A bitter wind rolled through Winterfell's walls, sweeping across its towers and gatehouse. The guards on the battlements huddled near braziers, their cloaks pulled tight.
"Rider approaching!" one of them called out, barely able to see in the blizzard
From the north road came a lone figure on horseback, his red-and-gold cloak billowing in the wind. As he drew closer, the gate creaked open. Jaime Lannister dismounted and stepped into the snow-covered courtyard, met by a sea of stares—and the cold gaze of Bran Stark.
The guards led Jamie into the hall. They were the lords of the north, the Stark siblings, Brienne of Tarth, Ser Davos, Tyrion, Varys, who sat in court, and Daenerys, who was at the center, judge, jury, and executioner.
"Where is your army?" Daenerys asked angrily. "Did your sister not promise to send her army north?"
"She lied," Jamie said apologetically.
"And you came all this way to tell me?" Daenerys asked.
"No, I came here to fill that promise. I came here to fight for the living!" Jamie declared.
"You know, my brother told me stories about the man who killed our father. I used to have nightmares thinking you would try to kill us next. And now you, the kingslater, want to fight alongside me?" Daenerys asked.
"Yes, I made a promise. I intend to keep that promise. Cersi has hired the Golden Company from Esos to protect King's Landing from the undead or you."
"Tell me why I shouldn't kill you?" Daenerys asked.
"Your Grace, I know my bro--"Tyrion began, but was interrupted by Daenerys
"Have you come to negotiate for your family again? Aren't you supposed to be on my side?"
Tyrion uncomfortably shifted in his stance, "Why would he come all this way, just to lie? I believe he is speaking the truth?"
"Perhaps he came knowing you'd defend him. Then scheme to kill me, like he murdered my father!"
"Your Grace--" This time, Tyrion was interrupted by Sansa.
"You're right, he can't be trusted. He tried to kill my father, too. He tried to destroy my family."
Daenerys turned to Jamie, waiting for his defense.
"Our families were at war."
Daenerys rose, preparing to sentence Jamie to death, when Ser Brienne of Tarth rose and knelt pleadingly before her. "I beg you, spare his life. He saved me, I am duty-bound to do the same."
Sansa readied to speak, but Daenerys turned to Jon and asked, "What say, the Warden of the North?"
"We need every soldier we can get."
Daenersys still standing, decreed, "Jamie Lannishter, I remit to the services of Ser Tarth. Should Jamie Lannister commit a crime, both he and Ser Tarth shall be burned."
Daenerys turned to Lady Sansa before she returned to her seat.
As dusk fell, the guests separated into various chambers, awaiting the dead's arrival.
In the armory, Arya approached Gendry, her footsteps quiet over the cold stone. He glanced up from the dragonglass blades he was arranging, surprised but pleased to see her.
"I want to know what it's like—before we die," she said, her tone soft but steady.
Gendry hesitated, reading the truth in her eyes. He reached out, and she didn't flinch.
Their kiss was tentative at first, then grew into something deeper, more urgent. Between shadows and flickering forge light, they found comfort not in words—but in closeness. For tonight, they were not assassin and blacksmith. Just two young people facing the end together.
Elsewhere, Daenerys and Sansa sat across from each other near the hearth, a carafe of wine between them. The fire crackled softly, its warmth a small reprieve from the larger storm.
"Do you truly love him?" Sansa asked, her voice measured.
"I do," Daenerys answered, without hesitation. "And he loves me."
"And so do I," Sansa said, quietly. "But he's of the North. He belongs here—with me, with our people."
Daenerys's eyes hardened. "No. He belongs with me. He is Aegon Targaryen—of my blood, my family. The North may have raised him, but the throne is in his veins."
"You want him in King's Landing," Sansa said, more statement than question.
"I want him where he is safest," Daenerys replied. "And with someone who understands what it means to carry the weight of fire and blood."
The silence stretched between them like a blade, sharp and gleaming. Two queens without crowns, bound by love and divided by it.
Later that night, Brienne sat alone by the fire, half in armor, half in thought. Her eyes followed the slow dance of the flames, until the soft scuff of boots broke her reverie. Jaime entered, a bottle of wine in one hand and a quiet smile in the other.
"I thought you might want company," he said, offering the wine.
"I'm not much for small talk," Brienne replied, but took the cup.
They drank in silence for a while. The warmth between them grew—not from the fire, but from familiarity, and something unspoken long simmering.
"I never knighted anyone before," Jaime said.
"You still can," Brienne murmured.
He stood and extended a hand. "Then kneel."
By the time he finished, neither wore armor. Just shared looks, soft touches, and the quiet acceptance of two warriors who had always found something in each other worth defending.
In that moment, there was no war—only warmth, and want, and peace found in the calm before the storm.