I enjoyed every minute of writing this story, even if it was a real challenge to write a multi-chapter fic in English. Not to mention that it's not easy to create something for Game of Thrones as the canon is remarkable. Thank you for reading and leaving reviews. Here's a quite bittersweet ending. Enjoy!

The Targaryen Wolf, part II

When the dragon's powerful silhouette emerged from behind the clouds, Tyrion could swear that all the inhabitants of King's Landing held their breaths. Ser Jorah took a step forward with his eyes focused on the sky, and Tyrion felt the knight's pain as if it was his own. He knew that Jorah wished it had been Daenerys who had been getting closer to them on her beloved Drogon.

"Damn dragon." Bronn spat on the ground. "I almost killed his brother."

"And he almost killed you," Tyrion stated, smiling slightly.

"Well, from the two of us, I'm the one who is still alive. Just... do not let the dragon eat me. I haven't travelled with your brother all the way north and I haven't come back here with you only to serve as a food for the dragon."

"Don't worry, my friend. As long as I am the second most important person in the Seven Kingdoms, not a hair on your head will be lost," Tyrion assured him. "Who knows, maybe one day you will even get a castle."

Bronn seemed quite pleased with his answer. At the same time, the dragon hovered above them, then landed in the snow just a few steps from where Tyrion stood. Rhaegal lowered himself enough to allow his rider to descend safely to the ground.

Tyrion had seen Daenerys flying on Drogon multiple times, full of grace and incredible self-confidence. She had been indeed the Queen of Dragons, devoid of fear and scruples, ready to burn alive any enemy. There had been something astounding and terrifying in the beauty of her mesmerizing power.

The memory of her remained in her only living dragon, but also in the love of her life, who set his feet on the ground, straightened up and looked at his castle. Jon Targaryen emanated with power in a different way than Daenerys. With his coat waving in the wind, his hair tied and his eyes sharp as his sword, Jon looked strong enough to kill all his enemies with his own hands. There was something in him that made Tyrion think about peace and security, but also pain and fatigue. Jon carried more weigh on his shoulders than any other man could bear, yet he was ready to face new challenges.

"Welcome to King's Landing, your Grace," Tyrion greeted him.

"Lord Tyrion, Ser Jorah." Jon approached them. "It's good to see you both."

"I must praise you for your impressive entrance, but I wonder when I will have the pleasure of getting to know the future successor of the throne."

"My coronation has not taken place yet, and you are already planning my son's reign," Jon joked, but his sad smile proved that this new kind of power was not something he wanted.

"I've heard some prophecies about his future salutary influence on the fate of mankind and I very much care about his safety. Shouldn't a young prince arrive along with his father?"

"Robb is travelling with my people who are ready to die in his defence. Samwell Tarly and Ser Davos are taking a good care of him. At this point, they should be two days away from here."

"Robb?" Jorah joined the conversation. "Is it after your brother?"

"Aye." Jon seemed very tired as he ran his hand over the scales on Rhaegal's body.

Tyrion knew he would get used to that view eventually. Although it had been a year since he had seen Daenerys Targaryen for the last time, he still could not believe that someone else would order her dragon to breath fire, feed him, ride him. Just as it was hard to believe that she was no longer his queen. That she was not there at all.

"Bronn, find some food for Rhaegal," Tyrion said.

"Sure, as long as I'm not the food."

Bronn grinned, bowed and walked away. Jon headed for the castle, and Tyrion and Jorah dutifully followed him, ready to listen to every command. It was possible for Tyrion to feel Daenerys' presence as if she had been truly there, helping them to make the best decisions, giving them strength to fight further.

"Your chambers are fully prepared," Tyrion turned to Jon. "Would you like to rest before we tackle the most important issues?"

"Sleep is not a rest. It's just a chance to dive into nightmares. I prefer to discuss the present before I let myself think about the past. First, in a gesture of gratitude for your loyalty, Ser Jorah, I allow you to visit Dragonstone in order to say goodbye to the queen."

Because his voice was so controlled, Tyrion understood the meaning of his words only after a short moment. They stopped at the door leading to the Great Hall.

"Your Grace." Jorah's voice broke before he could add anything.

"Even after death, Daenerys' body was immune to fire. I decided to bury her in a place that perhaps wasn't her home, but something the closest to the idea of home." Jon spoke indifferently as if not about the woman he loved. Only then Tyrion realized how much he had been damaged. "I thought you might like to visit her grave. I can see your pain, Ser Jorah. This can help you clear your mind and heart."

Jorah nodded, barely holding back tears.

"Thank you, your Grace."

"Jon. You can call me Jon. Both of you." Jon looked at Tyrion. "At least when we speak in private."

As Jorah left to prepare for an immediate departure, Tyrion massaged the back of his neck and looked suspiciously at Jon.

"I wonder why you do not intend to offer me such a possibility. She was my queen, too."

"Well then, you can visit Dragonstone on your way to Winterfell if you wish."

Winterfell. Tyrion thought of Sansa's red hair, her sweet scent, and her soft lips. He thought of Jaime's death stare, of the blood around him. He thought of the pain in Cersei's voice and her body falling to the ground. Winterfell reminded him of the beautiful love he had, but also of the loss of the last two members of his family.

When Tyrion had left Winterfell, he and Sansa had known their relationship would not be easy. She had been to remain in the north as the Lady of Winterfell, while he had been to serve as the Hand of the King. Of course, he had promised her that he would use every occasion to visit her. Now his heart filled with warmth at the chance of seeing her again.

"Though not in the near future," Jon continued. "People do not trust me, I'm not the king yet, not officially, so I need you, Tyrion. After the coronation, you will be able to travel north to spend a few months with your wife. Sansa will be happy to see you."

"Doesn't it bother you?" Tyrion did not want his voice to sound so trenchant, but he could not resist. "I'm not the best candidate for a husband of your precious sister."

Jon's smile lit up his face and for a moment, it made him look like a young, carefree boy instead of the King overwhelmed by duty.

"Sansa is not my sister, but she's very important to me. I know what she's been through and I know that if she decided to give you her broken heart, she really must have thought you deserved it. But," his eyes seemed to be much darker than usual, "if you hurt her in any way, I'll make you wish it was Rhaegal who killed you."

"I believe your word." Tyrion walked to the door. "Shall we?"

They looked at each other in silence, then Jon finally nodded. He did not let himself show how nervous he probably was. Tyrion pushed open the door and was greeted by the cold of The Great Hall.

Despite the semi-darkness inside, it was not difficult to see the Iron Throne and its dazzling blades. Only the steps of Jon could be heard as he was walking forward with grace and confidence. The way he looked made Tyrion think about Ned Stark, about his honour and cool kindness. Jon would be as respected as Ned. Tyrion realized it while watching the king reach his throne by an entire flight of stairs and touch one of the swords.

"The Iron Throne is a symbol of power and bloodshed," Jon said in a toneless voice when Tyrion approached him. "The fight for it has been going on for hundreds of years. So many people have died for others to sit here and feel the power. The history proves that all power cannot be held in the hands of only one person. It is too destructive. That's why I decided to restrict the range of my power and burn the Iron Throne."

"What do you mean?"

Tyrion did not really need an answer. He knew it well, maybe he had long suspected what politics Jon would have chosen.

"The Kingdom of North ruled by House Stark and the Kingdom of the Iron Islands ruled by House Greyjoy will remain as separate kingdoms with no need to pledge their loyalty to me. Moreover, the Principality of Dorne will remain free of my reign too. The other Houses must surrender to my authority. However, if they come up with the initiative to create separate kingdoms, I will gladly listen to their requests."

"Perhaps one day, there will be actual Seven Kingdoms again."

"Perhaps. As far as I know, it is unclear who holds control over the Riverlands and that Casterly Rock has no ruler."

"I recommend leaving the Twins to the rats and worms. As for Casterly Rock, this ancestral stronghold used to belong to Lannisters. I don't want it, but I might know someone who would be glad to receive the castle in return for his loyalty towards me and my brother. Only if you don't mind." Tyrion grinned. "There are still many issues that we have to discuss, but can it postpone it until tomorrow? We could use some wine, don't you think, your Grace?"

A corner of Jon's mouth lifted.

"Long ago, we stood together on the Great Wall," he said. "A bastard and a dwarf. Now we're here."

"We've come a long way, my friend," Tyrion agreed.

A few hours and glasses of wine later, they stood in the same place, formerly bastard and dwarf, now the King and his Hand, watching as Rhaegal's fire consumed the Iron Throne and began a new, better world.

The forest was filled with grim silence, interrupted only by the sound of hooves hitting the snow. The trees seemed to be dangerous figures, casting long shadows. There was a scent of forest and winter in the air, but Melisandre could sense something else. The smell of death.

A person appeared on the path from nowhere, their face hidden under the hood and a dagger shining in their hand. The Red Woman stopped her horse and jumped down to the ground. Then she ran her hand over the horse's mane and let it break into a furious gallop heading to the place that they had come from.

She did not feel afraid, facing the inevitable death. After everything she had done, she was ready to perish.

"I've been waiting for you." Her voice echoed in the quiet forest. "Come closer, child."

The person took a few steps forward, moving quickly and silently. After a while, the hood fell on her back, revealing the face covered with small wounds. The dark eyes did not express any emotion, yet Melisandre perfectly knew what was hidden in the heart of this young but brave girl.

"I once told you that I saw darkness in you. Since then, you've accepted it. You've embraced it. You've learned how to derive strength from your pain."

"You also said that we would meet again," the girl responded calmly. "Did you foresee the circumstances of our reunion?"

"No, I didn't," Melisandre said. "I do not have the skills your brother owned. I only see what the Lord of Light wants to show me. With the birth of The Prince That Was Promised, I received a vision of my death and the identity of my killer."

"Why haven't you told anyone that I'm alive?"

"That's not my secret to tell."

Snow started to fall, covering the dark hair of the girl, but she did not pay any attention. She toyed with the dagger in her hand, not looking away from Melisandre.

"He's here too, isn't he? Gendry Baratheon." As the Red Woman spoke those words, something on the girl's face changed. "I'm glad you're not completely lonely. You have chosen a life of protecting your family in secret, like a shadow wandering among the trees, watching over your sister's safety. You are a lone wolf, Arya Stark of Winterfell."

The girl's eyes gleamed at the sound of her name, then she circled Melisandre and stood behind her. The Red Woman knelt on the cold snow, staring at the sky and the snowflakes falling on her face. It was quiet, cold and calm.

"You tried to kill Gendry. You used his blood for a ritual that was meant to bring death to Robb." Arya's voice was as cold as the blade of her dagger as she put it near Melisandre's neck. "I want you to know that I'm going to kill you for these reasons, but you committed much more crimes. What are your last words?"

"I hurt so many innocent human beings, but I also brought Jon back to life and lead to the union between ice and fire. I've done my part, I've lived long enough in this hell of a world. I'm ready."

Arya slashed her throat without hesitation, making the world stop for a moment. A silence reigned, too thrilling to be interrupted. When Melisandre's body slid to the ground, and the pure snow was stained with blood, Arya wiped her dagger against the sleeve of her jacket.

The thought of home led her among the trees until she saw him. Gendry. Arya loved her family, but they would never understand who she had really become. For Jon, she had been his innocent little sister, while Sansa had expected her to finally act like a lady, or at least the warrior lady similar to Brienne. Then she left them.

Gendry accepted her as she was.

"The Red Woman was never on your list," he said as she approached him.

"The list is long over, but there are still people who can hurt my family. I avenged the dead. Now I'm protecting the living. Do you have it?"

Arya held her breath as Gendry pulled away from the tree revealing a box of what she needed. She knelt on the snow and carefully lifted the lid of the box. The bottom was covered with many faces of the people that Arya had killed. Littlefinger's empty face seemed to rebuke her, but Arya ignored the whole world around her, focusing her attention on the most precious thing. She lifted her sword with reverence, feeling just as she had felt when it had been given to her by Jon. Needle.

"It was not easy to steal it from your sister's room," Gendry admitted. "She held the chest under her bed. What's more, Brienne of Tarth and The Hound are there all the time, protecting Lady Sansa and everything that belongs to her."

"The Hound?" Arya looked at him in surprise, rising with Needle in her hand. "Why is he still in Winterfell?"

"I believe that he prefers to stay at your sister's side. Maybe he doesn't have anywhere to go, or maybe he's doing it because of you. Arya," he grabbed her hand, "you've been gone for a year. You haven't seen your siblings' despair. Are you sure you do not want to come back to them?"

She looked away at the northern part of the forest. If she moved in that direction, she would soon notice the walls of the castle covered with snow. Whenever she closed her eyes and thought about Winterfell, she imagined her mother and father standing on the landing, Bran and Rickon running around in the courtyard with all the direwolves, Sansa sewing and smiling, Robb and Jon laughing at some stupid joke known only to both of them. What was behind the trees of the forest did not look like the home Arya had once known.

"Come back where?" Her voice was calm but filled with so much sadness. She hid Needle and the dagger in her scabbard. "After leaving Winterfell with my father and Sansa many years ago, I always dreamed of going back. I thought it could still be like it used to be. I lost hope when lord father was beheaded. It all started at that very moment, you know. Next deaths. Sansa's suffering. My road to becoming someone else. Sometimes it seems to me that Arya Stark died with her father." She closed her eyes, drawing strength from Gendry's presence. "I still love my family, I still think that Winterfell is my home, but it's more because of the memories. One day I will return with the hope that they will take me back. But today is not the day."

Gendry smelled of grass and wood when he hugged her gently as if fearing that, despite the ability to kill people without blinking, she would easily scatter in his arms. Arya rested her chin on his shoulder, enjoying the warm, solid, definitive realness of him.

"I think we should burn her body," he whispered. "And then we can search for someplace to sleep and eat. I'm starving."

"Me too." She laughed a little, letting go of his arms.

She did not know how her future would look like. She did not know if living in the midst of snow and cold made sense at all, or if it would not be easier to just die. However, she knew that as long as she had Gendry at her side and the home where she could return, she still wanted to live.

She closed her eyes again and then she saw her father smiling at her. He spoke to her, repeated words until she finally learned them by heart.

"When the snows fall and the white winds blow…"

"…the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives."

Sansa uttered these words so quietly that only she could hear them. She stood by the window, looking at Winterfell covered in snow. Her home was calm, beautiful, marked by pain and memories.

"This mysterious person must have a purpose," she said, this time loud enough for everyone to hear. "What do people say about her or him?"

"They say it's a woman," Lady Mormont told her. "They say she moves like a wolf and fights like one. They say she cannot be killed."

It made her think about Robb.

"What about her identity? Has no one seen her face?"

"Opinions on this subject are very diverse, my Lady," Brienne responded. "Some say it is the ghost of Lady Catelyn who has returned from the dead to protect her last child. Others say it's your sister. If I'm allowed to express my opinion, I do not think it's Arya. You saw her body, my Lady."

Sansa remembered that she had looked under her bed a few days ago, but she had not found the box with Arya's belongings. No trace of Needle.

"Two weeks ago, I overheard an unpleasant conversation between two peasants who criticized your takeover of power at Winterfell. They said the ruler should not be a woman," Wylis Manderly confessed. He had become the Lord of White Harbor after the death of his father, who had been murdered in the Great War. "The next day, their bodies were found near the inn. One word was written on their chests. Written with their own blood."

"What word?" Brienne asked, but Sansa knew.

"Stark," Sansa whispered.

"Aye," Lord Manderly admitted. "Whoever it is, she's undoubtedly the protector of House Stark. They call her Lady Stoneheart."

Sansa barely restrained her smile. Of course. Arya must have raged at the thought that even after faking her own death, people still called her a lady. Wherever she was.

"Sandor," she turned to The Hound. "What do you think? Is it Arya?"

"I saw her that day, I fought by her side. She was a reckless, stupid girl, ready to face and endure danger or pain. She didn't fear death and I thought that it would get her killed but no." Sandor grinned stupidly. "She's not dead. This fucking crazy warrior is too determined to stay alive, just like you, little bird. You both may outlive us all."

"Then why isn't she here?" Brienne asked.

Some time ago, Sansa would ask the same question. In the end, however, she understood her sister or at least made an attempt to understand her complicated way of thinking. Sansa looked at Sandor, who smiled at her with his silly smile that could scare more than one person. A corner of her mouth quirked up.

Before she could answer Brienne's question, Maester Wolkan entered the room and handed her a letter from King's Landing. Sansa noticed her hands shaking as she returned to her seat at the table and began to read Jon's words. He mentioned his son's well-being, the fact that Tyrion would visit her soon and other things that Sansa forgot after she read his last words.

She let out a harsh breath, only then realizing that she had been holding it. She looked up from the letter to glance at her people. Dozens of faces waited for her to deliver the news.

"Jon decided to keep the Kingdom of North as a separate, independent kingdom with its own authority," Sansa finally told them. She had expected her voice to be trembling, but actually, it had never been stronger.

The reaction was immediate. Brienne knelt on her knee, then others followed her.

"Your Grace," Lady Mormont bowed to her.

"I've never meant to serve any king. Joffrey's example has taught me enough," Sandor stated. "But you, little bird, are no king."

It occurred to Sansa that he was expressing his pride in her when he bent the knee. Sansa struggled to control her emotion while watching her people kneel in front of her like they had knelt before Robb and then Jon.

For one brief moment, she thought she could see Arya leaning against the wall, hidden by shadows and smiling at her.

"You pledged your swords to Robb and you called him your King. You did the same for Jon. You believed in them. Now I'm asking you to believe in me. I may not wield a sword, but I promise to defend the north till my last breath."

The King in the North, they had used to chant. This time they cheered in Sansa Stark's honour.

"The Queen in the North."

"The Queen in the North."

"The Queen in the North."

Ten years later…

After listening to people's requests and issuing appropriate orders to overcome all the problems, Jon rose from his throne. Although it was comfortable and matched to Jon's height, sitting on it for several hours was quite tiring and even boring. Jon headed for the exit, wanting to go to the garden but Jorah Mormont stood in his way.

"Your Grace," Ser Jorah bowed to him. "Everything needed for your journey is already prepared."

"Thank you. Do you happen to know where my son is?"

"I believe he has reading classes with Maester Tarly."

A few years after the Great War, with a little help of Jon, Sam had managed to become a Maester. Then he had settled in the castle as one of King's advisers, as well as the most faithful friend.

"Of course." Jon turned to his Hand. "Lord Tyrion, has any news arrived?"

"Two letters from Queen Sansa, your Grace. One for me and one for you," Tyrion responded, handing him a roll of paper. "My wife, with a great tenderness, says a few words about our children and expresses great happiness at the thought that you and Prince Robb will visit her soon."

Jon headed through the Great Hall, thinking about Winterfell's walls covered with snow, about Sansa's reddish brown hair and warm smile, about the smell of winter and home.

"How are Jaime and Arya?"

"Oh, Sansa's stories show that they cause some problems. Jaime rides a horse all day long. Apparently, he also loves to invent strange stories and believes in everything that someone tells him." Tyrion was talking about his family with so much love when they left the castle. "Arya... well, for a five-year-old child, she is really brave and stubborn. She does not like the fact that she has to fight with a wooden sword, but Sansa says she should be happy for having a chance to fight at all. Maybe I'm not the best person to say it, but it seems to me that my daughter is quite like-"

"-her aunt," Jon finished, a host of memories rushed through his mind. "Aye, it sounds like Arya."

Outside the castle, they were greeted by the roar of Rhaegal, who had apparently just landed, and now he was lowering his head so that the young Targaryen could touch him. Robb climbed on his fingers and gently touched the dragon's scales. At that moment, with his light hair inherited from his mother, he was very similar to her.

"I know what you're thinking about, Jon." Tyrion's soft voice helped him return from the land of memories and pain. "Daenerys is still here."

Jon fought back his tears and took a few steps forward. Then he saw Sam, who was sitting on the stone with a book in his hand and was looking at Robb with a mixture of amusement and concern.

"So, is it how your reading classes look like?" Jon asked to gain their attention.

"Father!" Robb ran to him, and Rhaegal laid his head on the ground, watching them vigilantly. "Do you have it? Do you have my sword?"

The joy of this little creature, his carefree, but also his desire to become someone great, the desire to achieve as much as his parents. All this made Jon look at his son and see not only Daenerys and himself but also someone completely different, who, unlike his family, would have a long and happy life.

Jon took out the sword that Davos had brought him that day. Valerian steel shone in the light of a beautiful day when Robb's hand tightened on the sword's hilt.

Robb smiled slightly, but when he lifted the sword and let its magical light glow, he no longer looked like a child. He was the one about whom the stories had been made, the one whose coming had been announced for centuries. And then Jon messed up his hair and saw his little son again.

"Every sword needs a name," Jon told him.

"Lightbringer," Robb whispered.

"I cannot say I'm surprised. Wait here with uncle Tyrion."

Sam smiled when Jon approached him. Only then Jon noticed his direwolf, who was laying at Sam's feet. He was too old and sick to keep pace with Jon. Most of the time he would just lay in the garden or in Jon's chambers with no more strength.

His fur was still soft and smelled of the old life that Jon and Ghost had once shared. Jon ran a hand over the direwolf's head, wishing to be a young boy again, who had found a family of direwolfs in the woods a long time ago. Back then, with Ghost by his side, everything had been much easier.

"I am afraid that he does not have much time left," Sam admitted in a sad voice. "I'm sorry, Jon."

"It's a miracle that he is still alive." Jon leaned over and left a kiss on Ghost's head. "It's been a long, good life, my friend. You can let go now. I'll be alright."

When Jon looked up, he saw that Sam's eyes were glassy, as if he could barely hold back his tears. Feeling that no words were needed at the moment, Jon took a book from his hand and read the title.

"A Song of Ice and Fire," he repeated it aloud. "What is your book truly about, Sam?"

"This is a multi-threaded book, possible to be seen in many ways," Sam explained. "Some might say that this is a story of a tragic romance between two people who seemed so different, yet they were connected by blood. Others will say that this is the story of the fight for the throne between powerful Houses. Perhaps the most important thing is the story of a House that never wanted power, yet suffered the most. Maybe it's all about one fight. About a common opponent who always wins."

"Death," Jon said, remembering Beric Dondarrion's words. "Death is the enemy. The first enemy and the last."

While Robb took a seat on the ground and stroked the direwolf's fur, Jon looked up at the sky and saw sunlight breaking through the clouds. It was warmer than usual, snow was long gone, and though his heart was breaking into pieces and crying out of longing, Jon smiled.

Winter was over.

The End