A Crown of Ash and Snow

The events of this story take place immediately at the end of Season 8 of Game of Thrones. Spoilers for the final season are interjected throughout. If you have not watched the final season of Game of Thrones, it is strongly advised that you do so before reading.

Chapter One: Fell Deeds Awake

Introduction

"Fire and blood", the fateful words said to Daenerys Targaryen countless times throughout her life felt of the utmost importance to her of late. She was losing her grip, on reality, on her people, Jon Snow, everything. Fire and Blood was all she had left. The Targaryen house words once struck fear into the hearts of many during the reign of her father, and have been doomed to do so again. Fire and Blood was not merely a saying, it was Daenerys' credo, whether she knew it or not. Everywhere she went she left a trail of fire and blood, for good or for evil, and she could do little to stop it. The madness, slow yet steady, had begun to take over her. She was no longer the little girl yearning for the house with the red front door and the lemon tree, she wanted more.

"Fire cannot kill a dragon" was one of her brother's favorite things to remind her, especially as he tortured her with creed words and cruel treatment. Fire truly could not kill a dragon, or so Daenerys discovered on that fateful day as she burned in the desolation of the Red Waste. In fact, it was fire and blood that gave her life, and incidentally her dragons. As Mirri Maz Duur, the Lhazareen witch who stole her husband from her, wailed into the night and the blood in the mighty Khal Drogo's veins turned to ash upon his funeral pyre, Daenerys' house words took on a new meaning for her. Fire and blood is what forged her, and fire could not kill a dragon. But ice could.

Daenerys had never truly thought about dying. With her three dragons, Ser Jorah, the Dothraki, and the Unsullied behind her she was all but immortal in her mind. When the Great War came and her friends were picked off like flies she lost a part of herself. Her spark, her passion for helping others, was slowly dying within her. Words like "liberation" and "saving cities" left her lips but no longer held the same meaning as they did when she liberated the slaves in Slaver's Bay. There was a hollowness inside her that neither Jon Snow nor anyone else could fill. Yet still, ice tried, but fire and ice do not well mix.

With each loss she experienced, a part of Daenerys was irrecoverable. Like peeling away the petals of a flower, pull a few too many and all that's left are its roots. Daenerys, stripped of all else, fell back on her roots. At her core she is and always was a dragon. In her youth she oft wondered about her father, the Mad King, and worried that she'd share the same fate. She struggled against the darkness, filling herself with light and love, suppressing all notions of madness. And her friends truly were her lights, they kept her sane. Without them, she wouldn't have a leg to stand on, but dragons could fly. And so she did.

Daenerys soared over King's Landing on that fateful day she waited for the bells to ring out, to tell her the throne was hers. When the bells did ring, and the city was hers, something within her broke. She thought of Viserion, Ser Jorah, Rhaegal, Missandei, all gone from her. Who would she share in the joy with? The lights she held tight onto were no longer there. She felt nothing, only drunkenness on power and grief. Like snuffing out candles in the night, once all fire is gone what remains is only darkness. As her friends fell into ruin, so did her sanity.

She rained down calamity on the peoples of King's Landing on an unparalleled scale. The enormity and gravity of what she had done was all but lost to Daenerys. In one fell swoop she turned away from being Mother of Dragons and became at long last the Muña Morgho, Mother of Death. Drogon flew over the city like the black death. Buildings crumbled, stone turned to ash, and the people with it.

Chest heaving and heavy, Daenerys drank in the scene. The sight might have horrified her not five years past but this- this was different. The queen looked but she did not see. Daenerys saw only enemies, surrounding her, loyal to Cersei, who would never bend the knee. The people screamed for mercy, she only heard battle cries. While children screamed in agony, she heard them call her name, "Daenerys! My Queen!". The Gods had finally flipped the coin, as they did with all the Targaryen children, and her fate was madness.

She had once professed that she didn't want to be Queen of the Ashes, but she has ensured it now. What was the point of delaying the attack? She could have taken the city a dozen times in this manner. Who would be left to rule over when the day ended? Surely no-one could survive such a calamity. And yet, some did, mangled, burned, with ash-filled lungs. Were they supposed to thank her for the liberation? It wasn't untrue, Daenerys would never find love in Westeros. The people could have loved her as they had in Essos, but she did this.

She could have taken the city with almost no lives lost. But in truth, when the bells of surrender stopped ringing Daenerys barely noticed. It had been her that made them stop for her fell beast's fire had knocked the tower to the ground. Countless towers fell that day, and Daenerys cared not to look back at them. She had erased all possibility of earning the people's respect and admiration, which she so desperately craved. They would have welcomed her as a hero. Instead, to the people, she'd become worse than the tyrant, Cersei, and that was saying something.

The city, long fallen hours ago, was a smoking echo of its previous enormity. Reduced to rubble, the city didn't look half as impressive as it once did. As Daenerys emerged from the ruins of the Red Keep after the battle was won she truly was the queen of the ashes. Only her armies, still reeling from bloodlust and lost, would continue to feed her ego, her madness, as she made her grand promises and speeches to them. She promised that she'd continue until the people of the world were liberated. The only liberation the people needed was from the certain death she'd bring them.

At long last, in the throne room, before the iron throne that was so sorely worn, it had been Jon Snow that had liberated her. As the dagger plunged into her heart and his lips left hers, brow furrowed, she was confused. How could he do this to me? I am his queen! She had no words now, as the blood dripped from her nose and mouth. Dracarys. I will kill them all. Daenerys' eyes darkened and death took her, she'd never have the chance.

Bran watched as Drogon set the iron throne ablaze, reducing it to burning embers and silky pools of molten iron. If he had not been the Three Eyed Raven, his heard would have skipped a beat. He had gone back to watch the fall of King's Landing from Daenerys' eyes. His eyes, milky white, felt what it was like to be hers. He watched as Drogon swooped down, grasping Dany's body in his great black claw. He'd headed east. East towards Essos, seemingly to never be seen again.

Suddenly, Bran snapped back to reality, his reality, his eyes returning to him. He blinked and Sansa came into view. "You were doing it again," she said disapprovingly.

"Was I?" Bran whispered cooly.

"Yes," she said impatiently, "You were watching her again, weren't you? What's the point, Jon's killed her. It's over now."

"Nothing is truly over," Bran said emotionlessly, "Not for me."

"It's not as if you could change anything," Sansa paused, "Could you?"

He did not answer her, but in truth, Bran likely could. Before he had taken up the mantle of the Three Eyed Raven he saw it happen twice. Once, he had watched his father turn to him, hearing his voice on the wind in the shadow of the Tower of Joy. That had scared Bran then, or so he remembered now. The second time scared him far worse. As he commanded that Hodor hold the door for he and Meera as they fled from the White Walkers, he scrambled Hodor's brain. Bran hadn't had a handle on his powers then, but he knew better now.

Bran, at the snap of his finger, or at the least the white flicker of his eyes, had the power to erase it all, to start again, to change things. Yet history was already written, and it was not his place to change it. He would not bring Daenerys back, nor stop her from burning King's Landing. One wrong move and he could erase Arya's victory against the Night King, and it would be his own home that was overtaken by death and destruction. He could have saved his sister from the clutches of Ramsay Bolton, or perhaps have ensured Jon's death at Hardhome. He could have spared his brother Robb and his mother Catelyn from the Red Wedding, but just have made their heads fall of their necks beside Ned Stark before the great Sept of Baelor instead. The past was not something to be changed without repercussions. Bran saw all the possible futures in his mind, and wouldn't jeopardize the present, for good or for evil.

Sansa

Bran and Sansa had been bobbing in a cabin on a ship for weeks, making their way to King's Landing. They were summoned to a meeting of all the great houses of Westeros upon the news of the Queen's death. Sansa worried for Jon, in chains in the Red Keep, and feared what Grey Worm would do to him, still reeling from the death of Missandei and Daenerys. Grey Worm had promised to keep him alive until the great houses could convene and decide his fate. With Sansa at the table, they would have no easy task in putting him to the sword.

In truth, the Seven Kingdoms was leaderless, listing ever-closer to complete collapse. The wars, for all it touched the north, made the people stronger, and Sansa knew how to use that strength. As they sailed, the walls of Winterfell were being rebuilt, crops rationed, and the people cared for. She would not let the North fall, not whilst she was still alive. I am of the North, born of ice and the winds of winter. The Red Wolf. We will recover, the pack has survived.

"Whatever happens," Sansa started in on Bran, who she knew hardly cared to speak at all these days, "I'm not handing them the North."

"You will not have to," Bran said knowingly, "The northmen will not kneel."

Sansa paused and half whispered, "And neither will I."

Bran smiled, though it did not reach his eyes. Sansa thought it made his face look strange. They had all changed, her, Arya, Jon, Bran, but Bran was an echo of his former self. All of their trials and the wars took much from them. Sansa's bones had turned to steel, whilst Bran was broken, save his mind. Sansa wondered if their parents would be proud of them or horrified at what they had become. Parents were supposed to leave the world better than they found it for their children, that's what she had always been told. But that was a lie, she knew better now. The children had to make the better world, despite what had been done before their time. Nobody would hand them a better world, they'd have to make one for themselves.

Sansa was surely ready to begin bringing her vision of a better world into fruition. As she spoke up at the fateful meeting that would decide the future of Westeros, she drew her line in the sand; the North would have its independence. She was half sad that Jon would not be able to see Winterfell be rebuilt, that the King in the North was no more, but that meant it would be her turn to rule. Her rule was a merciful one, based on the teachings of her parents. They had tried their damndest to keep the North peaceful and prosperous, but Sansa had power now, real power. She wouldn't use it to burn children alive, nor break chains, blow up Septs, rule over others in tyranny, she'd help people.

Sansa cast away her necklace that she had worn since Winterfell was reclaimed. A circle, a symbol of her strength and perseverance, bound in chains, echoing her victory over Ramsay, Cersei, even Littlefinger. She had no more use of chains in her kingdom; she was free. She removed the braids from her hair, leaving it unadorned. All her life she styled herself after her mother, Cersei, Margaery; now it was time for the true Sansa to emerge. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, she felt reborn, liberated. Her gown of grey and Weirwood leaves sank to the floor, elegant yet simple at the same time. A great black fur cape swung over her shoulder, trailing behind her. It was of the north, as was the woman who wore it.

The people beamed as she made her long slow march to her throne. She hardly felt nervous. After all, this was not the first time she had walked down the aisle. And yet, it felt like the first time. This was the first time Sansa would be walking towards the future of her own free will. A crown was placed upon her head; a simple thing with two direwolves, one devouring, the other growling proudly towards the sky. No garb had ever made Sansa look more radiant. She was glowing less in the firelight, but in the glow of her people.

As she sank into the Direwolf Throne, her heart soared. As a little girl she always envisioned herself a lady, a queen even. She came close for a time with Joffrey, but she was not suited to sitting on a velvet stool at a man's feet. She had found her voice, the little bird she once was dead, and now it was time for her to fly alone.

Bran

As Ser Brienne of Tarth, Lady Commander of the Kingsguard, and Ser Podrick Payne escorted him to the small council chambers for their first meeting, Bran's attention was elsewhere. He sat in the middle of a ruined city, a newly minted king, yet his mind wandered East. He spent most of the day thinking of Drogon, wondering if the beast would return. It was on the mind of the small council as well.

As Bran took his leave and entered his chambers, his eyes turned white. He was soaring, above the sea, fast. He had warged into a gull near the edge of the city. Soon he was flying over open water, the wind in his wings. The sun shone above him, making the ocean look as though it were filled with fire.

Bran could feel the bird weakening, it was not meant to stray this far from shore. He rounded back, headed for the craggy shores of Dragonstone for a new beast. Bran had never set foot on these shores himself but felt he knew them well. He knew which steps of the castle stairs were loose, he knew were the cave drawings were in the dragonglass mines below, he knew the place the Targaryens had once called home.

As he set off to fly, he felt hot breath on the back of his neck. The little bird whipped around to stare into the eyes of a fully grown dragon. The dragon's mouth smoked and puffed, but would not waste its time on a bird so small as he. Still, Bran flew well away from the beast. Drogon was found at last. His eyes looked sad, if that was even possible for a dragon. He was the last of his kind, his mother dead. His mother. Where is your mother? Bran thought.

The small bird flew into the castle but sight nor sound of the queen's body was found. Drogon would not have dropped her into the sea, would he? Would her bones rot amongst the mangled remains of Rhaegal? Surely she would not have burned in his fires. Where was Daenerys' body?

To find that answer Bran could not ask the present, he'd have to look to the past. He let his grips on the small bird go, saw a flash of the king's chambers for half a second, and was flying again. He flew under a great shadow, larger than reckoning. He was in the beast's claw, watching the Queen's body limply blown by the wind. What has he done with you?

Bran and Drogon flew for what felt like an eternity. Even from this distance he could feel the beast's heat, his fire, his rage. The dragon was grieving. He flew east to wreck cities, to die, to inter her, he did not know. Drogon was determined, flying deliberately, towards the place his queen had worked so tirelessly to leave behind her. Drogon had once taken her to the Dothraki, was this where she was to be buried?

Bran caught glimpses of Tyrosh, a harbor in the Free Cities, and even the lovely Lys, just north of the Summer Isles. With every land mass they passed, Bran was sure he'd see Drogon swoop down and make his landing, but he did not. They left each passing city by in a funnel of wind and seawater. The dragon croaked and roared but never breathed fire, nor stopped for food.

If the dragon was headed for the Great Grass Sea, at the very least it had not taken the most direct route. Bran could see the fabled city of Valyria in the distance, the ruins of a once-great empire. If he wanted to, with a thought, faster than a wish, he could see it in all of its glory, prospering again. However, Bran had not the time to travel to the past, for following Drogon's journey was all too tempting.

At long last Bran discovered where the winged darkness was taking its mother: Volantis. It was as unmistakable by air as it was on the ground. He soared over the great harbor and port, past the point at which the Rhoyne river meets the Summer Sea. Drogon's wings flapped hard, as onlookers struggled to stand against the hurricane of winds he left in his wake. Volantis was no stranger to odd happenings but a dragon, a living dragon, hadn't been seen in this part of the world in an age.

Bran knew it in his heart but somehow did not want to admit it to himself; Drogon had taken the queen to the Temple of the Lord of Light. The temple was enormous, it made Aegon's High Hill look like a gentle slope. It's ancient buttresses, pillars, stone-carved figures, towers, and domes towered over even Drogon. The temple looked as though it had been hewn from the mountain beside it. It stood nearly three times as high as the Sept of Baelor. The enormity of the structure cast an odd shadow but also glittering light; the building looked to be afire with rich and vibrant reds, oranges, and yellows. Stained glass and gold glittered upon it in all of its splendor. The building reached high, up into the clouds, fading into the sunset.

Drogon roared as the closed in on the temple, his great wings causing the glass windows to tremble. Priests and priestesses rushed to the window to glimpse a sight of the beast. They stared in wonder. After all, what is a dragon but fire made flesh? Their god was fire, R'hllor, the Red God, the Lord of Light. Melisandre had been his loyal follower until her death, but many in Westeros were wary of her teachings. She both led Stannis Baratheon astray yet was able to bring Jon Snow back to life. Whatever the Red God wanted, Bran hadn't thought he'd hear much from them again.

Bran had seen much of Benerro, High Priest of the temple and First Servant of the Lord of Light. Benerro; the man was whiter than snow with a bald head and a lithe frame. Benerro had been a fervent supporter of Daenerys Targaryen's reign. In fact, it was he who preached that the Queen was Azor Ahai reborn, a legendary hero that will stand against the darkness, even though they may fall with that darkness. If Daenerys had truly been Azor Ahai, her own darkness had defeated her.

The dragon swooped into the clearing before the great temple. The people scattered, all except the famed slave soldiers of the Fiery Hand. The Fiery Hand protected the temple with a thousand men, no more, no less. Each had a flame tattoo upon their cheek and dressed in orange robes with ornate armor. They carried tall spears with a points that looked of flame. They encircled Drogon, pointing their spears toward the dragon.

The dragon roared and dropped Daenerys' body gently upon the ground. He nudged her toward the group of soldiers, touched off the ground with a thunderous boom, and took to the skies once more. Bran saw one of the soldiers move forward and prod her gently.

He said, "It is her. Quickly, Vorgoros, Nolarro, bring her to Benerro at once."

The two soldiers wordlessly did as they were bid and scooped up the Queen's lifeless body. Bran followed them up the steps of the great temple. He had half forgotten what it was like to walk again, it was a strange sensation. Invisible and silent as a ghost, Bran watched as all of the Red God's disciples began to converge on the body.

They marched her through a crowded hall and into a large chamber. The very walls looked as if they were chiseled of flame. Large braziers burned bright all around them. The light was so blinding Bran half wondered if he should cover his eyes. Out of the light stepped Benerro, his face tattooed with a flame just as the soldiers. He wore a scarlet mask of fire from forehead to neck, only exposing his thin lips and tired eyes. Without such light around him, he would have been a monstrous sight.

"High Priest," Vorgoros proclaimed, placing Daenerys' body before his feet.

"What has happened?" Benerro demanded in his native tongue.

"We know only rumors. Rumors that the dragon queen purified King's Landing with dragonfire. The city has only just stopped burning."

"That must have been a sight to behold," Benerro admitted, bending down to look at her, "I was aware the city was taken. I did not know that she fell in the battle."

"I am unsure she did, my Flame of Truth," Nolarro admitted, "For we were told she gave a momentous victory speech, promising to liberate all of the cities of the world with her fire."

"It would appear," Benerro started, "That she never got the chance."

Benerro pulled the dagger from her chest and examined it. "A fine blade," he turned it over in his hand, "Made in the north if I am not mistaken."

"I had been under the impression that the northmen were her allies, the very army that helped her take the city," the High Priest wondered aloud.

"She has no other wounds, scars, no other signs of struggle," he elaborated, "This, this, was murder."

"Murder?" Tycho Dynyr, the High Priest's disciple spoke up, taken aback, "Why?"

A long silence filled the hall as every neck craned to look at her lifeless body. Her face still looked confused, damaged, broken. At long last Benerro spoke up and said, "Why don't we ask her?"

Jon

Jon didn't know what he expected after he drove his dagger into his queen's heart, but he certainly did not expect to still be alive. As Grey Worm and his soldiers dragged him from the room, hearing the commotion Drogon had caused as he destroyed the iron throne, Jon wondered why he was not slain on the spot. He deserved it, or so he thought, for murder was far worse than treason.

After enduring months as a captive in shackles, it felt good to stretch his legs as he rode to the Wall. He needn't watch much up at the Wall, the threat of both wildlings and White Walkers would no longer terrorize the Seven Kingdoms. He had made a commitment to serve the Night's Watch all those years ago but it felt strange to him to still be honoring it. All of his friends were dead or in the South, save Tormund and Ghost, who looked upon him fondly as he entered the gates. The Southron guards that had escorted him to the Wall left him in the care of the wildlings and turned back south.

"The King in the North returns," Tormund yelled as Jon followed him into the hall.

A tall mug of ale was thrust into his hands. It felt strange as it touched his lips. His body was sore and he had a strong thirst, but for water not ale. "Don't call me that," Jon snapped, "I am no king."

"You could be," Tormund said, "Our king."

"I thought you weren't a kneeler," Jon turned on him, "No, the wildlings will never kneel again. And I won't either."

"You kneeled," Tormund said, "To her. The Dragon Queen."

Jon Snow winced at the thought, "Don't talk about her," he barked.

For Jon, the wound of Daenerys' death felt like it would never heal. His head knew he did the right thing but his heart still ached for her. It had to be him, nobody else would have done it, save perhaps Tyrion. But Tyrion had been imprisoned, now he was hand of the king. Commit treason, get promoted. Kill your queen and live in exile forever, that was his fate.

"Don't get touchy with me, boy, I'm not the one who stuffed her like a stuck pig," Tormund laughed.

Jon, irritated, turned from him. Tormund clasped a massive hand on his shoulder, "Little Crow," he started, "I know how much she meant to you. For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

"I made a choice that I'm going to have to live with until the day I die," Jon said, "I loved her. I loved her until the end."

"Even now?" Tormund asked.

Ghost put his head on Jon's feet. "Forever," Jon said, clearing his throat, changing the subject, "I suppose you're the one in charge around here, eh?"

"I'm the only one who wanted the job. But now that you're here I could-"

"Don't even think of it," Jon warned him, "These are your people, and this is your command."

"They're your people too now," Tormund reminded him, taking a large swig from his drinking horn.

"I'm to stay here and man the Wall," Jon told him, "To live out a life sentence serving the kingdom like I promised."

"I thought your sister was the queen now," Tormund said, "The pretty ginger one."

"She is," Jon smiled with pride, "But they had to strike a deal with Grey Worm. I'll never go free."

"Grey Worm ain't here now is he?" Tormund looked around and laughed, "You can stay here alone and freeze your balls off at the Wall, or you can come with us and be free."

"I can't," Jon Snow started, "It wouldn't be right. I'm to take no wife and father no children. To watch the Wall, to protect the realm. Setting myself free wasn't exactly part of the deal."

"I thought you said I was in charge," Tormund frowned.

"You are,"

"I say you come with us, Little Crow. You can tell Meal Worm-"

"Grey Worm," Jon corrected him, laughter creeping through his stoic demeanor.

"-Grey Worm... that you're acting under my orders. Night's Watch business. We're going to start a village up northways."

"You can be my cup boy," Tormund jested, "Always make sure my horn is filled with ale, Snow."

Jon laughed and said, "Is it too late to take back my command?"

Tormund frowned and said, "Alright. You can be a ranger if that gets your jollies."

The two men smiled for the first time in a long time, clinking ale mug to horn, taking a long drink together. The hall was dimly lit but a warm fire roared beside them. Men and women sat together, the last survivors of the Great War, Hardhome, the Battle of the Bastards, and everything in between. The wildlings had lost nearly everything but their hope. Hope is what they always had to hold onto. Jon's thoughts turned to Ygritte and her thirst for freedom. He wondered if she'd still have loved him after all he did. One thing was for certain, they should have stayed in that cave forever.

Tormund cleared his throat loudly and Jon snapped back to reality. "Your little brother is king now," he said plainly, "The broken one."

"Bran the Broken, they call him," Jon smiled.

"Hmmm," Tormund grunts, clearly having had different preferences for the role. "Shouldn't it have gone to you?"

Jon looked up at him in horror. He had thought he left his Targaryen roots down south. Most who knew of his true parentage were either dead or wouldn't dare tell anyone else now. Noticing the look of horror on Jon's face, Tormund elaborated, "You look like you've seen a ghost. Did you not want it that bad? I thought all you kneelers passed the crown to the eldest son. You're his older brother."

Jon breathing a sigh of relief said, "I'm a bastard."

"You Southroners," Tormund shook his head, "Always concerned with who somebody's daddy was."

"It could have gone to your sister," Tormund added, "The little one, who killed the Night King."

"Arya?" Jon was taken aback, "No, she wouldn't want that. Her heart's too wild for that."

"She has a northern spirit," Tormund decreed, "Off to sail the world then?"

"She'll be back," Jon nods, "She always comes back home in the end. With a story or two to tell, of course.

Tormund smiled and said, "What of the others?"

"Sam is Grand Maester now. Lord Tyrion's the hand of the king. Ser Brienne is Lady Commander of the Kingsguard-"

"Big Woman?" Tormund's interest was piqued, "Big Woman isn't coming back, is she?"

"I'm sorry," Jon looked at him with pity.

"Ah, don't be," Tormund pouted, "Our babies would have ruled the fucking world. But she wanted that blond shit."

"Jaime Lannister?" Jon asked, "He fell with his sister in the end."

Tormund shook his head. "She went for the sister-fucker over me. Can you believe it?"

"I think she got what she wanted in the end. She's a knight now, the commander of the Kingsguard. That was her dream."

"She ruined mine," Tormund grumbled slightly bitterly, "But I'm happy if she's happy."

"Nobody down south is really happy. This year hasn't exactly played out how anyone thought it would."

"That's life," Tormund said wisely, "But at least we're still alive."

"Can't say the same for most of our friends," Jon admitted, "Mance, Ygritte, Thoros, Beric, Edd, and the rest."

"Let's drink to them then," Tormund raised his horn.

"Aye, I could drink to that," Jon said, his mug clanking the horn, nearly breaking, "To our friends."

Brienne of Tarth

After what seemed like a climb up the longest winding staircase in the city, Brienne of Tarth emerged in the White Sword Tower. Miraculously the tower had been spared Daenerys' rage; it was one of the few towers that was left standing in the Red Keep. The room was in tatters. Bits of the roof had fallen inward, many of the upper chambers would need repairs. The room smelled of fire and ash but death, at the very least, had not touched this place.

She looked out the window and onto the bay. The ruined Iron Fleet still drifted in places. Ruined masts and ripped sails littered the waters. Blackwater bay had once been beautiful but it was too often touched by war. Bran had decreed that the city would be a place of peace, yet still she kept her sword. He gave it to her. It was the only piece of him she had to hold onto, or so she thought. Nobody, not even Bran, could pry it from her fingers.

Turning back to the room, she spied a grand white book, gilded with gold. It looked as if the Book of Brothers had just been put down. Brienne knew full well that it had not been opened in some time. Sitting in a seat at the large faceted table, she threw the book open. She flipped a few pages, finally finding his. Dutifully, Brienne recorded all of the great deeds Ser Jaime had done in the War of the Five Kings and Queen Daenerys' quest for the throne.

Dipping the quill into the ink she penned thus: Captured in the field at the Whispering Wood: set free by Lady Catelyn Stark in return for an oath to find and return her two daughters. Lost his right hand defending the honor of a woman. Returned to King's Landing to serve King Tommen. Took Riverrun from the Tully rebels, without loss of life. Lured the Unsullied into attacking Casterly Rock, sacrificing his childhood home in service to a greater strategy. Outwitted the Targaryen forces to seize Highgarden. Fought at the Battle of the Goldroad bravely, narrowly escaping death by dragonfire. Pledged himself to the forces of men and rode north to join them at Winterfell, alone. Faced the Army of the Dead and defended the castle against impossible odds until the defeat of the Night King. Escaped imprisonment and rode south in an attempt to save the capital from destruction.

She lingered for a moment after writing the last sentence. Sighing, small tears in her eyes she penned four final words: Died protecting his queen.

At once Brienne snapped the book shut. She hadn't even thought to mention that Jaime was the one who made her a knight. No, that would be far too egotistical for her. The facing page next to his remained blank. This one shall be mine one day, she thought, musing over the kinds of deeds she hoped they'd record. In truth, she had already done great deeds and had a lifetime of tales to tell but like all of the survivors, her story was far from over.

She looked to the door to find Podrick waiting for her. It was a strange sight to see, to her he was but a boy still. But Podrick was a man grown now. King Bran even made him a knight. Usually he beamed with a childish grin, his unusually somber face seemed an odd sight to her. "My lady," he still called her, pausing to add, "It's time."

She stood bolt up and with a sigh, she turned from the book and exited the room. Her legs felt heavy, like great anchors, as she descended the stairs and they made their way to the courtyard of the Red Keep. She didn't know if she could face what was to come. The people looked to her for strength. Despite all she had gone through, she was still the picture of it. Inside, her heart was breaking over what happened to Jaime, the city, her friends. She didn't think she had it in her to keep it up much longer. I am a knight, she reminded herself, and they will not see me shed tears today.

"I can't," she whispered to Podrick, grasping his arm, "Perhaps it would be better if I just watched from here."

Panting, she stopped Pod abruptly. She could see the pyre in the distance. Though she could not see Jaime, though she knew he was there. She half wished she could erase him from her mind.

"Ser Jaime had love for you, my lady," Podrick said softly, "But he had his own way."

"I know it never would have worked between us," she said, "But that doesn't mean the knife wound to the heart does not hurt."

"Tell anyone and I'll have your cloak," she reminded him harshly.

Pod smiled and said, "I'll stay with you the whole time. All of your friends are here waiting. The funeral will be starting soon."

Brienne wretched into the bush beside them, still out of sight from the crowd. "My lady?" Pod's brow knitted with worry.

Brienne, Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, well six kingdoms, was not afraid to face death. Jaime? Perhaps. Death? Not in the slightest. She clutched her stomach, which had been unstable for weeks. "I'm fine," she protested, "Just feeling sick is all. Let's go before it begins."

The two hurried to the group and took their places around the funeral pyre. Cersei was laid to rest privately, for fear there'd be unruliness and retaliation. Brienne had heard it was quite sparsely attended. Somehow Cersei's pauper funeral delighted her, though she felt much guilt about it. Part of her was satisfied she was dead, though she would never speak it aloud for the dishonor of it all. Many of her fellows were less hesitant to voice their delight. Arya had smiled oddly when she learned of her death, Grey Worm clearly felt some satisfaction, though he looked as if he would have preferred to have done it himself. Tyrion, though he did not say it, was privately grieving, despite all the bad blood between them. He was his sister, she was dead, and something inside him mourned for her.

Jaime, one the other hand, was different, Jaime was loved, respected. Despite all he had done, pushing Bran from the tower, killing, lying, deceiving, he had a magnetism about him, even in death. Jaime had been special, and the world would never see his like again. Jamie's younger brother couldn't take his eyes off the pyre but Brienne had not been able to bring herself to steal a look. There was a sense of finality to it all, seeing the body. She almost fooled herself into thinking he was not dead, that he'd ride over the hill and make some cruel jape about her and they would drink together, all returned to normal.

Her eyes finally turned to the pyre. Jaime's face was pensive, his eyes closed, lips already blueing with the decay of death. They had prepared him more honorably than that had his sister. Adorned in full garb of the Kingsguard, his sword rested against his chest. Even in death he had a noble look about him.

"I wasn't sure you would make it," Tyrion said suddenly, cutting through the silence, without looking to Brienne.

"It wouldn't have been right. I've taken up his mantle in the Kingsguard, it would be an insult to his memory," she paused, "It is my solemn duty to show him honor."

"Duty?" Tyrion said, finally peeling back his eyes from his brother's body, "Is that all he was to you? Duty?"

Brienne fell silent, not knowing what to say to him. "My brother loved you, you know. Very much. But Cersei was his twin. He could not abandon her in the end."

"I wish I had gone with him," she admitted her misplaced guilt, "Perhaps I could have saved him."

"My brother didn't want saving," Tyrion said, "Only Cersei."

"Don't take it personally," he added hastily.

"I assure you, I will not," she said curtly.

Tyrion looked up at her for a long while. The woman was awkward but not unsightly. "You were the woman he chose," he said, "Cersei was never a choice, she simply was. But he loved you, I'm sure of it."

"I don't know what you're talking about, my lord Hand," she lied.

"You know," he started in on her, "You made Jaime better, and he you. It seems a terrible thing to hide that from the world. He's only dead if you let his spirit die with him. Your duty is not to honor him with your presence, it's to carry on his legacy, keep your oaths, and right the wrongs he inflicted on this kingdom. If you can't do that then my brother is really truly dead."

With those final words the imp stepped forward, preparing to speak to the crowd.

Tyrion

Tyrion was hardly prepared to lay his brother to rest. The biggest joke in the Six Kingdoms, aside from his size, had always been his particular proclivity for talking. His whole life Tyrion was talking himself out of trouble, or better still, convincing others to do what he wanted. Today, he felt no words inside him. No words could do his brother justice in the end.

The crowd fell silent, and stepping forward, Tyrion began to speak, "I know many of you may hate my brother, or at the very least think him a traitor. You are not wrong, my brother was a troubled man, who committed many crimes. The worst of all, he was addicted to love. The things we do for love, he'd famously say, and he did do many things out of love. I'll spare you all the unsavory details that many of you have already guessed. But why hide in death his true nature? Jaime, though it pained him, was a man of love. At his core, my brother was the glue that held my family together. Everyone thought that was my father, saintly Lord Tywin Lannister, glorious, biting, strategic. But Tywin fell, just a man in the end. My brother fell a hero, at least in my eyes. It was a famous story once upon a time, but I shall remind you of it now," he continued, looking to the crowd, "When I was born, many thought I was a monster, my sister especially. This was chiefly because of my appearance, yes, but also the fact that I killed my mother. When Joanna Lannister died on the birthing bed it was Jaime, not Tywin, that became my caretaker. He protected me, helped me, never once made me feel like the monster everyone thought me to be."

Tyrion paused, sighing, and continued, "So you see, it was Jaime that brought us together all along. My sister and I despised each other, I hated my father, he hated me. Cersei hated him, but everyone loved Jaime. Everyone loved Jaime his whole life, girls, knights, whores. I have to admit I often half resented him for it," Tyrion smiled in remembrance, "But he wasn't just some gallant knight you might remember him as, or a traitorous murderer, he was my brother, and that was enough."

"I endured the Great War, even escaped fire and death in the Last War. I am the last Lannister living on this good earth. But house Lannister died when Jaime did. He was the best of us, truly, the soul of our once-great family. Today we, at long last, put his soul to rest. May he find the solace in his next life that he sought in this one. Goodbye forever, my brother, my family, my best friend."

Tyrion had no more words left to share. He was already surprised that he mustered that much. I couldn't disappoint the crowd, he thought. Two septas emerged and covered his body in a white velvet sheath, the golden Lannister lion embroidered upon it. At that same moment, a guard thrust a blazing torch into Tyrion's hand. The pyre had been seeded with oil, and wicked up the fire with the slightest touch to a nearby branch.

Tyrion took a large step back and watched the flames slowly begin to take his brother. Whilst traditionally the corpses of members of the great Westerosi houses were entombed, the recent events during the Great War had prompted a new tradition. If the Walkers were ever to return, they'd find only ashes in place of an army. The death would never walk again, least of all his brother.

"Beautiful speech," Ser Bronn of the Blackwater jested him, "Pity that shit really didn't deserve it."

"I'll give the same speech when you die," Tyrion admitted.

"Don't you fucking dare," Bronn whispered, "You royal shits love your fancy words and all. I'll die how I lived, a sellsword and a fighter, and I won't have you talking otherwise. I'll come back and haunt you."

"You're lord of Highgarden now," Tyrion reminded him, "You're going to have to clean up your act."

"The Tyrells were fancy," Bronn reminded him, "And all the Tyrells are dead. Fanciness didn't do no good for them, did it?"

"No. Perhaps you're right," Tyrion said reluctantly, straightening the Hand pin stuck to his chest.

"I never thought we'd be the ones that made it," Bronn admitted, switching the subject.

"I never had any doubts," Tyrion lied, "You're a fucking cockroach, Bronn. Of course you'd live."

"That's Lord Cockroach to you," Bronn grinned, straightening his fussy expensive coat collar.

And with that, Bronn turned from away from him and made his way out of the courtyard. Bronn was rough around the edges, but he was one of the only friends Tyrion had left.

"You did your brother justice," Ser Brienne spoke loudly, approaching Tyrion.

He looked up to her, surprised to her cheeks had flushed and her skin pale. "Thank you," he said simply in return for her compliment.

Brienne of Tarth shifted her weight and made to turn away from him. She grabbed her stomach as she did so unconsciously. Tyrion said nothing. All he wondered now was when she'd realize that she was pregnant.

Bran

The Volantine Temple of the Lord of Light seemed strangely larger from the inside. Spiral steps of gold and amber climbed from the large hall, up into brilliant red spires that seemed to multiply the higher they went. If the slave soldiers of the Fiery Heart, Vorgoros and Nolarro, struggled to carry the lifeless body of Daenerys Targaryen up the endless stair, they showed no signs of it. Their arms were strong, their skin barely glistening in the odd light of the place.

They climbed, for what seemed like hours, to the tallest tower of the temple. This room shone so brightly, Bran half wondered if they had walked into the sun itself. The tower reached high, tickling the underside of a silky bank of clouds. The sun, in truth, had been setting. Here, there was ever a bright light.

A large long table was placed in the center of the hexagonal room. The table had been hewn from a particularly large piece of tangerine quartz. In the light of the room, it looked to be aflame. The two soldiers placed Daenerys upon it softly, and turned away from her, exiting the room. Benerro, no doubt, would be along presently.

Bran stood in wonderment. After all he had seen, all the signs that pointed to this, Bran almost did not believe it. How would a dragon have enough sense to bring her here? This perhaps was the only place left on earth that could make her whole again. Bran was surprised the beast left her here alone, to go back to Dragonstone to feed no doubt. Looking upon her broken body, Bran wished he could feel pity for her. He wished he could feel pity anyone, in fact, or better still, uncover any sort of feeling at all. It was she who was dead, but in his bones he felt as though he was the ghostly one, spying on events he ought not to have seen. Thus was his burden: he could watch but dare not change, record but not interfere. Daenerys would likely come back, for good or ill, and he would not stop it.

"Tycho," a voice at the doorway spoke softly after a long while, "Have you prepared the potions?"

"Yes, master," the man croaked to Benerro, handing him a large jug of mysterious orange liquid, "If we are lucky, perhaps the Lord of Light will return her to us."

"Luck will have nothing to do with it," Benerro decreed, "This disciple has been stolen from The Lord of Light before she can fulfill her destiny."

"Master," Tycho Dynyr began in a croaky voice, his long white beard quivering as he spoke, "Rumor from Westeros has reached these shores. They say the queen is savage, ruthless, the burned King's Landing to the ground."

"Is our god not savage? Have he not wrath?" Benerro said hotly, "Our god is just and merciful, but King's Landing was full of sinners, non-believers. If it was baptized in dragonfire so be it. Daenerys Targaryen, first of her name, is the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. Moreover, she is Azor Ahai, fire made flesh, and we shall free her from the bondage of death."

"R'hllor is the source of all good," Tycho recited, as if from a book, "If the Dragon Queen has been chosen by him, glory be to her."

Tycho Dynyr backed away from him and spoke no more, fearing his wrath. Tycho was a simpler man, garbed in fine yet somewhat threadbare robes. His hair was long and stringy, but his beard magnificent and white. The tip of his beard was orange, as a young man he clearly had red hair. Was that why the Red God chose him, because he was kissed by fire? Bran had not the time to look to the past and find out.

Benerro approached the table and pulled up the sleeves of his robes. Lightly lifting her body forward he removed her fur coat. Bran could see the large red stain of her blood that matted the fur upon it. Benerro wordlessly held it behind him, his loyal servant Tycho, took it from him and exited the room. Beneath the coat Daenerys wore a queenly dress of deep red velvet. Upon the collar three dragons were embroidered. Without care for the garment, Benerro ripped it open from the small opening the dagger to her heart had made. Naked as her name day, she rested upon the quartz slab.

Reemerging, Tycho Dynyr averted his eyes from her body. Bran did not offer her the same courtesy. In this state she looked small, almost as a girl. She hardly looked the Queen that mounted Drogon and burned the world. "Bring the God's blood, Benerro commanded."

Tycho did as he was bid and placed the jug of swirling orange potion into Benerro's hand. Promptly, Benerro soaked Daenerys' body in the solution and began to wash her wound. At once her skin brightened, and all dirt seemed to wash away from her. She looked now as if she were sleeping.

Benerro dipped the remainder of the jug's contents over Daenerys' silvery blonde hair. With a whispered prayer the table lit with massive orange and yellow flames. Daenerys' body remained unburned by the flames, even in death.

Clearing his throat loudly, he bid Tycho take leave of them. Mystified, Tycho backed from the room and out of sight. Benerro wordlessly encircled Daenerys slowly, counterclockwise and began to speak, "Zȳhys ōñoso jehikagon Āeksiot epi, se gīs hen sȳndrorro jemagon. Zȳhys perzys stepagon Āeksio Ōño jorepi, se morghūltas lȳs qēlītsos sikagon. Hen sȳndrorro, ōños. Hen ñuqīr, perzys. Hen morghot, glaeson."

In the common tongue this translated to, "We ask the Lord to shine his light, and lead a soul out of darkness. We beg the Lord to share his fire, and light a candle that has gone out. From darkness, light. From ashes, fire. From death, life."

The High priest repeated the prayer thrice, each time professing it louder than the last time. As his prayer ceased, the flames died away from her body. A long slow silence ensued; all that could be heard with the frenetic beating of Benerro's heart and his shallow breaths. Benerro began to plead with his god, begging him to restore the queen's life. He had failed.

Benerro turned to leave the room, shocked and embarrassed at his utter failure. A High Priest who could not wake the dead was no High Priest. Even Thoros of Myr and the Lady Melisandre had bested him in that area, yet they were merely underlings, less worthy and noble than such an important man as he, or so he thought.

Dejected, he fled the room at once. Bran breathed a sigh of relief, examining her body, still cold. His head turned as he watched the door reopen. Benerro, he thought but no- it was Tycho Dynyr. He stared in horror at her body, approaching. Sinking to his knees he spoke softly, "My master has failed."

"Please, R'hllor, Lord of Light, help me lead this soul out of the darkness and into the light."

Tycho repeated the same prayer that had failed Benerro not minutes ago. Not looking to her once, his hands clasped together in prayer, he repeated the prayer over and over, as if in a trance. After the 17th time the prayer was spoken a voice came from within the light, "Where am I?" it spoke into the room.

Daenerys sat up from the table, reanimated. She pawed at her naked body, finding the slim clean scar where the knife blade had entered her heart. The wound was healed. Tycho sank to the floor at once, supplicating himself to the dragon queen. "You are in Volantis, my Queen," he answered her at last, "Your dragon brought you here, to the Temple of the Lord of Light."

Bran could hardly believe his eyes. He heard her say bitterly, voice filled with malice and rage, "Where is Jon Snow?"

Bran's eyes snapped back to Dragonstone, at the present time. He found the place to be deserted. No sight nor sound of the massive dragon that once had been there not hours ago. With a flash of light and sound, he re-entered his own broken body. The sky dimmed, night had already fallen.

"Guard!" Bran called cooly.

Ser Brienne of Tarth emerged into the room, her sword drawn. "My king?"

"Call the council to meeting immediately," he said simply, "The dragon queen has awoken."