Author's Note: This short story takes place after the Long Night has ended - the seven heros that ended the war are standing around the Painted Table of Aegon The Conqueror on Dragonstone and contemplate the things that happened and are about to come for them.

Brienne - "The Maiden represents purity, innocence, love, and beauty. She protects the chastity of virgins, as well as protecting the innocent in general."

Growing up, she had never known how it felt to be around people who respected you, liked you, viewed you as one of them. Always a misfit, never the Lady she was supposed to be.

Yet she found a home now, a real home, a home in their band of misfits. The people who gave everything to save a dying country. Somewhere along the way, Brienne, Lady of Tarth, had finally understood a great deal about beauty.

It was never just about looks, but also about beauty of the heart. And according to her friends, her surrogate family, she had plenty of that. She, who even managed to convert Ser Jaime Lannister to their cause, finding a way to his heart.

With Oathkeeper at her side, she had found her purpose in life, and even if she wasn't a proper Lady, she managed to fight off the Long Night, protecting the realm.

Being different did not mean people were allowed to mock that, she would teach that to everyone who dared to make fun of her ever again.

The Maiden dances through the sky, she lives in every lover's sigh. Her smiles teach the birds to fly, and gives dreams to little children.

Jaime - "The Warrior represents strength and courage in battle."

Everything was different from what he had first expected. He had expected death by dragonfire for the sheer audacity of coming to Queen Daenerys Stormborn, but she wanted the truth instead, since Brienne vouched for him and his honour... So he had swallowed his pride and told the Queen everything.

From Cersei's plan to make him a Kingsguard, to the way the Mad King treated his wife, and Dany's mother, Rhaella, and why he struck Aerys II Targaryen down. She valued the truth, it seemed, as he was granted a place at her table. He showed courage like few others in the battle, often escaping death by an inch.

At this point, being forced to fight with one hand did not even matter for him anymore. Widow's Wail - how he hated the name - had become an extension of his left hand by then.

Finally, he felt as if he deserved his white cloak, a cloak he took for his dead sister that had wanted everyone in Westeros dead. But serving under Queen Daenerys Stormborn and her King Consort Jon The White Wolf, the King in the North, would be atonement for his sins. He would be the watcher besides them, the sword protecting the realm, the shield guarding the rulers.

And he would teach anyone what it meant to truly be brave, to be bold and true, that courage did not mean to never be afraid but rather to accept and overcome the fear.

The Warrior stands before the foe, protecting us where e'er we go. With sword and shield and spear and bow, he guards the little children.

Bran - "The Crone represents wisdom and foresight. She is represented carrying a lantern. Sometimes She is depicted as blindfolded."

The weight of the world was resting heavily on his shoulders. He was far too young for that, yet he had seen too much, sacrificed too much. But in the end, it was the path he needed to follow.

Seeing the golden-haired, green-eyed man who started that path was hard first, but sometimes having to forgive your enemies was the only way. Trained in the way of the greenseer, he could watch the past...and the present...and make predictions about what could happen.

Time was a face on the water, though, ever changing so slightly, never exactly the same.

His predecessor had been among the great bastards of King Aegon IV Targaryen, Brynden Rivers, better known as Bloodraven. And now, he was going to be the

Three-eyed Raven until the day he died. He would never be a knight. He would never be part of the Queensguard, with a white cloak and a matching shield.

But he had time and space and all the knowledge of eons at his fingertips. And he would teach the world that there is always a chance to take and that wisdom can be found everywhere, from the deepest lake to the highest mountain if one was not afraid to open the eyes.

The Crone is very wise and old, and sees our fates as they unfold. She lifts her lamp of shining gold to lead the little children.

Tyrion - "The Smith represents creation and craftsmanship. Grants workers the strength to continue their labors."

The irony was not lost on him. All of his life, he had been a cynic, joking about everything, because he needed it as a way to deal with the hateful world.

Always underestimated, but with a mind few people could match. Maybe not always with perfect planning, but with the right amount of cunning, daring and dedication, he was working out the vision of Westeros.

Hardship after hardship he had endured, but prevailed. Now he was facing the biggest project yet - building up a country from the dirt, helping to knit a broken realm back together.

It felt weird for him to admit it, but he really trusted the other six people in the room, staring at the carved outline of Westeros with him. Him being a dwarf meant nothing to them; they would always have his back, he was sure of it.

And he would steadily teach the world that nobody should just go ahead and make presumptions about other people or things without thinking them over first.

The Smith, he labors day and night, to put the world of men to right. With hammer, plow, and fire bright, he builds for little children.

Arya - "The Stranger represents death and the unknown. It is rarely prayed to."

Faces meant nothing to her anymore. Everyone wears masks after all, masks of facial expressions, of words, written and spoken.

She could see through all the mummer's play, trained in the way of death, the way of the Many-Faced God.

Valar Morghulis. All men must die. Valar dohaerys. All men must serve.

Fate had made her a tool of the Many-Faced God and she didn't mind anymore about her long and hard time in order to become No One.

After all, it gave her the means to save her own life more than once. She would gladly give it for everyone in the room, though, if she had to.

In the House of Black and White, she had drunk a cup of death, unafraid, tasting it on her tongue, feeling it spread through her chest, reaching out for her before letting her go again, giving her back her eyesight instead.

This fight against the Night King had brought them together in a way she would have never imagined, when before she could only count on Jon.

Death has never been the enemy, she had learned that. As Syrio Forel taught her – there is only one god and his name is Death. And she would teach that to everyone who was bold enough to listen to her.

Jon - "The Father represents divine justice, and judges the souls of the dead."

His hand resting on Longclaw, he calmly stared outside for a moment, seeing that the snow had stopped. Snow. A name he had carried all his life, a name that was a lie and a promise kept at the same time.

Aegon Targaryen...he had not taken up that name, and he never would. He was the last King of Winter, the King in the North - and King Consort for the rest of the realm - Jon Snow and he was happy with that. All his life, he had thought himself a bastard, was even resented for it.

Part of him wished Eddard Stark had used a different lie, but what lie he couldn't name himself. Not that it mattered anymore. The North was safe, Westeros was safe, they were safe. Most of all, she was safe, his Queen - Dany.

It still felt weird to know she was his wife and his aunt at the same time, but he had stopped caring during the Long Night, during the times when it was them mounted on Drogon and Rhaegal; supporting their troops from above.

He was glad that he could make her listen; make her overthink some rash decision, being the ice to her fire.

One day, he saw the way the Unsullied moved around him was different and later at night he asked Dany about it. Kepa, she had told him, that was how they called him behind their backs, father.

He might never have children with Dany, but he would do his best to protect all the others with her, giving everything that was needed to do so. He swore by a weirwood that he would never forget the value of honour and honesty, qualities that had gotten him killed one time, but won them the war in the end.

He would teach the world that in the very end our own deeds define us more than anything.

The Father's face is stern and strong, he sits and judges right from wrong. He weighs our lives, the short and long, and loves the little children.

Dany - "The Mother represents mercy, peace, fertility, and childbirth. She is sometimes referred to as 'the strength of women'. Apart from human fertility, she also blesses crops with bountiful harvests."

She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling the sun on her skin, listening to the familiar roars of Drogon and Rhaegal who were flying outside. Her heart sank for a moment.

It were two...two children left to her, two others lost - Rhaego and Viserion. Her journey had started at this fortress, the final outpost of Old Valyria and brought her to the edges of the known world.

She had sacrificed so much, but she endured. Before her eyes danced a memory; a vision she would never forget, the way she would never forget the memory of riding Drogon or the feel of Jon's lips on hers.

How the freed people of Astapor, Yunkai and Mereen called her Mhysa. Mother. Missandei had assured her that even in a century; people would still be singing of her in songs, of the Mother of Dragons, the Mother of all people.

The war against the Long Night had made her tired, but there were children out there, thousands of them, counting on her.

So she opened her eyes, looking at the very room her ancestor Aegon The Conqueror had planned his advance on Westeros. He had taken the continent with fire and blood, she had saved it with fire and blood and the help of her children and the other six people in this room.

There would always be a part of her that longed for the house with the red door and the childhood she never truly had. But it had made her the woman she was.

Child of three...she then knew what it meant in the end, what it had always meant: Stormborn. She was destined for a life as rough and memorable as the storm she was born in, never meant to stand still.

She would smash every danger threatening her children, saving them from any perils they might encounter. Looking at Jon again, she wondered whether a true child might be part of their destiny, hoped it.

But she would love her other children no less, she would be the best ruler Westeros had ever seen, teaching them once more that fire and blood could not only mean death but also life.

The Mother gives the gift of life, and watches over every wife. Her gentle smile ends all strife, and she loves her little children.