The Broken Shore

It is morning in Westeros.

The scene of the battle is still littered with bodies, many scorched, the ground cracked and burned black from fire, freshly hardened magma still steaming where the land meets the sea that had reclaimed the Arm of Dorne once more. For the survivors of the Westerosi army, assembled on the surrounding ridges, a war unlike any a hundred generations had seen is ended. And they know not what to do.

Atop the highest bluff, overlooking the sea, Brienne of Tarth sheaths Oathkeeper at last, wiping sweat and blood from her brow. She has stared out to sea for some time. When she looks back, the surviving commanders of their forces are making their way to her. She looks about for the king or the Hand, but the men are coming to her.

"Lady Tarth, what ought we do?" Edric Dayne asks. Brienne tries to think of an answer as they press nearer. At her side, Tyrion points them to her, the dwarf's tongueless mouth ever silent. She looks back to the young Lord Dayne, his hands still shaking. This is has been his first true battle, she can see. A gull cries overhead and there is silence.

"We go home," she declares.

As the other commanders continue to flock towards Brienne for answers, Tyrion slips away. The Children of the Forest, it seems, have disappeared as quickly as they came, but he sees Rolly Duckfield standing by Grif and Harlan Dondarrion at their seat at the edge of the bluff. He cuts through the crowd to them. The gilded knight sees them coming.

"The king is hurt," Rolly nearly chokes on the words. Tyrion looks down to see the rock beneath them dark and sticky with blood. As he draws nearer, he can see the grievous extent of wounds on both men. The king's helm lies discarded, and he holds his crown in his lap. His flowing silver hair is clotted and stuck to his face by blood. Tyrion looks up at Rolly, imploring him to get help. Surely there are healers nearby, and the Children cannot have gone far. But the king sees his intent.

"It's too late for that," Grif sighs, offering a resigned smile. "Leave us this moment." Reluctantly, Rolly steps back, but Grif motions for Tyrion to lean in and hands him the crown, whispering something in his ear. "Do you understand?" he asks. Tyrion nods solemnly, looking at the treasure in his hands, and backs away, leaving the king and his Hand alone. A peaceful ocean breeze rolls over the bluff as the sky clears.

"I'm sorry," Harlan sighs. He breathes out, heavily and shakily, and slumps against Grif, head resting on the king's shoulder. "I wish I could have served you better."

"You served me well, Lord Harlan. You served the realm well." Grif assures him. "Look at the sun. We've won." When no answer comes, he sees Harlan's eyes have closed. Looking back out to the sea, he feels his pulse slowing and lets the sun warm his skin and the wind tug at his matted hair. His arm goes limp. "Look at the sun…"

Storm's End

Euron is dead. Yara still isn't sure she believes it, prodding his body again with her toe. She looks across to the others. Meera Reed kneels by her father's body, while Bran sits by Theon where he fell, Ghost's nose resting on the slain man's chest.

"We can help you take your brother to the sea," Bran looks up at her. "What is dead may never die." But Yara shakes her head.

"Take him back to Winterfell, if you would bless him so. That was his true home."

"It will be done," Bran sadly hands her Theon's wolfhelm.

"And what of Euron?" Obara asks, looking down at the dead pirate.

"Burn the body and leave the ashes to the dirt," Yara spits. "He is not worthy of the sea. Let him see what peace his god of flame will give him."

Yara leaves to see to the other survivors while Obara drags Euron's body away, leaving Meera alone with Bran. She moves to his side.

"Something's wrong," she knows.

"Theon… And your father. I'm sorry about your father."

"He lived for the old gods and he died for the old gods. He would not have fallen any other way. There's something else. What is it?"

"He's gone," Bran takes her hand, shaking. "The king is gone."

The Disputed Lands

On the edge of the Narrow Sea, the great Red Temple has half collapsed into the sea. The massive crowd of freedmen, priests and warriors that had come to worship R'Hllor still wait, staring at the blank space where their savior had stood and vowed to lead them to conquest. Looking up to the sky, murmurs grow to shouts as a circling green dragon drops down out of the sky onto the steps of the ruined temple. Out from under its talons, Eres crawls back to her feet and haltingly descends the steps as the crowd rushes towards her.

"My lady! A ragged priestess calls out, dropping to her knees on the steps below Eres. She can see the marks on the woman's neck where only so recently a slave's collar had choked. "What has happened? Where is the Lord's chosen?"

The question is taken up my more voices, more desperate faces, all pleading with their eyes for an answer. Eres looks up to the clear sky and tries to remember Daenerys' voice, the words she had left her with.

"I have a message!" she declares and a hush falls. "A message from Azor Ahai!"

The Frosted Fury

On the far edge of the camp, the Manderly vessel is moored at the shore, the surviving members of its crew picking their way through the outskirts until they come to what they are looking for, a pile of corpses, including the red priest, Moqorro. Leading the way, Arya walks slowly to a collapsed tent. Tugging aside the rolled fabric, she reveals the body of Gendry Baratheon, his singed face peaceful, his warhammer resting on his chest.

Behind her, Sandor silently places a huge hand on her shoulder. Arya runs her own cold, hardened hand over his face, but if any warmth remained, she cannot feel it. A single tear freezes on her cheek.

"He will be buried with his ancestor's at Storm's End," she solemnly grabs at his boots. "He was a true lord." Without a word, Sandor helps her lift the body into the air and together they begin the slow procession back to their vessel.

King's Landing

Sansa watches from the walls as the returning army, banners blowing in the wind, appears in the distance. When the red scar had left the sky, it had opened up with rain for days. But now the sky has cleared, letting sun down to illuminate the returning victors. Horns begin to sound and bells ring from within the broken city barricades. She watches the other nobles who had not gone south to fight – Allyria Dayne, Gilly, Rhonda Hightower, Missandei – their eyes full of relief and hope. But her own mind was darker. The few ravens they had received spoke with ominous vagary of the battle. They had been victorious, the red god's army routed and the Arm of Dorne reclaimed by the sea. But they had suffered 'great losses'. No more detail than that.

As the individual riders and banners at the head of the long line come into view, it is clear this is no celebratory parade. Sansa immediately sees what is wrong. At their head ride Lord Selwyn Tarth and Brienne, Art Hightower, Lord Andar Royce, Edric Dayne, Lord Titus Peake and Mya Baratheon. From Storm's End, Yara Greyjoy has joined them, and Bran atop Ghost. But there is no sign of King Griffin, nor his royal banner.

Abandoning her royal courtesies, Sansa turns from the wall and runs down the stairs, Mycah and her towering Skagosi guardians quickly chasing after her. Her feet sink deep into the mud as she makes her way down towards the first riders passing beneath the gates. Bran seems to see her even before she comes into view, the great white direwolf stopping, and all the riders halting with it. His face is pale and grieving. But it is Brienne who speaks first.

"The king is dead, your grace."

The Frosted Fury

The white plastered hull and teal sail of the small boat bob up and down across the Narrow Sea. The distant blur of Westeros can be seen on the horizon now. Below deck, the surviving crew has talked little since their departure, a long, silent, uncomfortable journey for all. But while Sandor and Sarella and the rest have spoken from time to time, Arya has barely said a word. Nor has Jon, whom she silently slinks onto deck to see as the sun sets in the West once again. The man who was once her brother, once her king and once her foe sits alone at the bow, the salty wind blowing his dark hair. She treads quietly on the boards until she can take a seat at his side.

"They made you into one of them," he says, without looking at her.

"I think so, yes," she remembers the cold, heartless eyes of the Night King. "I want to see Sansa and Bran again. But then… I want it to be you."

"That's not the only way," Jon shakes his head. "Maybe you won't be like the White Walkers. Maybe you'll be like Benjen."

"Uncle Benjen's dead."

"No, he's…" Jon realizes there is so much that he hasn't told her. And so much that she hasn't told him. "He's alive. Or he was when we parted. Beyond the wall. The Children made him into something else. Like the Walkers, but still… part human, somehow. Maybe you'll be like him. Maybe you could find him."

"Maybe," Arya sighs. "But we can't know."

"I'm willing to risk it," Jon finally turns to her. "You're my sister."

They rest in that moment, before Arya asks. "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know. I can't go back. I abdicated my claim, but the king will never be assured in his position if they know I'm alive. And I don't want to be used again," he looks at the scar on his hand. "The throne cut me. I was not meant for it."

"Then what are you meant for?"

"I don't know. I need to go somewhere to find out. Somewhere where no one knows my name, where I can claim my own path. I'm tired of other people trying to write my story."

Arya squints into the setting sun. "There's a boy below deck who may have an idea for you." Jon nods, half-interested. "But what you said about Uncle Benjen. When did you meet him? I want to know what happened. From the beginning."

"Only if you tell me what happened to you," Jon grips her cold, frost-blackened hand. She nods, and as the ship rolls on into the West, piece by piece they weave their tales, of love and loss, triumph and fear, and, finally, the faintest glimmer of hope.

Baelor's Room

"He seemed a good king…" Baelor Hightower murmurs through shallow breath. The maesters and healers have toiled day and night on his wounds. But when he summoned his family and bannermen to crowd at his bedside, Missandei knew it was all for naught. "It is a shame. What could have been…"

"There will be a Great Council, father," Art kneels, holding the lord's pale hand, Lady Rhonda holding the other. "All the lords will look to you to say who should lead."

"No, I…" Baelor coughs violently. "I don't think I shall go. But you, Arthur. Perhaps I should tell them that you should be king."

"I have so much work to be done in the Reach, father," Art protests. "And in Oldtown."

"I suppose you are right. Then I say that it is up to you. You will be lord by the time this council dawns. You will be the Beacon of the South and the Voice of Oldtown. Judge wisely, and look around. This room is full of good counsel."

"You'll live, father!" Art insists.

"No," Baelor smiles gently, hands shaking. "I raised you to be wiser than that." He looks down at his children, quiet Hela kneeling beside Art, then to his last surviving siblings: Gunthor, Humfrey and Mallora, blinded in the battle, who Missandei has led here to her brother's side. "Gunthor, do not even ask. You are no king." The knight's face flushes red. "You have brought great dishonor on our name. But I still believe you may one day prove worthy. Close the book on the past. Let today be a new beginning."

"Now," he turns to Missandei, waiting anxiously by the maesters with quill and ink. "Listen carefully to my words." He pulls, crumpled from beneath the covers, a parchment, scrawled with another clumsily drawn plan for a new Hightower.

"Oh, Baelor," Rhonda rests a calming hand on his shoulder as he tries to rise, but he persists. Turning the paper around, he shows it is scrawled with his own writing.

"You were right, dear. It is not in my hands to build a new tower. But I wish to build something else." Coughing again, he jabs a finger at the maesters, ensuring their transcription begins. "Hear my words. I command you to ensure the Court of Highgarden's promise is fulfilled. Put an end to the squabbling, and let the voices of the people be heard. Regarding the Citadel, inform them that I wish to see them admit girls to study. Their minds are no less bright, isn't that right, Hela?" The girl smiles, nodding enthusiastically. "And I want to see schools in the countryside, not just in our city. If the smallfolk are to learn to govern, the floodgates of knowledge must be unlocked."

Missandei watches the maester as he writes that down, looking for a sign of offense. But if he takes any, it is not shown.

"This is my final will to you, my son," Baelor lies back down as Art stands. "And to all of you. It is a new dawn in Westeros. Rise to it. Rise…"

As he rests, slowly the lords and healers and family file out, until only Rhonda remains at her husband's side. Missandei turns to leave as well, but hears her voice as Baelor breathes it out, unmoving, faint as a whisper. She turns back.

"Missandei of Naath. Thank you. I go to my father, now. You have planted a garden I will not see grow. But I have faith you will see it bloom."

"Thank you, my lord," she bows, the tears she had fought back for days slowly coming.

"Baelor, please. Call me Baelor."

"Thank you, Baelor." And with that, Missandei is gone. The lord's eyes close and his wife brushes his tangled brown hair away from his face to plant a gentle kiss. Baelor's pet lizard scurries down her arm and onto its master's chest.

"They need you now." He finds the strength to wrap his fingers in hers one last time. "They'll all need you."

"We were to grow old together, my shining light," she whispers.

"We have my love," his voice drifts off and though his eyes are closed, she knows he sees her. "We will... together…"

And so passes Lord Baelor Hightower.

Stark Quarters

Sansa looks around the table at her companions, the free rulers of Westeros: Queen Yara Greyjoy of the Iron Islands, Queen Arianne Martell of Dorne, King Robin Arryn of Mounatin and Vale and herself, Sansa Stark, Queen in the North. They have left even their closest advisors aside for this meeting, though Sansa wishes, for Robin's sake, Lord Royce were still by his side.

"I say we let what kingdoms still bow to the Iron Throne sort out amongst themselves who should sit it," Yara bluntly declares. "What should it matter to us?"

"Yes!" Robin nods vigorously, his over-sized crown dipping down on his forehead. "I want to go home! I'm done fighting their wars. I want to get married!"

"And how many wars have you fought, again, King Robin?" Arianne smirks.

The boy king opens his mouth to protest, but stumbles over finding a worthy retort, and Sansa speaks first. "None of our kingdoms will prosper if the realm is in chaos."

"Don't be so certain," Yara chuckles. "I rule my own islands."

"And Dorne governed itself long after the Conquest," Arianne adds.

"Would you have been able to fight off Euron on your own?" Sansa glares at them. "Or defend against the Fiery Hand? We live and die alongside our neighbors."

"Why, dear Sansa," Arianne looks suspiciously at her. "Are you starting to have second thoughts about ruling the North all by yourself? Looking to become the Queen Who Knelt?"

Is that really what I want? Sansa asks herself. But she says out loud "I only think we should attend the Great Council. The decision will affect us all, free or not." In the end, not even Robin can protest that, and the rulers go their separate ways. Sansa watches them each leave, the sun through the window glittering on their crowns. She pours herself some wine and grabs a pastry or two, at last alone with her thoughts.

We sacrificed so much to be free. But what did that earn us? We would have still been ruled by Ramsey without the Knights of the Vale. And without Daenerys' army, the Night King would have cut us all down…

The door swings open, startling her mid-thought. Brushing crumbs from her bosom, she rises, expecting Mycah. But instead Tyrion is standing there, holding his slate, scratched neatly with chalk: We need to speak about the king.

The Dragonpit

Tents of every color and pattern are assembled to shelter the lords and ladies of Westeros from the wind and winter sun. It is warm, the first warm day in some time. Bran sits in his chair in the grey Stark pavilion with Sansa and Mycah. Lord Glover, Sigorn, Lady Stane and the mountain lords wait behind them. Presiding over the council, Lord Fowler, Lord Tarth and a maester Bran does not know are discussing the protocols of proper order. But it is clear the crowd is impatient to begin. Fowler yells something to try and quiet the crowd and the High Septon offers up a prayer to the Seven to grant wisdom. Bran says a silent prayer to the old gods, and any others who may listen. When his ears re-open, Lord Tarth is elaborating on the history and etiquette of the process.

"Enough talking, let's get on with it!" Someone shouts.

"Of course, of course," Fowler reclaims order at last. "We will hear from each in turn. But first, I have been informed that Lord Tyrion Lannister has an important message."

"What can a mute possibly have to say?" Lord Peake bellows from the tent of the Marcher Lords. "Why should we listen to the imp? A kinslayer and a kingslayer?"

"He doesn't even have a tongue…" Edmure Tully looks over quizzically from his tent. "What's he going on about?" Sansa hushes her uncle, but the other lords will not be so easily silenced. Tyrion backs away as the arguing grows and suddenly Bran finds himself wheeling out before them all.

"Will nothing put an end to your bickering?" he shouts. "After everything we have survived? We have fought and won against the god of ice and death and the god of fire and life! We have survived because we united around what we share. Around the things that make us human! Love and memory and harmony and all those splendid little things that give us our strength to carry on but are so easily thrown away the moment we think we might be able to get a little more powerful than our neighbor."

"We are only able to sit here today and yell and curse about who killed who and who deserves what because thousands of noble men and woman, from the lowest, bravest masons and whores who took up arms to defend their homes to the king himself, came together and forgot who they were supposed to be, because for a few brief moments they all saw the things that were bigger than them! If they could see us now, they would be ashamed. Because what good is surviving if we never learn?"

"So go on, go your separate ways, break apart again, look after your families and your own kingdoms first. Go back to normal, and the same blood will be spilled again. I thought we were building something better. Griffin Blackfyre did too, and so did Aemon and Daenerys Targaryen. I guess you've proved us all wrong. So don't come asking me for advice. I'm going home."

As he wheels away, a silence falls. Tyrion has watched him closely through the speech, and now shuffles near to Lord Fowler, scrawling out a message on his slate. Fowler reads it, takes a deep breath and stands.

"Lord Tyrion was with King Griffin when he passed. The king entrusted his final will to him." Fowler declares. Rolly Duckfield nods to affirm. "In his final moments, King Griffin Blackfyre, First of His Name, expressed a wish to name his chosen successor. The council will still pass judgement on this decision. But the name given by the king was Brandon Stark."

Bran freezes as the tents erupt in shouting behind him. Art Hightower immediately voices approval while Lord Peake howls in protest. But he wheels on until he is safely out of sight and the presiding lords call for a recess to discuss the developments. As the nobles disperse, clustered tightly in small groups, whispering urgently to themselves, Bran attempts to leave discreetly, Obara and Meera clustered close by. But he finds his path blocked by Arianne, Yara, Edmure and Sansa.

"You speak well, prince," Yara eyes him up and down. "I fought hard to free the Islands, but you may be right in the end." Bran can see in his sister's eyes that this change of heart is her work, not his. He wonders what she's offered the sea queen.

"We will endorse your claim to the throne and pledge fealty," Arianne vows.

"And Robin, too, most like," Sansa adds. "He'll do as I advise. But if our kingdoms are to be united once more, there must be changes."

"We will not return to how things once were," Arianne insists. "We wish for an assurance that the inheritance of lands and titles be passed to the first-born, rather man or woman, as has always been our custom in Dorne."

"And there will be new rights for the smallfolk," Edmure insists. "I saw firsthand the horrors of these past wars, the way the weakest were crushed. We say no more."

"The fifth Aegon wished to see such reforms," Bran recalls. "It nearly started a rebellion."

"We have already had our fill of rebellion. And Aegon did not have your powers, nor the support of the most powerful lords," Sansa eyes him fiercely. "What do you say?"

"I haven't even said if I want to be king."

"I know you Bran," Sansa leans close. "You're my brother. If you can see another way, tell me. But if not… Father raised us all to do our duty."

The Iron Throne

"It should be him," Bran stares at the empty throne, Meera by his side. They await the verdict of the Great Council, arguing into the night. "Griffin was meant to be king, not me. I shouldn't have let him go to the frontlines. I should have tried harder to protect him. I should have found a better strategy for defense. If he had done the sacrifice, he would still be here."

"And it would have haunted you both for the rest of your lives. You wouldn't be the same," Meera places her hands on his shoulders. "But he did make a sacrifice, Bran. He sacrificed himself. And he wanted you to be king."

"But why? He trusted me, I know, but I never would have thought…"

"There is a way to know for sure," Meera answers, pointing to his forehead, as if to pry at the hidden third eye. "And that is why you will be a good king. You've been given a great gift Bran, to know the truth of this world."

"Powers are not enough," Bran protests. "Though I see now what they truly are. Euron thought the gift was a weapon, to strike down his foes. Bloodraven used it as a chain, to bind and control the people. The Children used it as a shield to hide behind. But they were all wrong. It's water. Water to grow, to give new life to the world. But water can kill, too. Sometimes, I feel like I'm drowning. And then I worry Bloodraven was right. That I can never be truly human again. That in the end I'll end up just like him."

"He's not right, Bran," Meera kneels before his wheelchair, looking up with her deep green eyes. "I know your heart. And I too know water."

"I can't do this without you."

"I know," she takes his hand. "That's why I'm not going anywhere."

Though they've heard no doors open, their tender moment is disturbed by the sound of soft yet clumsy footsteps echoing on the cold floor towards them. They turn to see a pale grey specter of a woman, hobbling towards them, guided by a cane.

"Lady Mallora," Meera rises to steady the blind witch's walk. "You shouldn't go out by yourself. You'll be hurt!"

"Hurt?" Mallora laughs, dry and raspy. "Why can't I walk about with no eyes when your prince roams the halls with no legs? Or should I say," her head turns as if she knows exactly where Bran sits, "your king."

"So it is done," Bran tries not to show a reaction on his face, even before Mallora, through his mind and heart are racing and she is more likely to sense that.

"It is done," she nods. "You have some choices to make, your grace. Choose wisely. For tomorrow you will be sitting up there." A single bony finger extends, pointing up at the Iron Throne – cold, dark and empty. But only empty for one more night.

Chataya's Brothel

Missandei stands before Malaqo, Grim Tongue and an assortment of leaders from the Dothraki and Unsullied that she does not know. Ser Argilac, Humfrey Hightower and Lord Arstan Selmy have accompanied her. She watches the reactions of the Eastern generals, sees their relief at finally meeting with a familiar face. But she can only wish Grey Worm were among them.

"Is it true?" Malaqo asks, the bells in the old Dothraki's white braid ring softly as he tips his head forward. "Is our khaleesi truly dead?"

"We believe that to be so," Missandei tells them, as much as she must tell herself. No one knows for sure, not yet, but she knows that the battle would not have ended while Daenerys lived. She only prays that she found peace in the end.

"And what have you come to do with us?" Grim Tongue eyes her suspiciously.

"I've come to keep her promises. There are empty keeps and unclaimed lands in the Marches, the mountains and the North. They will be given over to whatever of you members wish to stay here in Westeros."

Malaqo nods approvingly. "Your Marches remind me of the Great Grass Sea. Give us a place to ride free and know peace, and the promise will be fulfilled."

"What of those who do not wish to stay?" Grim Tongue is still not satisfied. "Grey Worm had a dream, too. A dream to defend your people."

"And my love's dream will be fulfilled," Missandei assures him. "You cannot live on Naath, for the butterfly fever curses friend and foe alike. But we have boats," she points to Humfrey. "The Hightower fleet will carry you there, and you may come to build stands in the shallow bays. Before the slavers came, Naath traded its silks and wine around the world. Under your protection and with our ships, my people may share their gifts with the world, you may fund your defense, and all will prosper."

That seems to satisfy even the brooding Unsullied general, and Missandei leaves them, pleased. But as she steps outside, she finds Obara Sand leading a procession of mounted guards, waiting for her.

"Lady Missandei of Naath," Obara calls down from atop her horse. "His grace Brandon Stark has need of you."

The Iron Throne

Missandei bends down to let young Alys help fasten the gilded Hand's pin to her chest. She remembers the pin that Aemon had given her. And Daenerys' pin that she had carried for so long. As she straightens back up, smoothing the front of her slim orange gown, she thinks of all she has loved and served – Aemon, Baelor, Grey Worm and above all Daenerys. They are gone, but all are with her now as she steps out into the Great Hall as the crowd awaits amongst the sound of harps and flutes and drums.

At the head of them all, Ser Argilac and Obara stand in new, gleaming white scale and cloaks, hoisting Bran up and lifting him onto the throne. He wears a plain grey doublet and trousers, embroidered with black dire-wolves. He looks cleaner and older than she has ever seen him, Missandei thinks as she takes her place beside Meera at the right-hand of the throne. The new High Septon comes then, with Griffin's iron crown in hand, to place upon Bran's brow.

Obara pounds her spear on the floor to silence the crowd. "All hail King Brandon Stark, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Protector of the Realm!" And as the new king's name echoes off the walls, Missandei can feel that a new day truly has begun in Westeros.

King's Landing Docks

The Frosted Fury is moored as its crew returns at last to Westerosi soil. Home. Sarella, Sandor and Garin make their way off, pausing where Mycah, Obara and Meera wait.

"What of Lord Tarly and Ser Myles?" Obara asks.

"They didn't make it," Sarella answers, somberly. "I need to see his wife. I want to be the one to tell her. She'll need to be looked after now." But no one moves, not yet, for they turn from a distance to watch the reunion on the docks below as Arya and Jon climb up, the last to leave the boat, finding Sansa waiting for them by Bran in his chair, Ghost looming behind them.

At first sight of Jon, the direwolf pounces forward, for a moment seeming about to break the whole dock below its shifting weight. But it is upon Jon, its thick tongue dancing out to his face as he drops to his knees and buries his face in the white fur. At his side, Arya is wearing thick black gloves, a dark hood pulled low over her face. She does not move to greet the others.

"You can take the hood off, Arya," Bran tells her. "We're family."

Slowly, she reveals her face, and with it the dark, dead, frosted flesh around her eyes and mouth, spreading more every day. Sansa tries not to gasp, but her shock is evident. Arya doesn't seem to mind, however, and steps past Ghost towards her siblings. Jon rises to follow. And then they see the crown on Bran's head.

"You've done well," is all Jon says.

"If you want it…" Bran is quick to respond, but Jon cuts him off.

"I don't."

"You are both welcome at Winterfell," Sansa offers. "It's time for us to go home."

"Home," Jon sighs, looking at Arya, then Bran and Sansa in turn. "I think that means something different to each of us now."

Sansa stumbles at that. "The lone wolf dies but the pack survives."

"I know," Arya nods. "But we have our own packs now." She looks to the shore where their companions wait. "And we will always be one. When we were apart before, and now again. Father and mother and Robb and Rickon and all of us. We made it together."

"So I this is farewell?" Sansa asks. Arya says nothing. She only leans in, Jon following as the last of the Starks share a final embrace above the calm waves of Blackwater Bay, the sun creeping from behind the clouds. The day is warm.

White Sword Tower

The great book of the Kingsguard lies open on a table in the chambers of the Lord Commander. Brienne, dressed finely in her armor adorned with the colors of Tarth, flips through the pages. There are short entries for the brave knights that guarded King Aemon, even a brief tribute to those who served Daenerys. She smiles sadly at Ser Balon Swann's pages. But when she comes to the entry she seeks, she finds it incomplete.

Brienne looks up as the door opens. Obara Sand steps in, her freshly made white armor pure and bright, white cloak flowing gracefully behind her.

"Lord Commander," Brienne nods respectfully. "The first woman in the Kingsguard."

"Ser Brienne," Obara bows stiffly, the stern Dornishwoman stepping forward hesitantly. "I fear I sometimes think this cloak ought to belong to you."

"I dreamed of it once. But I have found new duties, new challenges. My Lady Stark was right. I am done serving." And done trying to prove myself, she thinks. Turning the book towards Obara, she points to the page she had sought. Ser Jaime Lannister. "You did not finish his entry."

"I did not know the man. But you did," Obara spins the book back around on the table and hands Brienne the quill and ink.

"What do you want me to write?" she asks.

"The truth."

Small Council Chamber

White cloaks flowing behind them, Ser Obara and Ser Argilac march beside Bran as he wheels his way down the hall towards the Small Council chamber. Two more of his sworn guard, Black Balaq of the Golden Company and Ser Gavin Locke of White Harbor wait by the door. They swing the doors open, and he finds a crowd of nobles standing, awaiting their king's arrival. Along the wall are lined his freshly chosen Wardens, including the new Captain-General of the Golden Company, to whom he had honored their claim to Dragonstone.

He passes them one by one, granting his blessing. "Lady Brienne of Tarth, Warden of the East. Lord Tyrion Lannister, Warden of the West. Lord Bronn Blackwater, Warden of the South and Steward of the Highgarden Court. Lord Rolland Duckfield, Lord of Dragonstone and Warden of the Narrow Sea. Lady Sansa Stark, Warden of the North." Each bow in turn, and Bran feels a particular sense of pride in Sansa's eyes as she greets him last.

They leave in turn as his chair wheels into place at the head of the council table. Obara takes her seat to his left and Missandei to the right, the other council members sitting in turn: Lord Franklyn Fowler, Master of Law. Mallora Hightower, Mistress of Whisperers. Hotho Harlaw, Master of Ships. And Lord Wylis Manderly, Master of Coin.

"Your grace," Wylis raises his fat hand. "I see no place for the Master of War."

"Indeed not, Lord Manderly," Bran nods. "We have at last rid our land of war. My wardens will keep the peace. And we will pray that chair not need returned to the table in our lifetime. Now," the young king places both hands on the table and breathes deeply before opening his eyes once more. "Let us begin."

Davos' Keep

At the gates of a small stone holdfast on Shipbreaker Bay, two small boys run out from the gate, a kindly old woman following behind them. There is no fanfare as a lone, beat-down horse traipses slowly down the rocky path, its rider in a rain-soaked dark cloak and floppy hat. The children, faster than the lazy horse, soon reach the rider. Davos Seaworth tears off the hat to reveal a huge smile on his weathered face. The old smuggler drops down from his horse to embrace his surviving sons, Stannis and Steffon, laughing as they jump up to embrace him, shouting with joy.

"Are you back for good, this time?" He looks up to see his wife, Marya looking down at them, a mix of hope and restraint in her wrinkled eyes. Davos rises, tussling their son's hair. He pulls Marya close and kisses her for the first time in years.

"I promise you, I never want to leave again."

Castlery Rock

Trumpets sound from the top of Castlery Rock as the party of Tyrion Lannister appears. His wheelhouse stops atop a hill a league away, with the legendary Lannister fortress looming high up in the sky. The door opens and his stubby legs swing down. It is warm today, for winter, he thinks and thanks the bright sun and clear sky above. Lady Allyria Dayne, in a flowing purple dress, steps out behind him, holding little Tysha in her arms. Allyria's violet eyes widen at the first sight of The Rock, and she hands the babe to its uncle.

This is yours, little one, Tyrion thinks, holding Tysha up high to see her family's inheritance. He has never been one to fancy the thought of an afterlife. But he hopes that Jaime can see his child now. And that their own father could see what had come of his hateful legacy. One day you will rule it all. And what a world we will build for you.

Pyke

Yara finds Rodrik Harlaw waiting for her with an assembly of lords as she returns, cheering her on as she mounts the Seastone Chair. She eases into it, feeling the slick stone natural beneath her back and surveying her subjects, confident at last that none remain who will dare to challenge her. She has paid the iron price, and the islands at last are hers. She closes her eyes and lets their pledges of fealty turn to music in her ears.

Summerhall

Once again, the ruins of the ancient hall are alive with workers, raising back up the walls. Amidst the work, Alysenth, Elenei and Barristan Dondarrion watch as their father's legacy comes to life around them. Ever-somber Alysenth turns back to face their companions – Mya Baratheon, Lord Selwyn and Brienne of Tarth, Gilly Tarly and a crowd of Horpe knights. Little Sam Flowers huddles behind the drapes of his mother's wool dress.

"I want father to be buried here," Alysenth declares. "This was his dream."

"Will you be living here once it is complete?" Lord Selwyn asks, the Evenstar, now Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, chosen by the king to end the Baratheon/Dondarrion feud.

"I will give it to Barristan when it is complete. But Blackhaven is my home," Alysenth decides, and attention turns to Gilly. Brienne steps forward.

"Lady Tarly. Know that we all grieve with you. I only knew your husband briefly, but he was a brave man. Trust that we will ensure no harm befalls you and your child grows to his place as Lord of Horn Hill. I will escort you home personally, and remand Ser Steffon Horpe to your service as a defender."

The shrouded white knight helps Gilly, clumsy in her pregnancy, atop her horse and she rides off into the mist, Steffon and Brienne at each side. As the others fade away, Alysenth kneels down with her siblings, removing a weirwood pod from the depths of her purple-slashed black robe. Together, they dig a trench in the earth and plant the seed, leaving it to grow along with the reborn castle around it.

The Marches

The prairie seems to stretch on for an eternity here as a ramshackle band of Dothraki stop before a half collapsed stone keep. The disrepair of the walls nor the misting rain does not faze Malaqo as he leaves his horse to walk slowly into their new home, stopping before a thin, warped old wierwood tree. He turns back to the people who have followed him here, already pitching their tents. But he climbs the keeps crumbling tower until he can climb no more to see all he can of their new home. He will call this keep 'Daenerys' Gift'. And he will ride free forever.

Highgarden

The round Great Hall is overflowing with the newly inducted members of the new court – nobles and common folk alike. Each kneels in turn to pledge fealty and sign their name before a row of maesters and Bronn, his wife, the gardner's daughter, at his side with their newborn child. Missandei watches approvingly from her seat between Lord Hobber and Talla Redwyne, Lord Art and Desmera Hightower and his lady mother Rhonda. A smile crosses her face as even Ser Gunthor and Lord Peake dejectedly kneel before them to take their place in the new order. Warm light shines through the roseglass window, the same light that shines down upon the weirwood sprig freshly planted in the castle's godswood.

Sunspear

Princess Arianne Martell strides out into the grand chamber of the Tower of the Sun, holding the twin seats of the Dornish rulers – the Martell spear and the Rhoynish sun. Behind her, Edric Dayne's eyes widen as he takes in the great ornate dome for the first time. Elia Martell grabs his hand, and pulls her betrothed off to showcase her favorite parts of the castle.

Hearing their youthful feet echo off down the hall, Arianne crosses the floor through the dancing beams of light from the ornate windows above. Straightening the vulture mask on her face, she seats in the spear-seat and looks to the empty chair beside her. Young Corlys Tarth would come to visit soon enough. Perhaps he would stay. Lord Selwyn's nephew would be a good match. Or perhaps not. As she leans back in the seat, Arianne knows she at last has time of her own.

The Citadel

Missandei watches approvingly as novices toil at transcribing copies of a new tome. She pauses at one nervous young lad as he paints a cover for the text: On the Future of Healing in the Unreachable Illnesses by Maester Qyburn.

Content with the work, she walks out from the shop and makes her way to the island on the Honeywine where the ravenry sits behind the great old weirwood tree. She finds Garin there with Sarella, now wearing her maester's chain. With them, little Alys stands in the beige robes of a novice, the first girl to be admitted to the Citadel, with many more on their way, Sarella assures her. Missandei smiles to think how happy that sight would have made Daenerys.

Sarella looks fondly to a discarded archery target at the root of the great tree. "I want to raise a statue to Sam here. This was his favorite place."

"I was sorry to hear of his passing. He seemed like a good man."

"He was. He never stopped believing in what this place was supposed to be. Now it's up to us to make it something better. Isn't that right, Alys?"

"The old grey sheep are gone," the former 'little bird' declares proudly. "I want to see Master Qyburn's book."

"Ser Garin will show you," Sarella answers, and the fierce girl runs off, Garin struggling to keep up. Sarella turns back to Missandei, looking at the pin on her chest. "I suppose you'll have to be running off to the capital now?"

"I'm afraid so. But I will be back soon. King Brandon believes in Oldtown. Anything you need, let us know. We're in this together."

"I have to wonder, my lady," Sarella adds as they turn to leave. "How long will you stay? With the trade to Naath restored, will you be returning home?"

Missandei pauses for a moment, looking down the river towards the great city beyond and breathing the air of the strange new land her queen had brought her to so long ago now. From the depths of her orange robes, she pulls the slave collar she had carried with her ever since the day Daenerys freed her. That day she had traded her chains for a dream. That dream is alive here now, she can feel it. With a small splash, the collar drops into the serene waters of the Honeywine and disappears. She looks back at Sarella.

"This is my home."

Naath

The beautiful island rests serenely on crystal blue waters as the Hightower fleet approaches, their orange sails catching a swift western wind. Ser Humfrey stands at the helm with his young Tyrell wife, Lord Costayne and Grim Tongue. The Unsullied commander's mouth cannot help but drop at the beauty of the land before them. He has renamed the commanding vessel Grey Worm, and it pains him that his beloved commander is not here to see this same view. But he vows that the dream of peace for Naath will live on.

In a smaller, yet no less sturdy boat nearby, Wynafryd Manderly takes in the same view, her sail bearing her own new sigil – a purple mermaid clutching lightning. Below deck awaits new items to trade with the locals, along with a gift – a weirwood pod, the birth of her new merchant enterprise. For now, there is only one boat, but tomorrow there may be two, and then more. Tugging at the teal ribbon in her braid, her long blonde hair tumbles loose to blow freely in the salty wind. This is what freedom smells like.

Winterfell

A soft sun filters down through the branches of the weirwood as soft green grass begins to grow from the ground once again. The rays light the faces of Sansa Stark and Mycah Manderly as their lives are joined as one. Their friends and family gather round – Edmure Tully, Sigorn and Alys Karstark, Munda Giantsbane, Lady Stane, Ser Marlon Manderly and so many more - pressed tightly together in the cold.

But Sansa only feels warm in Mycah's embrace, the ghosts of her first wedding beneath this tree evaporated away. She almost swears she sees the ancient carved face smile. She smiles back and smiles on through the feast, as the people, her people, come one by one to pay their respects. She is happy at last as they carry her away to bed and Mycah gently removes her gown, kissing her lips and her chest and her soft belly. She holds tight to him, letting him wash over her. Tomorrow her rule begins. But tonight she lets a new truth of feeling envelop her at last, and drowns in a sea of love.

The Far North

The ruins of the Wall lie like a great blue scar across the white expanse of snow and ice. Through them pass a ragtag band of horses – some Wildings, some Dothraki, some straggling survivors of the Night's Watch and smallfolk only looking for a new home. At their head, Tywin Dondarrion and Sandor Clegane, each draped in heavy black cloaks, ride beside Arya Stark. She peers out to the horizon, the sun glaring blindingly back up at her from the white ground ahead. For a moment, on the ridge ahead where the red leaves of a weirwood stand out against the sky, she thinks she sees a huddled crowd of stunted creatures. And standing tall among them, a dark figure, black hair waving in the wind, somehow strangely familiar. And then they are gone and she flicks the reigns on her horse, stomping forward into the unknown, leaving only a trail of tracks in the snow.

The Lonely Light

Young Gyles Farwynd runs across the deck of a great voyaging ship, checking with each member of the crew and ensuring every line is properly fastened. Behind him, Jon steps on board as the mooring ropes come loose and the sails rise. His hair has been cut short to his scalp, his plain clothes bear no markings of nobility or family line, he had even sent Longclaw back to Winterfell with Sansa. He is a new man, born today, with a lightness in his step as the vessel cuts through smooth water. In the clouds above, he thinks perhaps he sees the silhouette of a dragon. But for now, his eyes are on the western horizon, as the strong wind at his back carries him far and far again towards a new world.

The Disputed Lands

The ruined Red Temple has been picked apart, its stones pulled away to build to homes, shops and inns as a new city comes to life on the long abandoned plains. But at the edge of the sea, one figure remains, a reminder of what once was – a statue of dragonglass. Eres kneels before it now, saying a silent prayer she hopes her queen may hear, for the strength to carry on her dream. She looks up to see the carved face of Daenerys Targaryen, Stormborn, Breaker of Chains. And smiles.

The Red Keep

The sprout of a weirwood tree springs up through the shattered tile of the painted plaza. Bran and Meera sit, watching it, as the young king remembers the day he planted the seed with his predecessor. With a squawk from above a white raven swoops down into the plaza, coming to rest at the king's feet.

"Spring is here," Meera observes. "I wonder what it will bring?"

"What if it's all going to begin again?" Bran answers after a silence. "Arya and the White Walkers in the North. The dark powers beyond Asshai and the worshippers of R'Hllor. They're all still there. What if it's just a cycle of us destroying ourselves again and again?"

"I don't think we'll ever know," Meera sighs. "We just have to try. To believe that we can do better. All of us can only do what we can, and hope that it makes a change. It's like a pebble tossed in the pond. No one can see the change. Except you. Maybe you can see the change. If you do, promise to show me."

"I promise. When I was a boy, when I still climbed, I remember no one would catch me, because no one ever thinks to look up. When you only ever look at your feet, you never realize what's possible, just out of your reach."

"Is that what we're going to do? Make them look up?"

Bran turns to her, and slowly, they kiss. "Let's go see."

Outside the castle walls, the white cloaks of the kingsguard tear fiercely in the wind as their horses pound out towards the villages beyond, trying their best to keep up with Meera on her own mount and King Brandon Stark, clinging to his white direwolf. As he bounds over a hill and disappears from sight, it seems almost as if he has learned to fly.

A/N: While that's it. The End. The Final Episode. I hope it was more satisfying for you than the version we got on TV. I have to be honest, looking back on nearly a full year that I spent on this project, there are definitely things I wish I did differently. I wish I hadn't chosen to follow the show's trajectory so closely in some places. But in the end, I'm very happy with it, and I hope you were too. And those retrospective ideas can take shapes in new stories for the years to come.

Thanks so much for reading. It was a blast to spin this tale, to work with the characters and places I love so much and to unlock corners of the world the show passed over and even create some new ones of my own. As always, I love any feedback you care to leave me, and soon enough I'll have a new saga ready to begin, if you care to check it out. But for now, to quote Tyrion, "I suppose this is farewell." Catch me in 20-30 years when *knock on wood* the books are all done and my screen-writing career has taken off and I can find my way into the Writer's Room for the remake.