. After that, they turned the fires on the Lands of Always Winter, showing not a trace of mercy to the White Walkers.

"I still don't feel as if we achieved much," said Daenerys. "Have the Others really gone now?"

Rhaegar nodded. "Not completely. They weren't completely gone after the last major war and they aren't after this one. They'll always be there. But, as long as we never forget them, they won't be able to regain such power ever again."

And that was the key issue, for him. How to make sure the Others never again faded into mere folklore; how to make sure the Night's Watch didn't revert back to killing wildlings to justify their continued existence during the more peaceful years. Before that, they needed a new Night's Watch. There was so much to do, so much to organise, it seemed he wouldn't be without an official role for a long time yet.

"So many free folk died," said Rhaegar. "I wonder who will populate the more northerly regions now?"

"That's not really our problem, is it?" Dany said. "They're not part of our realm-"

"Yes, but we must continue to harbour good relations with them," he cut in. "Just imagine if the free folk and the Night's Watch had worked together from the start – Jon's life would have been a lot easier. Just imagine if we all learned to cooperate? This war could have been avoided."

It was too soon for this after-war post-mortem. It was a wedding. There was music. People were dancing and having far too much to drink. But he couldn't shake the lull he was in. Maybe it was the residual drink still coursing through his bloodstream. He had never been a great drunk. Some people became the life and soul after a few drinks, while he grew only more morose. He supposed he should have learned by now.

"Forgive me, sister, I'm not much company."

"You're all the company I need right now," she answered. "But, come, we should go back in and toast the newlyweds."

And so he did. He rejoined the party and resumed his place at the high table. Jon and Sansa took the places of honour, where Eddard Stark and his wife once sat. Bran and Meera were close by, with Arya making up the last of the surviving Starks. He wondered what the others were like. Rickon had been only a baby, but Robb had been King in the North in his time. Unlike them, he had never lost a battle. And maybe that was the point: sometimes, one had to lose in order to grow stronger and harder. Each loss a lesson never forgotten. And he wouldn't forget his own for as long a life as the gods allowed him.

The morning after the wedding, Jon awoke before dawn. Next to him, Sansa rolled in her sleep but did not awaken. Careful not to disturb her, he climbed out of bed and opened the shutters over the main window. That morning, as with all mornings, the sun rose in the east. A pale sort of a morning, heavy with the promise of snow. A winter's morning like any other, he knew he was lucky to be alive to only witness it.

He wondered how he was going to rebuild the North after the war, but he knew he'd find a way. Both he and his Queen were yet young, they had the luxury of time. When he looked back at Sansa, he remembered there was a generation coming up behind them who would also have time. That was society: an endless procession of people, each generation finishing the work started by the ones who came before.

Slowly, Sansa woke up as the morning brightened. She sat up in bed and looked at him through heavily lidded eyes.

"Good morning," he greeted her, crossing the room back to the bed. "How are you?"

She wrapped her arms around him, kissing him full on the mouth. "All is as it should be."

That was a good enough start for him. During the night, he dreamed of waking up alone and naked on a cold mountainside, injured and in need of help. He woke up breathless and afraid, calming quickly as the present day resolved itself around him. And Sansa was right: all was as it should be.

~The End~

And, that's it. This is the final chapter of the story, being published just a week or two shy of a year since the first was published.

Thank you to everyone who has supported this story, whether through alerts, favourites or reviews. It all means a lot to me and comments/feedback always pulls us authors through, keeping us going to the bitter end. So thanks especially to anyone who took time to leave a comment, even if it was only once or twice. Thank you!

Special thanks go to MX4 and Exiled Immortal for their continued and unstinting support and the brainstorming sessions that have helped me out of some seriously tight spots in this story. Thank you, especially, to anyone else who has stuck with this story from the beginning.

Before the Dawn will continue as planned and King's Blood will also be returning soon (with a republished first chapter). I'm working on an original novel in real life, so I don't think any new stories will be coming for a while (if ever). But, I imagine you've all had enough of my ramblings anyway!

All the best to all of you!