Warning: Character Death, stillbirth, the Long Night ends and it's bloody.

Epilogue

5 Moons Later.

All around her she felt her pain quickly give way to numbness that was all consuming, everything was slipping from her, right through her fingertips like the ice that was melting all around her. This was it, she knew it. This was the end. Her end. She had been so close, happiness had been within her reach, but it was not to be. There would be no happily ever after for her. There was one word on her lips, her voice just a whisper and no one heard it. A final surge bolted through her and she slammed her fist down screaming her final word.

And it was done.

The arrow tore through him almost severing his limb. He tried to protect it, to fight and guard himself, worrying more for his life than the dangling arm. He had to return to Winterfell. He could feel something pulling him, two things in opposite directions. A brother in the South, a cousin even further South. They both needed him. Their lives were fading. So was his, but he knew he could hold on. He just had to win this fight and end it all once and for all. That was all that he had to do. One fight, after everything he had achieved, every fight he had won before. One. Last. Fight.

Then the sword went through him. An ear splitting growl echoed on the wind. Was it his? His body grew heavy, but he fought to stand, to finish it and return home.

One last duty to fulfill. He swung Longclaw, sliced it down.

And it was done.

The pain tore through her, from the bottom of her swollen, hard belly to the top, from her back and all around. With each pain her world disappeared. There was only blackness, only silence as nothing remained but pain. Only pain. Every pain. The time in between was decreasing, the time of voices, colours, movement and touches.

"You're doing so well!"

A shoulder squeeze.

"I'm so proud of you."

Hands rubbing her lower back.

"You're almost ready."

A hand between her thighs.

"He would be, too. So proud."

Swiping at her brow, cooling her.

"Should," a nervous hesitation. "Should there be that much blood?"

Fingers interlocked with hers, squeezing reassurance in to her.

"And Mother. And Father."

Looking down, her world swam in redness, smelt of metal.

"There," a whispered, pained voice. "There's too much blood."

A scream pierced the air. An ear splitting wail and then silence.

Her eyes closed.

And it was done.

It was all over for him now, the time had come for the future to begin. He would have his dragon queen. His bright blue orbs closed as hers opened.

GOT – GOT – GOT

The battle for the long night had been raging for over a moon. The Wights and White Walkers had launched their final assault on the Wall four moons after Jon Snow had flown past the giant barrier, heading past the gathering horde. They had clearly been congregating, readying for an attack and waiting just beyond a day's ride from Castle Black. No ranging party would venture that far out with such a lack of daylight. The sun had set one day, a cloudless almost pretty day and then the Wights had run at the Wall. So began the Long Night, though the moon still journeyed across the sky, shrinking and growing, waxing and waning at its usual pace.

Within a day, night had begun to fall across the entire realm. Not even a week had passed before Daenerys had left her forces in the South, with orders to protect as many lives as possible within the nearest stronghold, flying Drogon beside Viserion first to Winterfell and then to the Wall. And then beyond. None in Winterfell had welcomed her; no one in the North that had seen her had thought much of another dragon. After the Mad King, their own King had flown away on dragon-back and they feared him dead already, they had no need for dragons. Except beyond the Wall they did. Despite the hot springs and last supplies shipped in, everyone within Winterfell's walls grew colder and hungrier by the day. The Starks and their people grew thin and pale, all except Sansa who continued to grow large withchild as the twins within seemed to thrive on the cold.

The first mistake the Dragon Queen made during the Long Night was giving her dragons the dracarys order upon the horde too close to the wall, melting it lower. Pulling them away, the damage had been done as burning wights smoldered and drowned, refreezing as quickly as the dragon fire had acted, forging an uneven slope. Viserion had landed, breathing fire out across the horde and keeping them from escaping south, almost perfectly camouflaged against the white snow and ice. It helped little as the magic was broken. Though the Wall stood, enough had washed away to end the magic and, in the lands below the Wall, the dead began to rise again. All across Westeros they rose, all the way down to King's Landing where the Iron Throne held no royalty, to the heavily protected Vale that was unsafe now, Highgarden where no flower grew through the snow. Even dragon fire perished quickly, dying as quick as the cold could claim life for the Night's King.

The Night's King had finally been hunted across the North, barely guarded after Rhaegal burnt his way further North than Jon Snow had ever been before. They remained airborne, maintaining the physical higher ground until a spear, thrown by a wight, shredded Rhaegal's wing, almost severing it. The dragon, Jon's mind within it, barely made it to the snow safely, allowing Jon to fight his way to the Night's King with only Longclaw for aid.

As one dragon fell wounded, but still with a beating heart, another rose from a white death. Viserion's heart splintered on a tree as he fell mid-flight, engulfed by the undead as it joined them in their living death. Ice flowing in his veins, Viserion flew higher than before, welcoming the cold the altitude brought. Daenerys tried to follow on Drogon, the biggest and strongest of all of her dragons, in a hopeless attempt to reclaim Viserion to fire. Instead Viserion breathed his white fire down on to Drogon.

There were Wights at the gates to Winterfell, battering and hammering at the Walls, the new gates built after Wun Wun had ploughed in the originals. There was little the men and women within Winterfell could do; fire arrows extinguished before reaching their mark and oil barrels risked the gates. Inside her chambers, Sansa labored, kneeling on all fours, her teeth gritted as she heard the calls of men outside and the empty platitudes of her friends and kin. Meera would rather be on the battlements, instead trapped in a stifling room and rubbing her good-sister's back as Arya spoke in to her sister's ear. Pain tore through her body so Sansa left it. Just as she had when Bolton had been within her, Sansa flew away to the North.

Viserion swooped down suddenly, no one saw his approach, his speed was so great. He flew at his brother and mother, fierce and strong, sending all three of them plummeting to the snow beneath. The dragons, both hurt now, lunged at each other, teeth biting and nails clawing until the blood of Drogon stained the snow along with his mother's. Her eyes met his across the snow. The wights were stampeding, running at them and Daenerys whispered her command: "Dracarys."

The Night's King swung at Jon, catching his shoulder and drawing blood. Jon stood, a few paces from his foe, breathing heavy as the Night's King slowly approached, believing the dragon-wolf to be at an end. Blood dripped down from Jon's fingertips, freezing on the snow in perfect teardrop shapes. With ease, the Night's King swung at Jon who parried and drew his own sword up above his head, yelling at the pain and exertion. Slamming his hands down, Longclaw sliced straight through the neck of the Night's King, cleanly severing it.

The grey-white blanket soaked up the blood as Gilly said what the other's feared. "There's too much blood." The first babe came forth, a boy with dark curls and wide blue eyes who wailed once and then went silent, observing around as if awaiting his twin. A scream filled Winterfell as the second babe was born.

"Friend," Jon said to his dragon. "Take me home." Every movement was agony for both man and beast, but it was done.

Her whisper was swallowed by the wind. Death was imminent; both hers and his. With every fiber of her being, Daenerys slammed her fist to the snow beneath her and yelled her final command. "DRACARYS!" The dragon used his last breath to set his mother, the Wights, the White Walkers aflame.

Collapsing back on to the floor, Sansa welcomed the rest, her body mostly absent of pain as a babe was handed to her. "Your son."

The bleeding had stopped with the afterbirth, leaving the lady pale and near exhaustion, but it did not stop her looking to the silent bundle her sister held tightly, hope on her face. Arya shook her head, squeezing closed her eyes to not see her sister or niece. A tear fell from Sansa to her son's head.

Rhaegal landed amongst the dead, unmoving bodies of the wights that lay around Winterfell. Stumbling and rolling from the beast's back, Jon only paused a moment as he knew that his dragon was gone, having given his life to get Jon home. A gentle pat on his scaly snout and the lone man walked through a still air to Winterfell's gates. The snow had stopped, the winds died as the Night King's eyes lost their brightness, as the final dragon perished. Within Winterfell, Jon cared little for the dirt he was caked in, the frozen sweat in his hair and beard or the blood dried and hard along the length of his arm, his fingers as it all crumbled off, showing his route to Sansa's chambers. The chambers that could be his.

The stifling hot chambers had quieted some since Sansa's pain had ended. The babe was already nursing, his mother's eyes downcast upon him when the father found them, still on the floor. The room was almost as bloody as a battlefield, though no smell of dirt and steel was present. He fell to her side on his knees, cupping her wet cheek with his injured hand, his sword hand, the honorable hand gently stroked the babe who paid no attention.

"A son," she whispered oddly sounding morose. "I've given you a son."

"Given us a son, Sansa." She met his eyes at his correction. "It's done. Their leader is gone. The Wights all lay dead once more. I saw…" He bowed his head and marveled at the innocent pink babe in her arms. "A great fire. It was the dragons. It was Daenerys. They've all gone. But we," he kissed her forehead fiercely. "Are here and safe now."

"Jon," she whispered through tears. "The second… the babe…" Her face scrunched up and he looked across the room to where Arya sat, holding a silent swaddled bundle and she shook her head sadly. He looked confused until Arya spoke.

"She had your eyes. Grey as a Stark. Her hair though…" Arya hiccupped. "Wispy white." Where the boy at Sansa's breast had the Stark and Tully look, the girl had the Stark and Targaryen. Perhaps she had been the final chance for a dragon to live. After over a whole moon's turn, the sun finally arose, ending the Long Night and heralding a new peace over the tortured realm. The female babe who never drew breath was laid to rest amongst the Weirwoods by an unknown Wildling when none of the Starks could face it.

When the surviving and thriving babe was three moons old, his mother and father wed in front of the heart tree his sister had been laid to rest on, the heart tree his mother, now Queen of the North, had bled on, the tree his father had bled on the roots of for the Night's King. Her Stark-Tully blood and his Stark-Targaryen babes had been all the offering the Old Gods had needed of the Night's King.

The Long Night would come again, when the Night's Queen was strong enough and full grown. Winter would come again and it would rain down fire, blood and snow on the realm.

The End.

A/N: So, this was actually my first Jon/Sansa story, I just posted a shorter one first. The prologue is a bit different and hopefully read okay – it was the ending that I knew had to happen (the new Night's Queen being the female twin), but I really struggled with even considering writing it as the rest of the story and show any character deal with essentially a stillborn baby. But I couldn't change the ending and couldn't write it how the story voice dictated so, instead, I opted for an epilogue.