Six Months Into King Jon's Reign
Winterfell
Queen Sansa's Wedding

The first time Jorah saw Daenerys ride Drogon, he was certain he'd gone mad. Too many years in the sun. Too many blows to the head in battle. Yet there she was, a Targaryen flying to safety on a dragon, flying to battle on a dragon, flying for fun on a dragon.

Now Drogon was before him again, shaking off after a long flight. Every time Jorah saw the dragon it was larger and larger. This was no exception, and the other Northerners realized it as well. Everyone but the southerners, Sansa, and him stumbled back against the courtyard walls or into the safety of the castle.

Drogon bowed slightly, offering safe dismount to his ride. Jorah straightened and held his breath. The heavy boots thudding to the ground sent an involuntary shock through him, followed by a wave of foolishness. What, had he expected to see silver hair? Of course not. Daenerys Targaryen was dead. Her heart blood poured over his fingers and her weight went slack on his sword.

She would never fly a dragon or fight a battle or giggle with Missandei ever again. He killed her. The woman he carried as she was losing her baby. The woman who eagerly asked him to translate Dothraki so she could learn. The woman who he pulled from death's grasp over and over.

Jorah cleared his throat.

Sansa squeezed his hand. "You can't think about it," she said softly. "You can't change the past. Or your destiny, Ser Ahai." She offered a small smile. "I know you miss her."

The warmth in her eyes gave him reassurance. He'd never seen warmth in Daenerys's face. Her smile never quite reached her eyes, even when she thanked him for saving her life or the lives of the dragons. Jorah didn't want to cloud her memory with resentment, but suddenly it was everywhere. The thought of her rise to power and his inability to see her rising madness infuriated him. He could have stopped it at her wedding to Drogo. The heartache, sleepless nights, greyscale – none of it had to happen. He could have been home in Westeros.

But Jorah knew that wasn't true. If Bran Stark said he was Azor Ahai, there wasn't much good arguing against it. He was Azor Ahai and he had to love Daenerys and kill her.

Sansa squeezed his hand again, pulling him back to the present. Jorah touched her face. "Destiny has been kind to me, after all. Far kinder than I deserve."

Beside them, Tyrion cleared his throat. "The king looks to be in a fowl mood. Best not mention any of the business from King's Landing. On top of everything there has of late been a plague in Flea Bottom, or what's left of it."

Davos quickly added, "None of us have been exposed, Your Grace. You're in no danger."

"Do the people need a maester?" Sansa's head whipped to Sam Tarly. "Why have you come all this way if there's a plague?"

Sam held up a hand. "I'm not the only maester left. And I'm here to install your new maester, as well. After the celebrations, of course," he added. Beside him, Gilly nodded proudly.

The party straightened as Jon reached them. Though he was still very much Jon Snow, having a title and crown attached to a person made them inherently powerful and intimidating. Even Arya regarded him with stoic anticipation.

"What would Father say if he would see us now?" Sansa greeted him.

"He'd be proud," Jon replied. "You were always meant to be a queen." He looked over the small gathering of northerners who had crept back out into the courtyard. "So my sister's getting married."

"I've been married," Sansa replied distractedly. She nodded toward the dragon. "I meant more that. I have no idea what Father would say to see you fly here on a dragon. I guess he knew you were half Targaryen."

Drogon was purring contentedly behind him, perched on the newly constructed walls of Winterfell. The northerners cowered behind one another, eager to take a look but not too eager to be without a shield before them.

Jorah studied Jon. He looked the same as always, if not a bit more exhausted and out of sorts. They were both simple northerners thrust into extraordinary lives. How different their lives would have been were they not winners in the game of thrones.

The wind stirred Jon's fur at his shoulder. The cape didn't flap in the wind, but the material on his shoulder stirred. Jorah squinted and looked closer. There was something in his cloak. The king idly patted the lump that had formed.

"Is that what I think it is?" Jorah asked.

Jon locked eyes with him for a moment. "They remind me of her every day but I – I couldn't leave them behind."

Sansa squinted at Jon and back at Jorah. "What is it?"

Tyrion cleared his throat and bounced back on his heels. "That's the surprise I mentioned. Surprise."

Jon pulled a blue and violent dragon out of the fur of his cloak and held her in his hand. Another dragon scuttled free of his tunic, popping out just under his chin. It was silver and blue, a snowy beauty. "I couldn't leave them," he repeated apologetically. "They're babies."

The King's Landing party looked on in adoration as the dragons snapped at each other on Jon's shoulder. The northerners shied away once again.

"How?" Jorah asked, stepping forward and reaching for the pups.

The blue and purple dragon quickly scuttled up Jorah's arm and perched on his bicep, looking from face to face. Steam came from the dragon's nostrils as it scrutinized Sansa. The queen took an indignant step back but Jorah only chuckled.

"The eggs were in the wreckage, down in the catacombs," Jon explained, taking the silver dragon and offering it to Sansa. "The eggs were hot when I found them, like they'd been sitting in a fire. Now here they are. Two females."

Sansa hesitantly reached out and let the dragon snuffle her fingers. Both parties were hesitant and drew back more than once. Impatient, Jon dumped the pup into her hand. The dragon squawked and flapped its wings as it whipped its head backward, growling as menacingly as it could manage at Jon.

She looked nervously to Jorah, but he nodded and offered her a crooked grin.

Northerners and dragons, Jorah mused. What a pairing. It was unnatural, but with everything they'd lived through lately, he simply wrote it off as a fact of life now. The world was full of mystery and curiosities.

"I don't know how old they are," Jon admitted. "They must be from when the last Targaryens ruled."

Jorah traced his fingers back and forth over the tiny blue dragon's scaly snout. It began to sing.

Jon stared. "They haven't done that before." He looked back at Drogon, who was curled up outside the gate. "Does he do that, too?"

"He used to," Jorah replied. "It's been some time since I spent any length of time with him. I'd be happy to tell you everything I know about raising dragons. I was their guardian more often than I expected to be."

The dragon continued to sing. Her sister was curled up in Sansa's hands, neither of them too willing to make any fast moves. Still, the white dragon began to sing, her notes joining the blue's to make an eerie harmony.

"Dragon song," Bran mused. "I've not heard that in some years."

Arya rolled her eyes. "You've never actually heard it, stupid." She peered at the dragons, then at Jon. "So you really are a Targaryen. That's too bad." She whistled and a crash of wolf pups came scuttling out of the hall where the master of hounds had been feeding them.

Jonquil wandered out and sat at Sansa's side, snuffling up toward the dragon pup suspiciously. Where his pup was, Jorah didn't dare wonder. Probably tearing up someone's bedding or terrorizing a Queensguard's cloak. The little wolf looked like a bear and behaved like a cub, too.

"And where's Ghost?" Jon asked, taking inventory of the new pups. "Are these his?"

"No. They're Nymeria's pups. There's a whole pack," Arya interrupted excitedly. "You can have one, if you wanted."

Jon shook his head. "I've got my hands full with six kingdoms and three dragons. Wolves belong in Winterfell."

"So you really are a Targaryen," Sansa muttered, echoing Arya's sentiment. "I can't believe you have dragons." She gingerly stroked the dragon's snout and allowed Arya to do the same.

"Are there any other surprises?" Jon asked wryly.

Jorah touched the small of Sansa's back. There would be no better time. He extended his hand and the white dragon scurried from her grasp and up his arm.

Sansa cleared her throat. "There will be a new wolf in Winterfell come next year," she announced casually. Her hand traced idly across her stomach. "An heir to Winterfell."

Jorah glanced from face to face. His stomach flopped anxiously. What would they say? They traveled here for their wedding, sure, but did they truly approve of such a match? A lowly knight and a queen. Jorah's heart thudded in his ears. The future ruler of the north was going to be half a Mormont. That wasn't a house befit a Stark. He was a fool and they'd all tell him so. He looked back at Sansa, but her expression was cool and pleased.

"You're pregnant?" Jon blurted.

Excited chatter broke out and Jorah realized he'd been holding his breath.

Soon there were questions and congratulations being hurtled this way and that. People called Jorah's name, clapped his back, and demanded drinks in his honor. The dragons flew the short distance to Jon, disturbed by the sudden commotion.

"And here I thought I would have one last chance to steal Queen Sansa away to give our marriage one last shot," Tyrion joked half-heartedly. "I see that is no longer an option."

Jorah didn't get a chance to reply. Brienne crushed him in a hug and Tormund crushed them both in his wide grasp.

Laughing, Jorah looked through the chaos at his bride. Sansa was beaming, her cheeks a lovely pink and her eyes bright. She caught his arm and leaned against him, happily answering questions as she stroked his hand.

Seven Years Into Queen Sansa's Reign
Winterfell

Sansa was fast asleep, sleeping like an angel with the moonlight shining in on her milky skin and ruby hair. Jorah was glad to see it. The queen didn't usually sleep well following a trying day.

And what a trying day it had been. A kitchen maid died in childbirth, taking the baby with her. The father, a young smith, jumped from the tallest tower to join them in death. The maester blamed himself, had a nervous breakdown and vowed to leave his post. His pregnant wife fell into a weeping fit, certain she would die, too.

The commotion was calmed down, but that was just the sort of thing that wore on Sansa. The unavoidable tragedy that befell her people was one enemy she could not vanquish and it caused her to weep when she thought no one was looking.

She was a good queen, and kind. The Starks were beloved, and the world was prospering under their rule. Queen Sansa ruled the North. King Jon reigned over the Six Kingdoms with his Wildling wife. Arya sailed West and ruled the seas, and Bran ruled the past. Jorah was sure Essos would fall in line soon enough. Sansa threatened to use his connections there and put him in charge, but he adamantly refused. He'd traveled enough. His place was in the North. Jorah gave counsel when Sansa asked, served as her main queensguard, and wrangled their royal children.

The commotion of the day kept Jorah awake. He read for some time, but now he fancied a walk in the fresh snow. The summer had been long, even for Winterfell standards. Snowflakes finally swirled from above and he longed for the fresh air in his lungs.

He gently let the bedroom door shut behind him and made his way through the castle. A streak of black caught his eye as he turned the corner near the kitchen.

"You're supposed to be in bed," Jorah said in a low voice.

A young girl with a messy red braid and long face jumped, then paused without turning around. Taeori of Houses Stark and Mormont, First of Her Name, Heir to the North and Princess of Winterfell.

The young princess was as stubborn as they came. Jorah knew he shouldn't be surprised. Houses Stark and Mormont weren't known for their passiveness. Princess Taeori already had a grasp on how things worked and how to get things done. Fortunately for his and Sansa's sanity, their younger daughter Della had shown very little interest in pushing boundaries thus far.

The black direwolf he rescued those years ago was at Taeori's side. "Bear wanted a drink of water," the child said. Turning slowly, she crossed her arms over her chest as she faced her father. "He's thirsty."

"I see." Jorah leaned against the wall and smirked. "Is that why you've woken Renly?"

A tall, gangly boy stepped out from behind a tapestry. "Yes, my lord. Father said I'm supposed to make sure the princess doesn't get in any trouble. I'm defending her. That's all."

"I don't need defending," Taeori scoffed. "I have Bear."

Brienne and Tormund's son was Taeori's fast friend and where you found one, you found the other, usually abetting in some petty trouble. They were the same age and had been nearly inseparable since they learned to walk. Jorah was fairly certain if they continued to be thick as thieves, they'd marry young. Tormund often mentioned it, dreamily fantasizing about the day his son sat on a Westerosi throne.

The children continued to bicker until Jorah cleared his throat. Trying not to smile, he nodded. "Back to bed, Renly. I'll make sure Bear gets his drink."

The boy obediently turned on heel and marched back down the hall. Jorah continued toward the kitchen. Taeori pretended she was unaccompanied until Jorah spoke again. "Where were you really going?"

She pursed her lips. "A drink for Bear."

"Try again."

The girl's firm expression broke into a series of giggles. "Bear wanted one of the lemon tarts. He didn't get any at dinner."

Jorah scooped his daughter into his arms. "Funny you say that. I know a princess whose favorite treat is a lemon tart. Too bad Bear and I are going to eat the rest of them."

Taeori giggled and shook her head. "No! It was me! I wanted one! Please! Don't eat them all!"

"A lemon tart, then bed."

Taeori nodded. "Don't tell Mother. I know I'm supposed to be good because I'll be the queen someday."

Jorah nodded and took a beat to be thankful for his extraordinary life. "Yes, Princess. Our little secret."