A/N: Okay, so as well as Fires of War Burn Hot and Cold, I am also working on a little bit of fluff. Call it my take on Game of Thrones after the season finale. It's going to have a number of ships-Jon/Daenerys, Tyrion/Sansa, Arya/Gendry and Jaime/Brienne. A lot has to be dealt with when Jon returns to Winterfell, but he may start to think planning a war against a magical demon is the easiest part! I hope you enjoy it, it's also been a bit of therapy to help me through a difficult end of 2017.

Standing before the stone effigy, twirling the symbol of remembrance in his hand, Jon Snow finally understood. Here, in the crypts of Winterfell, sat the tombs of men. They were the Wardens of the North and the Kings of Winter. All men, all the heads of House Stark. An honor that went back centuries. Many of their wives, their ladies, rested with them, but none were carved in stone. Yet, amongst these men, these lords and kings, there was the statue of one woman. She had a gentle face, and a hand out, in which candles were often placed. Once or twice, a feather lay there. But, still, she was the only female there. Because she was the only Queen.

That was why Lord Eddard Stark had buried his sister here, had her statue standing with her male ancestors. It was fitting that a Queen of the Seven Kingdoms laid to rest with other kings. The last Queen of House Targaryen, or so it must have seemed to her brother at the time. Lyanna of House Stark and Targaryen, wife of the Last Dragon, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. And, for a brief time between the death of the Mad King and her own, a queen.

Mother of Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen, Jon Stark, Jon Snow.

As a child, Jon would hide out here often, away from the stern visage of Lady Stark. He'd hide amongst the graves and cry, wishing he had a mother's love to soothe his tears. Most of the time, he would sit against the grave of this one woman, for some reason. It hadn't been until he had returned to Winterfell, from the South, that he knew what drew him to her.

It was the grave of his mother, the woman he had birthed him and handed him to her brother, an honorable man who promised to protect the newborn babe, no matter what. The child was not merely his sister's son, orphaned almost immediately, but was a prince, a king in truth, born amidst bloodshed that sprung from his parent's love, a love that had torn apart a kingdom.

Sometimes, he hated that fact about his parents. For they had a love that was pure, despite what the of most the Seven Kingdoms believed. They pledged themselves to each other before a heart tree, in the presence of the High Septon. Sadly, what had followed nearly destroyed a continent, brought one great house to the brink of extinction and eventually led to the collapse of so many others.

Jon didn't want to think about that. He wanted to just remember what Bran had shown him, his parent's wedding day. For when he saw that, the gods had smiled down on him and allowed him a moment with his mother and father. They had embraced him, awe in their faces. He had cried on their shoulders, not wanting to leave the pause in time. But he had to go on. He had a destiny ahead of him, one of the coming winter, fire and blood and a dynasty to continue.

It would be continued today. He liked to think his parents would approve, even as it felt awkward to the way he had been raised. But all the signs were converging, just as Rhaegar Targaryen had believed.

"I hope you would be proud of me, mother. I wish...I wish you could be here." He spoke the words as his eyes filled with tears.

"Thought I would find you down here," a voice called out to him.

Jon had to smile. In the time he had learned the truth about himself, he had spent a lot of time down here, either in front of Lyanna's tomb or his uncle's. For his anger had been fierce those first days, the dragon showing its fire. He had directed it at both of them, but Ned most of all. Ned Stark was who Jon had always wanted to be. Honorable beyond reproach. No ability to lie, deceive. And yet... But it had cooled, as he had been calmed by the balm of his family, his advisors...and his love. Most especially, the young woman who joined him.

Arya Stark stood next to him, peering up at her aunt's effigy. They stood there, in silence for a few minutes more. Then Arya turned to him. "The final preparations a being put into place," she told him.

"Thank you for doing all this. We owe you and Sansa so much," Jon replied, his eyes not leaving his mother.

"It's not the grand event one would expect, but winter has come." Arya looked to him, more like the little sister he had left behind, the one who did not like thought of losing her brother to anything. A sad smile broke across her face. "I still cannot believe it all."

"Nor can I," Jon agreed.

"You need to get ready," she told him. "And stop brooding. Doesn't sit well on a bridegroom." With that, she turned and left him alone once more. She was right, of course. She was often right about a lot.

Jon pressed the winter rose to his lips, giving it a small kiss, then placed it in the palm of his mother's hand. "I wish you could be here," he repeated, before leaving to follow his sister's wake.

"What it is?" came the call from the solar. With a great sigh, Tyrion Lannister opened the door, finding Sansa Stark as he figured he would, deep in parchments and ledgers. She looked to him, a tired expression on her face. "My Lord."

"My Lady. I was just coming to see to you," he said, sitting in a chair next to her desk. "See how you were holding up."

She offered him a smile, a small but true one. "I am fine, and happy that it will cleanse a holy place of awful memories. It's one of the reason I jumped at the opportunity."

"Well, you are the Lady of Winterfell, the head of your house and thus it is your place. I believe the traditions dictate as such," Tyrion replied. "Being anointed in the Seven, I have little understanding of the Old Gods. And being a Lannister, I have little care for the New."

Again, she graced him with a smile, amused by his jape. "And yet, we were married before the Seven," she reminded him.

"You really think my nephew or my father would have allowed anything else?" Even if the whole affair had been awkward and uncomfortable, it still brought a few warm memories to his mind. Most especially, the one of threatening to cut off Joffrey's cock. "You know, the more I have read about the Old Gods, I think I prefer their way of thinking. Their lack of rules, structureless worship…"

"Because they say little about the vices of drink and whores?" That was quite a good one from her, and very true. But she continued before he could answer properly. "Have you thought, if you should ever remarry, you might prefer it the Northern way, my Lord?"

He raised an eyebrow to that, uncertain of where it could go. It was true that since the arrival of Queen Daenerys' party more than a moon ago, their relationship had gone from the most bitter Winter's cold to something akin to early fall at Casterly Rock. Because of their positions, they had found themselves working with each other, sorting through the mess that the last thirty years had left, as well as preparing for the future, whatever it may be. Each had been cautious of each other, unsure of where they stood since they had last been together. But their interactions had been better than any they had during their marriage. Maybe it was the change in scenery, maybe it was what they had experienced in those years. But he found himself appreciating the times they shared together.

And yes, he had, one occasion or another, considered a godswood for the setting of another ceremony. But that was a more delicate negotiation. "It has passed through my mind, once or twice. But I think it best we put off such ideas for the time being. There is too much ahead of us to survive."

Sansa nodded her head in agreement. She sat up in her chair, pouring a goblet of wine for herself and Tyrion. He raised it in thanks to her along with her. "It is still amazing to me, all that has happened and so soon."

"It still amazes me that Ned Stark was such a bold liar," Tyrion added. He saw the face that Sansa threw him, but shrugged his shoulders. "I mean it as a compliment, dear lady, truly. No one had the slightest inkling that Jon was not his bastard son, but Rhaegar and Lyanna's trueborn! Not the cunning minds in my family, not my drunkard of a good-brother. Baelish, Arryn, Pycelle. And we really should shuck Varys of his title as Master of Whispers. His little birds obviously couldn't fly this far north."

"And thank the gods, Old and New, that no one found out," Sansa shot back, rather crossly.

"Point taken. But it would have made things so much easier." He tilted his head to the ceiling, savoring the wine. "And to think, I laughed at that prophecy when I read it."

They remained quiet for a time. Then, Sansa broke the silence. "It is nearly time, my lord. We have our own Houses to get in order before we go on."

"Yes, yes. I must see to the Queen," Tyrion said. He made his way to the door, before asking one final question. "And you are certain, the little she-bear has made her peace with her kin? Enough to accept him back into her House and allow him this honor?"

"I spoke with her myself. She has come to a state of forgiveness and I personally witnessed her welcome him back with open arms," Sansa informed him. "She even gave him a smile."

"Ha! High praise indeed from a Mormont. Having traveled with one I know how quick they are to glower," he joked. "Until this evening, my lady."

Sansa acknowledged him with another smile. "Until this evening, my lord."

Daenerys sat before the looking glass, trying to catch her breath, her hand resting on her stomach. Behind her, Missandei fiddled with her hair, while Gilly shook out the black and red cloak. "This is a maiden cloak, right?" the Wilding woman asked.

"Yes, it is," Daenerys said.

"But you're not a maiden, so how can you wear it?" Gilly sound very confused, still new to the customs south of the Wall.

The Queen stopped at that, unsure herself of how to answer. At last, she said, "In all honesty, I do not know. But, I guess you can just think of it as a tradition. A way to honor our Houses."

"Even if you're not changing your House?" Gilly brought up a fair point. Jon was a Targaryen, the blood of the dragon coursing through his veins. But after so many years a Northerner, a Stark in all but name, he was more wolf and chosen their sigil for this night.

Besides, it was a lot to absorb so quickly. "With all he has been through, I don't think he can truly see himself as a Targaryen." That was what he had told her when he returned to her, the way he viewed their love. Yes, they may be aunt and nephew, but one of the many facts pointed out to him, they had not known when they had joined their bodies. There was some precedent in both their families as well, though it did little to assuage his initial reaction.

But in the blur of events that had occured recently, there was one fact that was clear to him. She knew he had made a vow to never father a bastard, saddle a child with that shame he had lived with all his life. And when she told him what their love had created, he repeated that vow to her. He did not say it solely for the miracle she carried, not merely because it was prophesied centuries ago, but because he had known his heart's true desire from the first moment he had laid eyes on her at she sat on her throne at Dragonstone.

And now, they were here. In the North, in Winterfell. It was a place no Targaryen had conquered. No dragon had ever had to faced down a direwolf until her Drogon and Rhaegal saw Ghost and Nymeria leagues out from the ancient keep. It had been a surprise, no, a shock, when the four had met, equal parts tamed and wild, fire and ice. No fire was brought forth, no teeth bared. The beasts were peaceable with each other, warm and comfortable in the other's presence.

A knock at the door broke Daenerys out of her musing. Missandei left her side and opened the door a crack. From the hall, the voice of more kin she did not know of, said, "I have been asked to bring a gift." Her friend had looked to her and Dany nodded, allowing Gendry Baratheon in.

Gendry Baratheon, legitimized son of the Usperer who slew her brother, cursed over the bodies of her niece and nephew and was feared by his best friend so much, she had thought herself alone in the world. From first appearance, he had seemed timid to her, afraid his king's blood would offend her to the point of the sword. But she was won over by his modesty, his industry and the words of her betrothed and soon to be good sister. She laughed, remembering when she had gone to see him in his forge, told him she was going to bless him with a true name. The hammer he held reverberated throughout the forge when it fell to the ground. He was shocked and tried to not accept it, but when she had said it was a decree from Queen to Lord, she saw the fear in his eyes he must have felt if he continued his argument.

Even now, he approached her as any stag would approach a dragon. He held in his hand a basket draped with linen, trying to piece together a sentence of explanation. "His Grace...the Lord…," he tested, unsure of what was the correct phrase. "Jon asked me to bring this to you, Jon and Sansa and Arya and Bran," he said at last, thrusting the basket at her.

She tried so hard to suppress a smirk forming on her lips. He would likely never get used to the station he had been elevated to. Not only was he a noble, Lord of Storm's End, the ancestral home of the Baratheon's, but after much explanation, blood of their blood, a Targaryen, far removed perhaps, but enough that Rhaegal at least, closed his eyes to Gendry's touch, as peaceful as a pup.

Daenerys held the basket and removed the cloth. Even before she had done that, the blues she could see alerted her to the gift. And then, she feasted her eyes on the roses that lay within. She lifted them up, expecting to find thorny stems, but instead, they were woven into a crown, small and delicate. The sight of it nearly moved her to tears.

"Your Grace, this upsets you?" Missandei asked, her face pinched in confusion.

"Not in a bad way," Daenerys replied. She nodded to Gendry, smiling at him. "Tell Lady Stark, Lady Arya and Lord Bran my thanks. It is one of the most meaningful gifts I have ever received."

Gendry at last returned a smile. "I will convey that to Lady Sansa, Lord Bran and milady," he told her, amusement dancing in his eyes at her use of Arya's little used title. He bowed again and exited the room after that.

Dany held the crown in her hands while Missandei and Gilly stood by awaiting an explanation. She turned to the two, telling them of the Tourney at Harrenhal, the winning of the last tilt and the crowning of the Queen of Love and Beauty. She told them that she held in her hands a symbol of a love secret yet deep, short lived but long lasting.

She knew how much this meant to Jon. It was the stuff of legend brought back to life, as surely as her dragons were. And it would be worn by her with pride, a sign from husband to wife, twice over.

She was just about ready when there was another knock at the door. This time, Gilly went to open it, admitting a knight's entry. He gave Daenerys as good as smile as he could muster, as good as one who loved her and yet, was giving her to another man. But Ser Jorah Mormont had accept his defeat more gracefully than she had first known. Jon had told her he had offered to return his sword, given to him by the late Lord Commander of the Night's Watch and Ser Jorah's father. But the knight had refused him, knowing he had forfeited the right to the Valyrian steel sword Longclaw and, in turn, acknowledging a bond he had formed with Jon Snow in more ways than one.

"Your Grace," he said, his voice solemn.

She swept her eyes over his armour. On the breast was a bear standing upright, its claws at the ready. She was happy for him. He again wore the sigil of his House and she knew it was with the blessings on the Lady of Bear Island. Jorah would not dare done so in the North without the approval of the young lady. But Daenerys had made a personal request and was backed up by the words of Jon and Sansa.

Ser Jorah's voice sounded out again. "It is almost time."

This would be the second of her marriages he would be present for. And she loved that he was here, and had been given such a high honor. She did love him. He was more than an advisor like Tyrion or Varys or Missandei. He had known the scared girl who had been sold to the Dothraki khal, had watched over the widow wandering in the desert, and he fought alongside the queen who had freed thousands of slaves. He was less than Jon or even Gendry, in terms of shared blood, but then, he had known one who had shared her blood more than any, a cruel and vicious manchild, power mad and stupid.

Yes, she knew she was right in this choice, as sure as she knew she was right in choosing and loving Jon.

With all the grace of the queen she was she rose from her chair. Missandei and Gilly laid the cloak, emblazoned with the three-headed dragon, on her shoulders before she took his proffered arm and they walked through Winterfell and to her destiny.

It felt wrong for Jaime to be here. Yes, his brother was Hand to the Queen, but he had killed the bride's father, tried to kill the groom's assumed father and been their enemy until just a few months ago. Hells, he had even tried to kill the bride!

Oh, how things had changed.

And now, he was in the Winterfell godswood with a host of other lords and ladies, mostly from the North, the Vale and the Riverlands. Many were cordial to him, attempting to make him feel comfortable, but he still got deadly looks from Lord Edmure Tully, Lord Yohn Royce, even Lady Arya Stark. He really couldn't blame any of them. He was still a Lannister, still the house responsible for the near destruction of the Targaryens, the Starks the Tullys, even the Arryns. However this Court accepted him, even acknowledged him as Lord of Casterly Rock. He had to laugh at that. His father's greatest wish, that he be released from the Kingsguard to take up his place as Warden of the West, and it was by the graces of the dragon and the wolf, both of which Tywin Lannister had gone to his grave thinking he had vanquished.

He was thinking on that when he saw Bronn approach him. Somehow, the former sellsword had worked his way up the social ladder to be a guest at such an auspicious occasion. And he was getting along better with many of those who kept Jaime at a distance. "One hell of a party, this will be," he said, a mug of ale in his hand already. "Best enjoy it before the end of the world."

"Ah, so this is why we keep you around, for your positivity," Jaime said, his voice mocking.

"No. As I have said before, I keep you around because you still owe me. And don't throw your motto this way either!" Bronn glared at him as he repeated the argument he had been having with both Jaime and Tyrion since they met.

"Hear us roar?" Jaime couldn't help himself with that joke, despite the look he was getting.

But something caught Bronn's attention. "You, over there!" he yelled, drawing lots of eyes his way. Jaime searched the crowd, looking for who he was calling for, as Podrick Payne came their way, Brienne of Tarth a step behind her squire.

"My lords," Pod acknowledged, nodding to both men.

"So, tell me, you been giving tips to the groom?" Bronn asked, a mischievous glint in his eye.

Pod's face turned beet red as Brienne appeared to be trying to understand his meaning. "What tips are you talking about?" she asked. Jaime merely smiled. She probably thought it was something to do with swordsmanship.

But Bronn was quick to dispel that assumption. "I mean beneath the furs," he said, though she still seemed confused. Bronn laughed, winking at Pod. "You really haven't shown her that magic cock of yours!" Brienne's mouth hung open at that statement, the sheer shock of it. "Come on, lad, you come help me refill my ale before this kicks off, and leave all the proper lords and ladies to their own." And with that, they were gone from Jaime and Brienne's company.

The Lady of Tarth still had her mouth agape when she turned back to Jaime, obviously trying to form a question. He merely shrugged his shoulders to her. "Something Tyrion mentioned to me about a gift of three whores and them refusing the coin. Really, I've learned it best to drown out his words when he mentions whores," Jaime replied.

Brienne seemed to have regained her composure with that and bestowed on his a small smile. "Rather a different setting from the last wedding we were at together," she remarked, watching a few snowflakes fall to the ground.

"Yes, and no one wants to kill either the bride or groom," he said. "Well, no one here present. I'm certain...if Cersei were to be here, she'd have a different opinion, for more reasons than one." He added the last bit when he saw Sansa Stark walk towards them, ahead of her brother and sister, and Jon Snow.

Watching the lord...king...whatever his title was today, it only made Jaime see more of his father in him. Both of them, the one who sired him and the one who raised him. Though there was little difference between Rhaegar Targaryen and Ned Stark, when it came down to it. Both honorable to the point of idiocy, both somewhat melancholic.

He was thinking of the meaning of the man before them when Tyrion appeared at his side. "The bride is making her way here," he told Jaime and Brienne. "This ended up working out easier than I had even thought."

"You intended to have her marry the King in the North?" Jaime asked, not privy to all of his brother's machinations.

"Well, one of the great houses. I even considered you, when I heard you were no longer a Sworn Brother of the Kingsguard," Tyrion explained. "Not that Cersei would have allowed Daenerys within hundred feet of you, even without the Iron Throne at play. But I suggested to the Queen that she leave her lover behind to make herself ready for potential alliances. For many reasons, Jon Snow didn't even come to mind. But, in the end, it does feel like destiny."

A princess, born in the west, raised in the east, who brought a magic lost back into the world and set aside her obsession with regaining a throne to save the living. A prince, born in the south but raised in the north, setting a course he believed his life to be, then given a throne he did not want, to fight the coming night. And together, uniting themselves in love and in war, awaiting a prince who was promised. It did have a ring of predestination about it, but there was something more, something poetic. "It sounds more of a song to me," Jaime argued, as he watched Daenerys Targaryen arrive in the godswoods. "A song of fire and ice."