Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

As the massacre raged above them, the remaining living Stark children and the bastard who had become the last Targaryen stood in a circle, knowing in their bones that it would be their final living moments.

"Hold my hand." Arya's voice was barely a whisper but Sansa's tears doubled at the sound of her brave and courageous sister so frightened. There was blood on Arya's palms as she let go of her torso to reach for her sister's hand, groaning in pain as a wound to her ribs began to bleed freely again.

"Look at me one last time," Bran said slowly, eyes unblinking as he studied the faces of his sisters and the man he still viewed as his brother despite all that had come to pass in the low light of the single sconce Sansa had managed to light in the crypts. "I am so proud of all of you," he said, swallowing thickly as he ran a finger over Sansa's arm and then Arya's knuckles as the siblings joined hands. "This is the only way." His voice slipped back into that of the Raven's, slightly detached but oddly reassuring.

"I am not sure I can do this," Sansa whispered, gripping her siblings' hands so tightly that Arya hissed in pain but both refused to let go. They leaned on each other for support as Jon's hand rested on Bran's shoulder and Sansa's shaking one as he stood behind his love.

"You can. I believe in you," he whispered encouragingly into her hair and Sansa sagged, leaning back into his chest. He was covered in mud, blood, and soot but somehow he still smelled like how she remembered him to. Woodsy and musky with something that was indescribably him. "I love you. Deep in my bones and my very soul, I have always and will always love you. I am yours and you are mine," he told her, his eyes boring into hers with so much emotion Sansa's heart caught and stuttered. "I love all of you. My family."

"I am yours and you are mine. May the gods be good to us on the other side," Sansa prayed aloud as she reached over and grabbed the lone sconce from the wall. "May we rejoin our family and rest finally with those we love."

All around their feet, the glistening tell-tale green of wildfire glinted. Sansa had given Arya and Jon each a bottle of the deadly weapon as they had retreated to the crypts as the dead stormed through Winterfell, spilling it generously as they went.

Tyrion had ensured that the entirety of the castle had been doused in the stuff before giving Sansa the word and she watched from her place on the wall as he had been stabbed through the chest whilst his back was turned so he could shout to her. A quick and clumsy fall to the bloody ground and a sharp intake of breath was all it took before he rose again and turned on the Lady of Winterfell with blank, glowing blue eyes.

Through Bran and all of his knowledge, they knew this was the only way, to burn those that fell, but it still tore at Sansa's heart as she sent a burning arrow loose from her bow and she sobbed as it struck true in the late Lord's eye socket. They had been at war with the dead for most of the winter and it had been a long winter. She had gotten proficient with a bow.

Wildfire, a weapon that burnt hotter than Dragonfire, was to be lit when the Night King and his army has slaughtered their way through the castle. The very last moment, that was what Sansa was waiting for, hiding in the crypts.

The very last moment as she looked into the bright blue eyes of the Night King. They could already hear his footsteps echoing mercilessly as he descended into the crypt in search of the Starks, his army disposing of those who had survived the very worst only to die terrified and hopeless.

Stood in front of the ill carved statue of Ned Stark, his children, both blood and not, looked at each other one final time as the inhuman eyes of the Night King rounded the corner. He stood for a second, the translucent spikes of ice that resembled his crown caught the light of the fire as Sansa whispered her final prayer and dropped the torch.

"May those I love find peace."

The furious roar of the monstrous King as he charged down the corridor was drowned out. It was less than a second before the flames ignited the wildfire and green engulfed them and all they knew and all Sansa could hear was silence before she became nothing.

-----------------

The sun had yet to rise over Winterfell and a blanket of stars still hung above the castle.

Offran, the oldest serving chambermaid at Winterfell slipped into the Lord and Lady's chambers to stoke the fire and begin heating the water for the bathing of the couple. Another maid, Maris, followed behind the elder lady and began to light the candles and the Lord's squire would be on his way to get the Lord changed for the day's events.

"Shall I rouse the Lord and Lady?" Maris asked as she finished lighting each candle in both their chamber, the room in which they bathed and the Lord's solar and the numerous rooms that connected them all.

Offran paused the gathering of her skirts to nod. "Help me move this pot first. The older I get the heavier it seems to become," she said and the two worked together to hook a heavy iron pot into a hook above the flames. "Fetch some lemons from the glass garden and some rosemary from the maester. Lady Sansa's rooms are next and she will no doubt want to bathe before breaking her fast."

"Yes ma'am," Maris dipped into a small courtesy and she left to gather the fruit from the garden. Offran left soon after to continue her morning's work as the sun finally began to rise, colouring the sky into a bright golden hue which spilt through the windows and over the sleeping couple still tucked under the furs that covered their large oak bed.

The first to stir was Ned, his eyes slowly opening as he shifted his wife accidentally but his eyes closed once more and his breathing evened out. Catelyn's head had been resting upon his chest but she turned on her side and let out a sigh.

A few more minutes of peaceful slumber continued but suddenly, as if a match had been lit under their feet or a loud noise had rung through the chamber, both jumped out from the bed, eyeing each other warily.

They were not dressed in their usual sleeping attire, rather the final outfits they could remember wearing before they had woken up. Catelyn's fine gown was stained with crimson blood, as was Ned's simple clothes.

"Ned," Catelyn whispered, her hands coming up to her throat as tears rolled down her cheeks. She paled at the sight of her blood-soaked husband standing before her.

Ned looked at his wife in shock, barely breathing as he touched his own neck, expecting to feel a wound but he was met with smooth skin unmarred except his beard growing in. His stomach twisted at the sight of Cat's ruined gown.

"Catelyn," he breathed. "I feared I would never see you aga-" He cut himself off, wary. "I had an awful dream. I had ridden down to King's Landing on Robert's request and, well," Ned licked his dry lips but Catelyn gathered her skirts and joined him near the hearth, drawing him close so that she could look at him in detail.

She couldn't hold her tongue. She could still feel the ache of grief but he was stood before her, solid under her hands. "I had the same dream. It felt so real Ned. Robb and I, we... we died at the hands of Old Walder Frey. In the beginning, Lysa, she..."

"Wrote about Jon Arryn's death and Robert rode North to..."

"Declare you Hand of the King. You went to King's Landing with the girls and Sansa was his bastard son's betrothed," she spat finally, fury overtaking her suddenly at the thought or the memory, her conscious whispered.

"Perhaps it was no dream," Ned said, running a finger over his wife's cheek and down to the stained collar of her dress. "I was beheaded but it felt so real. I can still hear Sansa's screams and the block under my chin."

"I mourned you. I can still feel the sadness in my breast. My throat was slit from ear to ear. The blood is still running down my chest when I close my eyes. I died in this very dress. I watched them kill Robb. I slit a girl's throat," she choked in shock.

"It is not possible."

A harsh series of knocks made the couple jump. Ned cleared his throat and sniffed hard, handing his wife a nearby cloak and draping his own over his shoulders before calling out to whoever it was. Whatever was going on shouldn't be shared with the masses, he decided.

Instead of the squire they were expecting, Robb tumbled through the door, breathing hard and looking frantically around. His tunic had several gashes in the front, exposing his pale skin but no wounds.

"You're alive," he cried out, forgetting himself as he rushed forward and enveloped them in his arms.

"You had the same dream? How is this possible Ned?" Catelyn asked, gripping her son's face between her hands. "I watched you die," she cried.

"I think we need to sit down. Let's break fast and make sure th-"

"Jon!" a cry from outside made the trio jump.

"Was that Sansa?" Robb asked but Ned had already left the chamber, pulling his cloak together as he made his way through the empty halls of his home to the source of the noise. Just walking through Winterfell was surreal to him. The last thing he could remember was praying on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor in King's Landing, sweating in the heat.

Out in the snowy courtyard below, Jon Snow was on his knees, cradling Sansa Stark as though he would die if he let her go. They were both crying and saying something to each other but neither could be heard as the wind whipped around them and snowflakes dusted their hair and the ruined cloaks none of the elder Starks could recognise. A shining sword jutted out from under Jon's cloak and glinted in the early morning sunrise.

"Jon! Sansa!" Ned called out and both jumped back, still gripping each other as they looked up to see the Lord of Winterfell towering over them.

"I never thought death would look like this," the trio heard Sansa say as she dragged Jon to meet their father who looked dumbstruck. "You look younger than when you died. Was it lonely? Waiting for mother and Robb?" The questions seemed to rush out of Sansa before she could think.

Ned's thick brows furrowed at both the questions and the fact that neither had let each other's hands go. "My sweet child, you are not dead."

Jon seemed to really look at the girl wrapped in his cloak after Ned had finished speaking. "Pretty girl, you look like you did before you rode for King's Landing and me for the wall. Barely a woman," he told her and Sansa looked up at him, her eyebrows drawn together.

"You are taller than me," she said finally, as she pressed her nose forward and into his chest."I cannot reach your lips anymore. What has happened?"

Robb looked at his siblings with unconcealed anger. "Lips? Sansa? You have not once embraced our brother like you are now. Am I having some sort of dream? Did I really die to wake up confused and surrounded by the ghosts of those I love only to be tortured here?"

Catelyn laid a hand on her husband's arm. "We must take this somewhere private before the rest of the castle wakes up. We have guests from House Karstark. We will break fast in your solar and talk about what we all remembered before waking this morning."

Ned nodded, remembering the riders from Karstark who were bringing several bags of grain and seeds to Winterfell. The knowledge jolted him, unable to recall the men, clearly in his previous life but he knew his wife was right.

"Where's Arya and Bran? Have they woken here too?" Jon asked and Catelyn glared at him, lips pursed.

"Why would you think the youngest of my children have been tortured like this if what Robb has said is true?" she hissed and Sansa stood taller than ever before, putting her body between Jon and her mother.

"I am incapable of expressing how happy I am to see you once more Mother but I must warn you, I am no longer the shallow, placid girl I once was. I will not stand by idly as you poison the man I love with your jealous barbs," she warned and her parents blinked in unmasked shock. Catelyn staggered back into her husband's arms at the outburst.

To those around her, Sansa physically looked as if she was barely three and ten but before her parents and her brother's eyes, she echoed the Northern Queen she had been before her final fatal actions.

"The man you love?" Robb echoed and his face became a stormy mix of emotions. As if by reflex, his hands were scrabbling at his side for a weapon that was not there. "We are no Lannisters'," he added darkly, eyes flicking between the pair.

"We must take our leave now as the castle is beginning to awaken. I will wake Arya and Bran and meet you all in my solar," Ned commanded his family, halting his wife's protest with a kiss to her lips. "Go."

"There is no need Father," Arya's voice made Sansa's heart skip several beats. "We are here and we remember." The two emerged from the shadows of the stables, holding each other's hands, all though it looked like Arya was dragging Bran forward.

"This is not death," Bran said, his emotionless tone still somehow there but rather than bundled into his chair, Bran was a boy, standing on his own legs and significantly younger than he had been.

"I implore you all, to my solar now," Ned said once more, spotting a smithy walking across the snowy grounds towards the forgery below them.

As the family entered the solar, Ned looked around the space, remembering everything just as he had left it before taking the Hand of the King. The scrolls and books still lay across one of the oak tables and a fire burned steadily in the hearth.

"It's back to how it was," Robb said in disbelief but Sansa's tears distracted him.

"There is no trace of him. The banners still hang and the tapestry is here," she seemed to tell Jon but Robb frowned.

"I am going slowly mad I believe," Catelyn said to herself as she sat down on one of the seats warily as if the very thought exhausted her.

"Mother, Father, Robb, allow me to explain," Bran said but Ned began to laugh as he sat behind his desk.

"My son, a boy of only nine. I do not doubt you but how can you explain this strangeness away when you have barely lived," he said good-naturedly but Bran remained standing. His eyes were the same as he had died. They held wisdom and knowledge and age in them. There would be no need to hunt down the Three-Eyed Raven this time, he was already there.

"You died. All of us in the very castle died fighting. Father, you were betrayed in King's Landing by Petyr Baelish and you lost your head because of your honor. You left Sansa and Arya to the hands of those in King's Landing." Ned sobered at the information and sat quietly, struck dumb at the reminder. To him it had only just happened.

"Mother, your release of Jaime Lannister meant your counsel no longer held any merit. You let your son break his oaths. You started a war with the Lannisters when you went after Tyrion and it killed you in the end. You died at the hands of Roose Bolton, who's bastard almost destroyed Sansa, working for Tywin." Catelyn snatched an empty water basin and vomited noisily yet Bran continued.

"Robb, you died holding the body of your cooling dead wife. You broke your oath and lost the war the day you married Talisa Maegyr. You became King in the North and yet you died, Grey Wind's head sewn onto your neck and paraded around by the Freys."

"Enough Bran!" Ned demanded, looking pale and shaky.

"Talisa," Robb breathed out but Bran continued to speak despite the interruptions, his eyes glassy as though he were having a vision.

"Arya watched Father's head being cut from his body. She became no-one. Killed to survive and then continued to kill in revenge. She took faces and names and made it back to Winterfell only to die in the wildfire."

"Jon Snow is not my brother but-"

"I beg of you enough!" Ned roared, cutting Bran off.

"The son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen, the true heir to the Iron Throne! He died a brother of the Night's Watch but rose again to be the Lord Commander and then the King in the North. He brought the Wildlings south of the Wall and fought beside his aunt Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons. He loved my sister and he died in the wildfire!" Bran's voice became louder and bolder with each word he spoke.

"Bran there is no need, they understand," Sansa said softly as Jon's hand landed on her shoulder despite Catelyn's look of utter horror and Ned's head hanging low.

Jon glanced over at Robb and shifted his stance, ready to run and catch him should he fall to the floor.

"Sweet Sansa. Queen of the North. The Red Wolf of Winterfell. You learnt the game of thrones at the hand of a mad Queen and outlived everyone who had done you wrong. You outlived Joffrey, played Littlefinger at his own game and won, you fed Ramsay Bolton to his own dogs and you loved fiercely. You lit the spark that started the wildfire that killed us but you were the only one who could."

"Is this true? How are you to know? My sweet son," Ned's voice was hoarse as Robb sunk to his knees beside the fire and Jon went to join him but he held up a hand to halt his brother. Arya looked torn between her father and Robb but she pulled Needle out from her scabbard and placed in on her father's desk.

"Bran Stark," she began, turning to face him. "You were pushed from the broken tower by Jaime Lannister who had been coupling with his sister Cersei. You were the first to know about their bastard children and you were crippled for it. You and Rickon went north of the Wall and you became the Three-Eyed Raven. All knowing, all seeing, you were the one who foresaw the end of Winterfell and the war with the Night King through the green flames of wildfire," she said, looking at her brother and then to the others in the room.

Catelyn vomited once more into the bowl and then reached over the desk for her husband's hand. "Gods give me the strength. Guide me through this," she muttered.

"I know this is hard for you to understand but we have already lived this life once. The Gods are blessing us. I saw this before the Night King broke through the Wall. We have been reborn into our bodies before Jon Arryn's murder with our memories and knowledge of what could possibly lie ahead," Bran told them.

"You still possess the abilities of the Three-Eyed Raven," Sansa said in a calm, measured voice.

"Aye, he does, and I am going to go North and live out my days with the Wildlings," Robb scoffed, skeptical. "We have died and this is death," he argued with certainty.

"We shall have visitors as the day ages who will help," Bran told them. Robb began to laugh.

Ned finally lifted his head and met the clear Tully eyes of his eldest daughter. He took a great deep breath. "I do not think my mind could fabricate such an afterlife as this. I do not care if I am dead or reborn. All of the people I love most in this world are stood before me breathing."

"Is it true," Catelyn asked quickly, looking upon Jon with new eyes. "He is Lyanna's son? No more secrets. This family was ripped apart once because of them."

"Aye, you are right as always my love," Ned sighed, deflating back in his chair. "They married in secret before Robert killed Rhaegar. Howland Reed was the only other living soul to know. I was going to tell you after my return to Winterfell but, if Bran is to be believed, I never made it home in that life."

"He is still my brother. You are still a Stark regardless of that," Robb said suddenly, fiercely pointing to Jon and to his father.

"Jon is and always was a Stark," Arya said. "He is never going to be anything but a Stark."

"Lyanna's son," Catelyn echoed, looking upon Jon with horror. "My nephew."

"For what it is worth Lady Stark, you were forgiven a long time ago and if this is a fresh life, you are forgiven here too," Jon told her and Sansa smiled up at him.

"You married in your last life," Ned's statement was delivered more like a question and Sansa turned to her father confidently.

"I married three times in my last life Father. Once to Tyrion Lannister but it was unconsummated and we remained friends and allies until our deaths. Lord Baelish then sold me to the Boltons and married me off to the heinous Ramsay," Sansa shuddered involuntarily.

"He's dead. You killed him," Arya reminded her, much to her parents' discomfort.

"He died in that life. In this life he is still living," Sansa said darkly. "So many of our enemies are living and breathing."

"My list has become long once more," Arya replied in a way which made Robb step away from her slightly.

"But Jon?" Catelyn said, choosing to ignore the unpleasantness Arya's words had brought. "You married Jon."

"A man who is brave and gentle and strong and who loves me. That is the kind of man Father promised me he would wed me to once he realised how cruel Joffrey was. I was mistreated by every man who stepped into my life after Father's murder. Every single one of them had ulterior motives. I was a prize because of my name, or my beauty or my home. My body was seen as something to conquer and use. Only two men sought my happiness and safety. One was Tyrion Lannister so that his own happiness would be secure and the other was Jon. He saved me from the Boltons, took back our home and helped me rebuild myself and Winterfell. Bran had already seen Jon's birth and Howland Reed confirmed it."

"I understand that this may look sinful to you but I will lay down my life to protect Sansa. There is no other woman for me on this Earth," Jon said, his voice steady and calm but Sansa could see the tension in his shoulders. His voice was not yet as gruff as it had once been but the truth and emotion carried regardless.

She didn't know if he had realised but Jon was stood with his feet apart and his hand on Longclaw as if he was expecting a sword to come hurtling towards him. Robb and Ned did not miss the defensive fighting stance.

"We must talk. Each one of us must talk uninterrupted and recall our last life. Father, Mother, Robb, you were the first ones to die and have missed so much," Arya said suddenly, slipping her hand into Needle's hilt and twisting the blade with ease until it was sheathed in her belt.

"You were always good with a sword," Robb grinned weakly. "Fine, we will break our fast and go in order. Everything you can remember about the life you led before waking this morning."

"We should write it all down," Sansa suggested already thinking about how much she knew and the possibility of her missing something out.

The Starks looked between one another and then got on with their task. Ned called for a squire to bring the family's morning food to his solar and then instructed him to ensure that only dire emergencies pulled them from the room.

And so they sat scattered around the large room, eating their oats in silence whilst writing all that they could remember.

Sansa wrote a general recount of her life before delving into all of the secrets and knowledge she had amassed that neither of her parents knew about. Petyr Baelish and the strings and plots he had weaved took an entire roll of parchment whilst the War of the Five Kings and the Long Winter took her nearly an hour to write. Her hand was cramping by the time the sun had reached its midpoint in the sky but she still had more to write.

Arya's scratchy penmanship made her writing difficult to read and she glossed over her training with the Faceless man but wrote streams about those who had ever done her family wrong and how she had killed them in the last life. She hadn't realised until she had finished that as she had retold Sansa and Jon's reunion, she had mentioned her own love. Gendry would be in Flea Bottom at this moment. The thought knocked her and she sat staring into the fire for the rest of the afternoon, recalling the flames in the forge as he had crafted weapons out of dragonglass, wondering if he had awoken with her face is in his mind's eye or if he didn't know of her now.

Ned and Catelyn had both finished well before their children. Robb was pestering Jon as he wrote, too eager to hear his brother's story than to wait until nightfall when they had agreed to share all that they had written.

"Ned, if this truly is a second chance at life then I refuse to lose you and our children once more," Catelyn told him as she set down her quill. "Your honour killed you before Ned. If Jon Arryn's murder is to relight the spark then I implore you to listen to my counsel."

Ned looked into his wife's bright blue eyes with a fond smile. "I always listen to your counsel and this strangeness will not change that."

"I mean it, Ned. I will not hear about your death as I did before. It killed me." There were tears gathering in Catelyn's lashes and it pained Ned to think about what it must have been like for her.

"Can you believe our son is the Three-Eyed Raven," Ned asked, changing the subject as he looked over at Bran who was scribbling away on his parchment so viciously and fast that Ned feared he would put his quill through the fibers. "Old Nan used to tell us stories about an all-knowing man but I thought they were just silly stories."

"Arya became an assassin." Catelyn's voice was barely audible but her hand found her husband's and she gripped him hard. "They say that the Faceless men can take the faces of the dead and wear them like clothes."

The thought made Ned's skin crawl but just seeing his daughter sat on her knees in front of the fire made him breathe a little easier. "She survived. They all survived without our guidance and we cannot fault them, regardless of how they did it."

"M'Lord," a faint voice was followed by several knocks on the heavy door to the solar.

"Come," Ned called out, knowing his castle would not pester them unless they were desperately needed.

Ser Rodrik Cassel entered the solar, his weathered face barely changing in expression as he looked around at the family. "A rider and a Wildling-looking man have arrived and they have demanded to speak to only the Red Wolf of Winterfell and her Crow husband," the man said, slightly confused as he delivered the message. "Shall I have to bannermen throw them out?"

Sansa looked over at Jon.

"You are the Red Wolf of Winterfell," Ned said to his daughter and she nodded, biting her lip.

Ser Rodrik nodded, the hair under his chin bobbing as he did. His face remained impassive as though he had suspected Sansa to hold the moniker. "And her Crow husband would be..."

"Me," Jon told him, setting his shoulders back proudly although he was frowning deeply.

"What do they look like Ser?" Catelyn asked as Rodrik and Ned's brows creased with a frown.

Rodrik couldn't help but chuckle to himself. "Great handsome woman dressed in bloody armour and a red-headed wilding-looking man who was looking at her as though she hung the stars in the sky."

"Brienne!" Arya gasped in delight, pushing up from the floor in front of the hearth, a smile on her face. "Do you think she remembers as well?"

"We cannot let a Wildling into the castle. The men will be up in arms," Robb said quickly but Jon was already leaving the solar, following the old man to the courtyard.

"Crow!" Tormund shouted, forgetting he was sat behind Brienne on the stallion and that he was shouting directly into her ear.

"We do not know their predicament," Brienne hushed Tormund, wishing she could reach for her sword and poke him between the ribs. She settled for an elbow to the gut but Tormund's groan sounded more pleased than Brienne liked.

The duo was still mounted on their stolen steed, surrounded by Stark men pointing their swords all around them.

"What are we to do if they do not remember?" Brienne worried aloud, gripping the Stallion's mane tighter between her fingers. She realised that the majority of the swords were aiming for Tormund and she knew that if things were to go sour, it would be hard to reign the Wildling in. The likelihood of blood being split was high.

"Lady Brienne of Tarth," Jon Snow's voice rang out over the courtyard and some of the men glanced at one another. Ned and Robb followed behind him, neither looking too concerned that the Stark bastard was addressing the two riders.

"Lord Crow," Tormund said, appearing over the Knight's shoulder. "You got smaller."

"And you seem to forget your place," Jon replied, his face breaking out into a grin. Tormund remembered, that much was clear to Jon.

"I am here to pledge my sword to the Red Wolf and her house," Brienne told the family, hoping that Sansa was somewhere and remembered. She was afraid to ask for Sansa by name in case she didn't.

The redhead stepped out from behind her father, her lips quirking. "The Red Wolf accepts your sword," Sansa told her and Brienne almost cried out in relief. Sansa and Jon remembered. That was all that was important.

"A chamber will be made for Lady Brienne and her... companion," Catelyn instructed her maids as the two slipped off the horse. Some of the bannermen shifted uneasily, about to protest until Ned held out his hand, silencing their worries.

"We welcome you to our home," he said and then nodded his head towards both guests. "My daughter Sansa will be responsible for your well being whilst you are at Winterfell and if anyone causes you any grief, tell my daughter."

The bannermen and guards looked at the young Stark, noticing she carried herself differently to the way they remembered. They dispersed back to their duties, some slower than others as Tormund grinned manically as he brought Jon into a fierce hug.

"How on Earth did you manage to ride here so quickly?" Sansa asked, crossing the snow to greet her friend once the courtyard had cleared. "Where did you come from?"

"Tormund caught the beast. Demanded we ride for Winterfell and he was my only option," Brienne told her truthfully. "I woke up buried in snow at dawn and wandered around thinking I must have crossed over into heaven but then the Wildling came from nowhere, a bloody great stick in his hand shouting about Gods and all."

"We will be retreating to my solar once more Rodrik. We will not be joining the rest of the castle at sup tonight," Ned told his man, leading the rest of his family closer to where Sansa and Jon were greeting the strangers.

"Father, Robb, this is Lady Brienne of Tarth. She was my sworn sword in our last life. The fiercest warrior I knew," Sansa told those who were clueless.

"I remember seeing you," Catelyn said, nodding as she looking at the dents in Brienne's armour. "You swore your sword to me."

Brienne nodded, dirty blonde hair falling into her eyes as she dipped her chin. "I did my lady but..."

"It was not meant to be. I am happy that you were there for my daughter when I could not," Catelyn replied, slipping her arm into the crook of Ned's as she felt another wave of nausea pass over her as she remembered the fear of not knowing if Sansa was alive or dead.

"I remember now why Winterfell always felt like it could be a good home," Tormund said in awe, looking around the courtyard and up at the towers and the castle walls.

"Aye, that it is," Ned replied tightly. He knew that this man had been an ally to his children but he was still a Wildling. He didn't know the man.

"Tormund Giantsbane, this is my father, Ned Stark," Sansa introduced the two men, recognising the tension in the air as Ned grit his teeth and Tormund rolled his shoulders. "It looks as though you could now spar with Arya like you always wanted to," she added to the wild man as Arya greeted Brienne.

"She's even smaller now than before. It would be unfair," the man replied, sizing up Arya and realising she only stood as high as his torso. "So do you now. Never could look down on you before."

Sansa frowned. Whilst she had been subconsciously ashamed of her tall stature whilst she had been in King's Landing in the beginning, Sansa's confidence came from being able to look those around her in the eye or down on them.

"I don't like it," she told him quietly. "I was Lady of Winterfell, a wife, a Queen and now I am nothing but a child of ten and three."

"You have the knowledge of your past life and all that is coming for us." Jon was suddenly behind her, resting a hand on her shoulder as he murmured into her ear. "You are still Lady of Winterfell and you are still my wife."

"I am all for you having your woman Snow, but don't let anyone else hear you saying that. She's barely a woman and you're her brother again," Tormund said under his breath, his eyes on Catelyn as she glared at Jon and Sansa.

"We should retire to my solar. We can talk more freely there," Ned said, clapping his hands roughly and switching his weight from either of his feet. Catelyn and Robb were equally nervous, both at the arrival of the strangers and Jon's words which carried on the wind. "I will start with my recount."

Chapter Text

Ned Stark prided himself on being a man who was as solid and reliable as the snow that fell in the North. Little could phase him and he would usually remain level headed and calm. The day's events had shifted his personal philosophy on its axis.

After he had shepherded his family and the two strangers his youngest children seemed overjoyed to see, through the courtyard, Ned was in need of a cup or two of ale. The Wildling had led the way through the Halls of Ned's ancestral home as if he knew all of its secrets like those in House Stark.

He does. He is comfortable here. This was his home in the past life, Ned thought to himself, watching with cool eyes as Sansa walked beside the giant man, talking to him like a trusted and dear friend. She would have been a good Queen.

The Lord's solar was a large and spacious room but with seven of the Starks and two of the largest, most physically intimidating people Ned had ever encountered, all huddled around his weirwood writing desk and in front of the roaring hearth, he was glad he and his wife had their own seats. Ned sat at his chair, Catelyn to his right as the rest found somewhere to sit on the carpet or the trunks or windows, or in Lady Brienne's case, stand guard by the door.

Catelyn took her husband's hand and gave his cold fingers a reassuring squeeze. Ned cleared his throat and returned the pressure.

"I am unsure as to how useful my recount will be. As I take it, I was the first to die," he began, shifting within his furs at the thought. "Cersei Lannister's children are the product of her laying with her brother, the Kingslayer," he told the room. The only one to react was Lady Brienne who seemed to stiffen at the news. Ned did not know whether that was from shock or something else.

"Robert has a bastard in a smithy in King's Landing, well, he has several bastards but that one is grown. I also know that Jon Arryn wa- will be poisoned by Lysa Arryn," Ned sighed deeply at the thought that the man who had helped raise him would die no doubt the same way. "That is all I know."

Catelyn rubbed her thumb over Ned's knuckles in support. "My turn I suppose."

Lady Stark recounted her journey South with Robb and how they had been betrayed by the Frey's at the wedding ceremony, her story slowing to a stop as she remembered the horror. If felt like it had happened yesterday and she had to remind herself most of the roads leading to that event had not yet been laid in this life.

Robb's story followed his mother's and he too stopped halfway through, finishing reluctantly after slipping into a few moments of grief and despair as he told his family of the murder of his wife and unborn babe.

Sansa handed her brother a handkerchief. "I should think Arya's story would fit next. Even I do not know the full of extent of that one."

Arya looked up from Needle's hilt which she had been holding the entire time. She looked unsure but no one said anything, waiting for her to start.

"I warn you Mother, Father, mine is not a pretty story to tell," she began.

"Haven't you been listening child. Our stories all end in death. Yours is one of survival," her father said. "Go on. Start from where ever you like and do not shield us. Your Lady Mother and I will listen without judgement or love lost."

That seemed to be the exact words Arya needed and she stood up, entering an offensive stance, Needle poised in front of her. She had been trying all day to adjust to her younger body. 

"I watched Father be beheaded from the statue of the Baelor and then Yoren found me, cut my hair and pretended I was a peasant boy heading North for the Wall. There I met Gendry, King Robert's bastard, and we journeyed North but it did not work out and I became Tywin Lannister's cupbearer. Robb was winning battles in the North and I ended up exchanging three names with a Faceless Man. He was the reason we could escape Harranhal. He gave me a coin and then I ended up travelling with the Brotherhood without Banners and then with The Hound, Sandor Clegane. My list was still long at this point. I had used Needle a fair few times and would not fall asleep until I had recited my list in full. I was at the Red Wedding too but the Hound got me out. I saw his body paraded around." Arya couldn't bear to say Robb's name so she simply pointed at him with her blade.

"The Red Wedding, they called it, hmm," Robb scoffed under his breath.

"Lysa was dead by this point. Pushed through the moon door by Littlefinger but we travelled to the Eyrie so the Hound could ransom me as we did not know. I got Needle back then, and the first name from my list. Joffrey was dead and that was when I met Brienne and her squire Podrick. They were travelling in search of Sansa and I. Brienne fought the Hound and I robbed him as he lay dying and left on a ship to Braavos with coin the Faceless man had given me.

"I trained in the House of Black and White. I was blinded and learnt to fight in the dark. I struck another name off my list and I played the game of faces. I was nearly killed but in the end, I became Arya Stark of Winterfell. I served two Freys in a pie to Walder Frey before I took his face and struck off every male Frey there was left, avenging you. I returned to Winterfell and that is where my story ends. We fought for years and the we died in the crypts, the dead flooding South and the Night King in our face. Then I woke up."

Arya had never been too good with words and her recount was short and to the point. She didn't elaborate or over-indulged but she told the truth, as much as she was comfortable with.

"Thank you," Ned said after a pause. He sat back in his chair, wiping the moisture from his eyes. As Arya had spoken, she had undertaken a water dance, focusing on her movements and the blade instead of her mother's soft cries and Robb's unreadable face. As she had moved, Ned had seen how she would grow to a formidable warrior, both in this and her last life, and lamented briefly for the daughter he thought she would be. That was never going to be her, he reminded himself, transfixed by the way Arya's slim blade seemed to be an extension of herself. 

By the time Arya had finished her mesmerizing water dance, Ned realised that the moon hung high in the sky and it was well into the night. Sansa was fighting sleep, her head resting on Jon's shoulder whilst Bran and the Wildling were both snoring quietly from their respective seats. Ned wondered if either already knew Arya's story or were disinclined to care.

"We should all retire and reconvene on the morrow after breaking our fast. We shall follow today and reside in my solar until we have finish recounting all we knew," he told the room, groaning as he heaved himself up from his chair.

"I will show you to your rooms Lady Brienne, Tormund," Sansa said, pinching the skin on the back of her hand to wake her up. 

"No need Your Gr- mi'lady. I remember these walls well. Return to your Chambers and sleep. It is the least I can do in repaying my debt," Brienne said, opening the door and allowing her Ward to pass through.

"Debt?"

"We are alive once more mi'lady, no thanks to you and your family. There is nothing I could do that could repay you for what you did."

Sansa's cheeks coloured at the compliment. She valued Brienne highly and have the Knight speak such meaningfully praise made her smile. Sansa felt as though she had been rewarded by some higher power when she thought about the fact that Brienne had awoken with her memories.

Arya joined her sister and the Knight, leading the way as the Stark children left their Father's solar in search of their beds. "I wonder if anyone else woke up with memories."

The thought had been gnawing away on the edge of Sansa's mind all day. What if Cersei or Littlefinger had awoken with the same knowledge. Her advantage over them would disappear if they thought she knew all that they did.

"We can worry about that on the morrow, for now, let's appreciate that we can spend one more night in our bed at home," Jon's voice broke through her nervous thoughts. 

Home, Sansa thought. Winterfell with her love, her family and her loyal friends. All alive and well and breathing for now.

Chapter Text

Offran bustled around the room, stoking the fire, lighting the candles and opening the wooden shutters so that the morning light would be able to illuminate Sansa's room when the sun rose in an hour or so. The elderly chambermaid could just make out two bodies beneath the thick furs but Arya's snoring face made her bite back her smile.

The two Stark sisters were not usually so comfortable with each other but Offran did not complain at what she saw. She simply left Sansa's room for Arya's and brought back Arya's morning clothes so that the sisters would not have to part from each other. 

Offran did not know much about Gods and higher powers but something was happening to the Stark family. They had spent the entire day locked in the Lord's solar the day before, everyone from the Lord and Lady themselves to the bastard Snow. It was a good sign in Offran's mind and she prayed to the Gods that the family would continue to strengthen.

The chambermaid was gone by the time Sansa stirred. She blinked several times, willing the tears that were clouding her eyes not to fall. It was still dark out but Sansa could hear those in the courtyard beginning their day's work.

"It was real. We are alive," she whispered to herself but Arya groaned and rolled over. 

The two sisters had departed outside of Arya's room after leaving their Father's solar but by the time Sansa had walked back to her own chamber and opened the door, Arya had been sat on the furs on her bed with Needle in her hand.

"How did you manage that?" Sansa had asked, amused but glad that her sister would not part from her. She had been planning on sneaking in Arya's room anyway. She no longer liked to sleep alone and she couldn't risk being seen in Jon's chambers.

"I am small enough to walk through the gaps within the walls where the pipes are. I forgot I could do it, it has been years," Arya had replied, somehow already out of her dirty clothes and into a long sleeping gown. 

The two sisters had slept deeply, side by side and content.

"Arya, we need to rise," Sansa said gently, nudging her sister's shoulder.

Arya did not move. "Will you come with me to the Godswood?" Her voice was muffled by the fur her face was still buried in.

The two sisters had dressed quickly. Arya had a pair of Bran's breeches and Sansa had forgone the southern styled gowns that were hung up for her in favour of a simple grey gown cut in the traditional Northern style.

"I miss my boots," Arya said as they made their way through the still dark Winterfell for the Godswood. "They were like a second skin," she sighed happily, remembering the warm leather boots Sansa had  had made for her in their last lifetime. Even if she had travelled back with them, they would not fit her yet for several years.

"I suppose I can make you some breaches of your own. I would like to continue wearing the gowns I had when I was Queen," Sansa replied, lowering her voice as they entered the holy woods. "Why did you want to visit the tree? You never did in our last life?"

Arya pulled off her boots and rolled Bran's breeches up easily over her knees. Despite both Stark children being young again, Bran had always been taller than Arya and the breeches were hanging loosely from her frame, held up by a leather belt wrapped tightly around her hips.

"We were sent back to our childhood and we can change the outcome. I know Bran is practically one of the gods now but humour me, do you think he could have done this?" Arya sat on the bank of the hot springs and slid her pale feet into the steaming water as Sansa knelt to pray.

"Whomever or whatever sent us back deserves our prayers and thanks, whether that be Bran or not," Sansa told her.

"I wanted to know that this was real. I had never visited here much in the last life and I knew I could not fabricate it. I barely remember it. This was just confirmation for me," Arya told her praying sister, dipping Needle into the hot water and polishing the droplets off with a scrap of fabric she had brought with her.

Sansa made no effort to reply, still deep in prayer but she nodded, and smile breaking out on her lips and Arya knew she had heard her. 

The two sisters remained in the woods for near an hour; Arya in the hot springs and Sansa knelt in prayer. The only disturbance was their father crossing the Woods to kneel by Sansa shortly after they had arrived. He did not say anything and neither did the girls.

When the sun finally rose and the morning dawn broke above them, the light illuminating the crimson leaves of the heart tree, Ned finally stood up.

"My sweetlings. We are breaking our fast in my solar," he said, holding out a hand for Sansa who took it readily. He let Arya dry her feet and slip her boots back on before taking her hand as well. "I like your breeches Arya," Ned said with a wry grin.

"It's easier to move," Arya said quietly, shy at having her clothing choice scrutinised by her parents once more. 

"I am sewing her more breaches. I promise she won't keep stealing Bran's," Sansa said and Ned raised a bushy eyebrow as they left the Godswood for his solar.

"And where pray tell, will all of this fabric come from?" he asked.

"The gowns she already has. I have done it once before and I will do it once again," Sansa replied and Ned nodded, recognising that this was non-negotiable. 

"Your mother will not be happy."

"She wasn't last time but she should be happy I will not be ruining her dresses anymore," was all Arya said.

Ned sighed as they entered his solar. The daughters he could remember had been strong and fiercely independent but they were still his little girls who needed their father. The two daughters he had before him now were an assassin and a Queen. He wondered if he was resigned to the outskirts of their lives now that they had lived longer than he had.

The family was all in the solar already, waiting for the girls and Ned. The wild man and the giant Knight were seated along with the rest of the Starks already. Tormund was staring at Brienne with crazed eyes across the table and the Knight just ignored him, choosing to bow her head a little as Sansa and Arya entered. She caught herself just in time and bowed to Ned as well.

"So who is starting this morning?" Robb asked as they broke their fast together without conversation.

Jon cleared his throat and looked at Sansa who nodded. "I will and then I think Sansa should finish. Lady Brienne, if you would like, you and Tormund could explain what you remember after me." Jon's tone made it sound like a question.

Tormund was guzzling down milk from one of Wintertown's goats, as per Sansa's request to the kitchen. It was dripping from his lips into his beard and Catelyn looked as if she wished to take her knife and stab the wild man in the eye for his rudeness. 

With his mouth full of apple, Tormund grinned. "Aye, can do Crow," he said gruffly and Arya smirked at the way Robb went pale at the sight of the food half eaten in the man's mouth. She had long grown used to the wild man's lack of social etiquette. 

"My lord, I am not sure if I can add much. Jaime Lannister is all I could possibly talk about and he may not even remember me," Brienne said slowly. 

A sombre mood flooded through the room.

Sansa used her foot to nudge Jon under the table that had been set up by several servants for their breakfast. 

"I'll go..." Jon sighed, settling down his goblet and shifting his shoulders as if to ease the tension there. He desperately wished that he could hold Sansa's hand but Lady Catelyn had ensured that they were at nearly either ends of the table with herself, Tormund, Ned and Robb between them. Sansa gave him an encouraging smile and Jon set his shoulders back.

"I gave Arya her blade before she left for King's Landing. I suppose that's a good place to start. Then I left with Tyrion Lannister to the Wall for the Night's Watch. It had all but run itself into the ground and I ended up taking the black and becoming Jeor Mormont's steward. Met Sam. Samwell Tarly, I mean. He later went to the Citadel and found the records of my mother and Father's marriage and my birth."

Ned shifted in his seat at that but Catelyn laid a hand on his to still him.

"A ranger died and then became a wight. I burnt it and Jeor Mormont gave me his family's sword for saving his life." At that, Jon unsheathed Longclaw and laid it out on the table top.

"This is Valyrian steel," Robb breathed out in wonder. He let his fingertips dance across the flat of the blade in awe. "How is this with you now?"

Jon shrugged. "I have no clue. Arya still has Needle though so maybe..." Jon trailed off, not knowing how to finish the thought.

"Maybe they are with us for a reason," Arya said.

"Lady Brienne, do you still have Oathkeeper?" Sansa asked the Knight sat opposite her.

Brienne shook her head, dabbing the crumbs from her mouth with a frown. "No. I woke up in my armour but I didn't have my sword. I looked around and I checked but it was not with me."

"It is there," Bran said, looking at Ice resting against the hearth just behind them. "Ice has not been split yet."

Ned spluttered and looked at Bran with wide eyes. "Split? Ice? Who on Earth split Ice?"

"The Lannisters' after you died. Brienne had half, known as Oathkeeper and Jaime Lannister eventually had the other. He was a good man when he died Father," Sansa informed him, reaching across Bran at her left to touch her father's arm reassuringly.

"I pledged my sword to your wife and your daughters my Lord. The name of my blade was not chosen on a whim. I died protecting the House of Stark last time and I will again," Brienne told Ned who nodded grimly.

"In the end, both halves of Ice were fighting for the House Stark and for the living here in Winterfell, where Ice should have been."

Ned's lips thinned into a line but he turned back to Jon. "Continue Jon."

"I went beyond the wall and saw Old Man Craster leave his newborn son out in the woods. I became a prisoner of a Wildling woman," Jon frowned as Tormund grinned. "She died and I met Tormund. I returned to Castle Black with three arrows in me but I was killed by my own brothers. Stabbed through the heart. I was Lord Commander of the Night's Watch and my own brother's killed me. A Red Priestess resurrected me and then Sansa found me," Jon's voice had been hard and icy but as soon as he mentioned Sansa's name, Jon visibly relaxed.

"Theon had betrayed us and Roose Bolton's bastard had taken Winterfell. He had forced Sansa into marriage and... and..." Jon stopped, his fists balled and his teeth bared.

"And Theon paid for his mistake. Ramsay tortured him beyond belief. Theon helped me escape and he was willing to sacrifice himself to ensure that I made it to Jon at Castle Black," Sansa said, leaving no room for argument in her voice. 

"That is where myself and my squire Podrick found Lady Sansa. I pledged my sword to her and we went North to Castle Black," Brienne added. She looked thoughtfully into her goblet at the mention of her squire.

"But what of you both now that Winterfell was not the Starks?" Robb asked, leaning forward in his seat, eager to hear the rest. "I assume I am dead by this point." Robb had come to terms with his death the night before.

"You died before I did the first time," Jon nodded. "Sansa aided in the planning for the retaking of Winterfell. Without her and her connections to the Knights of the Vale, I would have died a second time being crushed by my men."

"How did you get the Knights of the Vale to ride for you?" Catelyn asked her daughter. She could hardly imagine all of the horrors her children had recounted, let alone Sansa on a Battlefield.

"Littlefinger moved his love for you Mother onto me. I will tell you later as this is still Jon's story."

"We reclaimed Winterfell and began thinking about the Long Night. By this time," Jon continued, "Cersei Lannister was sat upon the Iron Throne but my Aunt, Daenerys Targaryen was amassing an army and had three dragons. I went past the Wall to collect a white walker and bring it South to King's Landing to show before the Lannisters with several others. It was the only way to bring about a wave of peace and focus on the only war that mattered."

"Did you?" Robb asked, transfixed by the tale being told. "Capture a white walker?"

"Aye. Nearly died. Uncle Benjen sacrificed himself for me and then Daenerys flew in with her dragons. The Night King brought down one of the dragons and then raised it as his own ice monster but Cersei promised a temporary truce when she saw the walker. It didn't matter in the end though. The Night King flew that ice dragon down to King's Landing and burnt the place to the ground, Queen and every damned peasant included.

"We returned North and everyone sent their forces to Castle Black but the wall was brought down by that dragon. Daenerys lost another of her dragons when she fought and brought down the ice dragon. 

"I returned to Winterfell and we took in as many smallfolk and Noble houses as we could. We ended up with more than three-quarters of the North living within the keep. Sansa was named Queen in the North when Dany was killed at Castle Black. I rode Drogon, the last surviving dragon until he too died. We had heard Bran talking to Meera Reed about a vision he had had but he was unsure as to whether it was a true vision or not. About how to end the war.

"Tyrion Lannister ended up dousing Winterfell in wildfire and when the dead stormed the walls and the Night King was in the crypts, Sansa lit the fire and we awoke yesterday."

As Jon finished speaking, the room remained silent. Robb looked half-drunk as he slumped in his seat, having absorbed the onslaught of information.

"But how did you end up married?" Catelyn asked. "It seems as though there was little time between fighting the dead to conduct a ceremony."

"There were moments of peace Mother. A few moons in which we could recollect and rebuild," Arya came to her siblings' defence. "We are not talking about one turn of the sun. This was years Mother."

 Catelyn's Tully blue eyes turned on her eldest daughter, searching for an explanation. 

"Bran married us in the Godswood shortly after my ten and eighth nameday and just before Jon's twenty and one. I was named Queen in the North and Jon my King. It was a small ceremony, one that brought hope and a few days of happiness to all of those around us," Sansa told her mother. 

"Sansa, maybe it would be best if you retold your last life," Jon suggested, knowing Catelyn was having a hard time accepting everything that was being presented to her.

Sansa launched into her recount. She spoke about her life at King's Landing and then how she became well versed in the politics of the South under Cersei and Littlefinger. She told them of her sham marriage to Tyrion and then being taken away by Baelish and forced to pose as his bastard daughter. She glossed over her stay in the Eyrie and her aunt's death. After several calming breaths, Sansa told her family of her imprisonment at the hands of Ramsay Bolton and how Theon had helped her escape. She smiled fondly as she told them of her reunion with Jon and how they were able to learn who the other was now that they were older and could hardly remember the other.

"Bran arrived at Castle Black shortly after and told us of Jon's parentage. We were already spending every waking moment together, planning and strategizing on how we would retake Winterfell. I had not allowed myself to think about Jon after how badly my life had been up until that point. I knew we needed more troops and Petyr Baelish was our only hope. He was too wrapped up in thinking that he had the upper hand in every conversation that he had not looked at who I had become since we had left the Eyrie.

"I was taught by the Mad Queen Cersei Lannister and the Master of Whispers, Petyr Baelish himself in how to play the Game of Thrones and yet because of the child I had been, I was underestimated at every turn," Sansa said.

"Their loss," Arya scoffed.

"It was because of that that I knew I could do it. The Knights of the Vale rode for me. I killed Ramsay Bolton; I fed him to his own hounds and I would do it again in a heartbeat. We set up another glass garden and I reaffirmed the North's power and all of those who were allied to us. Jon was by my side every step of the way and then when Arya arrived at the gates of Winterfell, I knew we could survive."

"Where was Rickon?" Catelyn asked suddenly. The boy in question was now a babe once more, barely able to toddle around on his own two feet and was with his nursemaid as the Starks discussed their last life in the solar.

Jon's dark brows drew together in a thick line. "He was Ramsay's hostage and was killed before the Battle to retake Winterfell. We buried him in the crypts."

"He does not remember," Bran said and Catelyn nodded, her eyes were red but she had no more tears left to cry as she had been crying steadily for the past day. 

By the time Sansa had finished the recount of her final days and how the smallfolk, women and soldiers alike had fought bravely until their final moments, the sun was past its midpoint.

"We should return to our lives around the castle. There is already talk going around and we have to think of those who do not remember," Sansa said, rising from the table, easily falling into her previous role as Queen.

"You must remember that you are but a child here now my sweet," Ned told her, rest his large hand on her slender shoulders as he crossed to her side. "Go back to the child you once were."

Sansa reached up and wrapped her arms around her father's neck. It was difficult and she was on the tips of her toes but Ned helped her, wrapping her up in his arms and lifting her easily from the flagstone floor.

"We are going to survive father. I cannot be that empty-headed child once more. We will melt the Iron Throne and live out our days, happy and safe in the North," she whispered into his ear.

Sansa could feel the roughness of her Father's beard scratch against her cheek as he nodded and set her back on her feet. It made her miss Jon's facial hair and the way he used to kiss her forehead.

"What is it we can do now though my sweet?" Ned asked as the family left the solar one by one until only Jon and Catelyn remained, each waiting for their love.

"Three or more glass gardens and adequate food storages need to be built in Winterfell and the other Keeps. We should expand our guest quarters and begin stockpiling food with the other Northern Lords. Women from the small towns should be allowed to train with the knights, in either combat or self-defense. Lady Brienne could oversee those sessions with Arya's help," Sansa said, the ideas and plans she had thought of during her time of prayer in the Godswood that morning spilling off her tongue quickly. "We need to reaffirm ourselves as the wardens of the North. Weed out those who are unfaithful, like the Boltons and re-establish our alliances with the other great houses."

"And what shall we do of those who have done us so wrong?" Catelyn asked her daughter, resting a hand on her cheek. "Littlefinger and the Lannisters?"

"We cannot launch ourselves straight into the Game. We need to play it slowly. We need to find out where we are in terms of time and then we can plan but I should think we have a while. The main focus is to survive the Long Night and the subsequent Winter that will come," Sansa told her. "There will be no war of five kings again."

"Dragon-glass," Jon murmured, looking down at Longclaw as he sheathed the blade. "We should start mining Dragon-glass and forging it."

"Robert's bastard in Flea Bottom was a friend of Arya's," Ned said, his brows furrowed in thought and Sansa smiled.

"They were more than friends but you know how Arya is. She refused to settle into the life of a Lady and was resolute against the idea of marriage when we were fighting for our lives." Sansa's smile dropped and she sobered up. "Gendry died fighting a few days before our final day. Arya had to stab him through the heart with the weapon he had made her."

"Well he is alive now," Catelyn said, shaking her hands as if to rid herself of the mental image of Arya killing a man. "What do you want with him, Ned?"

Ned looked down at his wife and daughter. "He is the only legitimate heir to the Throne right now and he was a good smithy if I remember correctly. He is in danger if he stays in the South. We should have him set up his forge here, working alongside Mikken, and on the off chance he remembers, at least we have another ally."

"I'll draft a letter to send by a Raven on the morrow. All you will have to do is seal it, Father," Sansa told him and Ned smiled, cupping her cheek gently.

"You were a great Queen Sansa, I have no doubt about that, and you will be again, with all of your family by your side." His words sounded like a promise.

"Not until I have played the Game of Thrones," was all Sansa said in reply.

Chapter Text

Robb wandered about the keep, trying to calm his troublesome mind and find a moment's peace but there were people asking him to train with them, maids wondering if he needed anything and his siblings at every turn.

If it was not Sansa and his mother discussing the glass gardens with Maester Luwin, then it was Jon polishing his sword by Bran's side in front of the hearth in their shared living rooms. Theon had been nipping at Robb's heels once he had emerged from his father's solar, eager to spar with him and it hurt Robb to send him away to lead a practice with some of the bannermen, knowing how Theon's life ended in their last reincarnation.

Robb had been harsh and pulled his rank, sending Theon away with a few bitter words which had turned Theon's face into a mask of cold anger. He had regretted it instantly, knowing how he turned on him.

"You should tread carefully around him," Arya was suddenly beside her brother, scaring him into jumping back. "It was unavoidable but in the end, Theon died a Stark."

Robb placed a hand on his chest, willing his erratic heart to calm after his fright. "How did you do that?" 

Arya smirked up at him secretly. "You're afraid of me," she said, her voice still holding it's childlike tone but the words were delivered with the same confidence Arya had amassed after her training with the Faceless men. She doubted it would ever leave her now.

Robb's jaw tensed and the two stood shoulder to shoulder, overlooking the starting to men train in the yard below.

"I do not know you anymore Arya, that is all," Robb told her as if it were all that simple.

Arya's fingers were tracing patterns in the snow that had settled on the wooden banister in front of them. Robb watched as she drew a crude rendition of her small sword.

"I used to dream about being a Knight and fighting alongside you and Jon in battles when I was a child," Arya murmured and Robb had to bite his tongue to keep himself from blurting out that she was a child.

"When I walked into the House of Black and White, all I could think of was that this was not the fighter I was supposed to be. I was supposed to be dressed in Stark colours, direwolves on my armour and Ice in my hand. Sometimes I let myself imagine that I would ride Nymeria into battle rather than some horse," she finished quietly and Robb shuffled closer so he could catch her every word over the clash of the wooden swords below.

"You could do that in this life," he said encouragingly but Arya shook her head. "If that beast of a woman who pledged her sword to Sansa can become a Knight then so can you."

Arya turned and looked up at her brother. Whilst they hadn't been as close as Arya and Jon had been, Robb had been the one to teach Arya how to ride a horse and he had taught her how to string a bow, skills which had proved invaluable to her.

"Bran calls me an assassin. Says I am destined to have a sword in my hand but they aren't always my hands," Arya told him and frowned when Robb's eyebrows drew together and he pulled back slightly.

"Arya..."

"Do you know what the Faceless men do Robb? What they taught me?"

Robb screwed his eyes shut and grabbed Arya by the shoulders, crushing her to his torso and hugging her close.

"You don't have to use-" he began but Arya cut him off.

"I want to, and I want to tell you about it but only if you want to listen," Arya said, her voice muffled by Robb's leather tunic. "I used to talk to you when I was alone at night. You and Jon. Sometimes father as well but it was mainly you two. And then I found Jon again but..."

"I wasn't there," Robb finished for her. He pushed her away and crouched so that he could look into Arya's eyes. He could tell she was holding back tears and he almost wanted to laugh. Arya looked just like she had whenever he had refused to take her hunting or play Knights when they had been younger. 

If he continued to look, Robb could almost pretend nothing bad had ever happened. That he hadn't died and that Arya had not become a killer. That they had never left the safety of Winterfell.

"I am here now and I want to know Arya. I want you to talk to me just like you used to," he said earnestly, looking into her eyes and tilting his head as he smiled. "Tell me about your adventures across the Narrow Sea and I will listen. I promise."

Robb decided it would be easier for him to pretend that Arya's life story was just a fairytale-like those Old Nan used to tell them. He could pretend for now, as they walked towards Arya's room, that they were the children they had been before Jon Arryn's murder. He decided it was the only way he could truly cope with all that had happened.

"Sansa, sweetheart..." Catelyn stopped walking suddenly and looked down at her daughter, cupping her cheeks as stroking a thumb over her pale skin. "I am having trouble listening to you give orders like a Queen." 

They had been discussing the food supply that would be needed to feed the entire North during the oncoming winter. Whereas Catelyn's comments were hypothetical and based upon her mental calculations and what she had been told by others, Sansa's were definite answers with clear plans and tactics.

Sansa looked up into her mother's eyes. Where once she may have apologised, Sansa had grown to become a leader and the sudden jolt to being transported back to her thirteen year old self was difficult to adjust to. 

"I am Lady of Winterfell once more and you are my daughter," Catelyn said. "There are rules and society to think about now. You aren't a Queen anymore."

Sansa bristled. She couldn't begin to imagine how her mother must have felt but she knew she didn't like being told what to do like a child again. In her mind, she was still a woman who ruled over her people and led them into war. She was still married and relied upon for her knowledge and political strength.

Catelyn sighed, feeling her daughter stiffen and she released her. They had been walking through the glass gardens with Maester Luwin, listening to the man talk about the gardens and their creation.

"My Lady, if you wish for me to leave..." The maester left the sentence hanging and both Starks turned to him, having forgotten he was even there.

"There are higher powers at play Maester, forgive me if I hold onto my silence," Catelyn said. 

"I do not doubt in higher powers my Lady and I am here to serve and aid the House of Stark in any way I can. These changes are for the better I believe," the old man said, bowing his head slightly.

"Changes Maester?" Sansa inquired, wondering what the old man was hinting at.

The maester's face broke out into a smile, his eyes crinkling deeply. "The family is more united than before I feel. Whatever has happened, I pray that it only leads to good health. I feel as if it is my duty to inform you of the whispers in the corridors. That a Red Wolf and her Crow will ensure the North for the next generation to come. I cannot say who these rumours are about, just that tongues are wagging and faith in House Stark remains and has been strengthened by the family's united front."

Sansa raised an eyebrow, unsure as to whether the maester had been reborn alongside them but she doubted it. 

Brienne's arrival and public declaration to the Red Wolf was well known now throughout Winterfell and the surrounding villages and towns. Tormund's appearance and acceptance within the walls of Winterfell had also sent tongues wagging. Sansa knew of some of what the smallfolk were saying from overhearing the kitchen staff. A new era of House Stark was emerging, they were saying.

"I must take my leave mother, maester and see to my sewing," Sansa said, forcing her knees to bend as she dipped into a small curtsey. 

"Sansa, we have not finished speaking about this," Catelyn said, her tone leaving no room for doubt.

"I know mother," Sansa replied. "We will speak when I have finished, I promise."

Catelyn watched her daughter leave the gardens before she turned back to the waiting Maester. The man had delivered all five of her children and had been a constant touchstone within Winterfell's walls. To know he had died at the hands of Theon in their last life made Catelyn's blood boil.

She nodded to the man and gestured back to the plants growing around them. Whilst Sansa's authority had unnerved her, Catelyn could not deny how intelligent the girl was. By providing more glass gardens in the North, it would make the region more independent in their food supply and Catelyn held back a smile at the thought of her daughter being the mastermind behind the North's survival.

"Pray tell Maester Luwin, how long would it take several more glass gardens to be built here at Winterfell?"

"Come on!" Tormund cried, his grin bordering on psychotic as he walked circles around Brienne. "Let's show them how fighting is really done!" he added, slashing the wooden practise sword through the air as he spun on the balls of his feet.

Brienne rolled her eyes, struggling to contain the loud sigh she so desperately wanted to release. 

"Please Tormund, now is not the time," she tried to tell him but the Wildling was wound too tight, ready to release his pent up energy in some way or another right there and then.

The Starks' bannermen were in the yard, practicing their sword and shield skills in close combat under the watchful eye of Theon Greyjoy. Brienne and Tormund had found each other watching the soldiers, both finding faults in several.

Brienne kept her criticisms to herself, knowing she was saving herself trouble whereas Tormund was hurling abuse at the unseasoned boys, meaning well but all of the comments were harsh and Brienne knew Tormund's status as the guest of Lord Stark's was the only reason the soldiers hadn't turned on him.

Brienne reached out and grabbed the Wildman by the scruff of his furs, yanking him away from his tirade on a small shieldbearer. 

"Gods above will you shut up! You're going to get yourself killed," she sighed, roughly shoving him against the stone walls they were supposed to be standing against to keep out of the way of the practice.

Tormund grinned. "I didn't know you cared Big Woman."

Brienne wished she had Oathkeeper in her hand at that moment.

"Oh for gods' sake!" She pushed herself up from the upturned barrel she was sat on and grabbed a wooden sword out of one of the boy's hands.

"Hey!" the boy had begun to protest but Brienne towered over him and he scampered out for the way and she roared and turned quickly, striking out and clashing with Tormund's waiting sword.

The Wild man's eyes were twinkling as he put his weight behind his sword and pushed her back, her feet slipping on the snowy ground beneath her.

Brienne took the offensive and jabbed her sword towards his abdomen, groaning in annoyance as he stepped back and dance away, bringing his sword down and forcing her to block his moves.

The two circled each other, both breathing hard and glaring. The yard had gone still and quiet, every eye on them.

"Had enough?"

Brienne cried out again, her sword clashing with Tormund's several more times before she swore and used her foot to kick him back.

Tormund groaned as the wind was knocked out of him. "The Big Woman plays dirty," he said before he dropped to a crouch and then launched himself at her, tackling her to the floor. 

"Theon!" Jon shouted from the walkway. "What the fuck? Stop them!"

Theon was staring at the two as they got to their feet and continued to fight. Jon's voice shook him and he looked up.

"What's it to you Snow?" he goaded and Jon groaned as he descended the stairs, forgetting how Theon had been when they had been growing up. "Just a bit of mid-afternoon entertainment s'all."

"Give me your sword," Jon demanded when he was close enough, holding his hand out for the wooden sword Theon had been using before. "They will kill each other Theon!"

Theon scoffed and used the dull wooden blade to hit Longclaw that was sheathed to Jon's hip. "Looks like you've already got a good sword right there Snow." Jon made a noise in his throat that sounded like a growl and Theon shuffled back a few steps with his hands up in retreat, a smirk on his face as Brienne's bone-rattling battle cry echoed off of the stone walls. 

Jon swore under his breath and he turned, having no choice but to pull Longclaw out. He knew that in their last life once Tormund started to fight he wouldn't stop until his opponent could do no more. He doubted that the wooden swords they were using would pierce the skin but Brienne was returning each blow and each kick with more energy and anger than Jon had seen her display during any practice before. He had no doubt that they wouldn't stop until either one was down and would not rise or they were physically pulled apart.

Jon looked around the yard and snatched a battered old shield up, realising that those around them were just staring, too engrossed or frightened to step in.

"Tormund!" Jon shouted, banging the direwolf hilt of his sword on the shield. Tormund landed a kick to Brienne's breastplate, sending her into the arms of several of the training boys who scattered out of the way of her and her dull sword. She collapsed in the dirty snow with a loud groan.

Jon set his feet apart, evenly distributing his weight as he watched Tormund set his sights on him. Without pausing for a breath, the Wildman began to cry and charge for him, his dull sword raised high.

Jon used the shield to block the blow and engaged him with his sword. The Valyrian steel cut through the wood with ease and Jon had soon cut off the majority of the wooden blade but it didn't stop Tormund who used the hilt as a hammer and tried to land blow after blow to Jon's head. He succeeded once and Jon stumbled back, dizzy and slightly blind as blood trickled down his brow and into his left eye.

Jon threw his weight behind the shield and brought Tormund to the ground, knocking him back with a kick to the chest and a hit to the jaw with the wood before he brought Longclaw down and stopped it an inch away from the Wild man's pulsing neck.

"Stay down," he ordered, having to blink several times so that he could see the man through the blood. 

Tormund's chest was heaving and he had blood in his beard from a split lip but slowly his breathing evened out and a more sane look appeared in his eyes.

There was silence around the courtyard as Brienne finally stood up, blood and bruises marking her own face as she crossed to Jon's side.

"I cannot begin to apologise, my Lord," she said, dropping to one knee, colouring rising to her cheeks.

Jon stepped back, allowing himself to wipe at the cut on his forehead with a hiss. "Get up Brienne, I am not your Lord."

Jon looked around the yard, seeing for the first time how many people were watching from Theon and the bannermen to Ser Rodrik and his father upon the walkways. Arya and Robb had emerged from her chambers to see what the commotion was about and Bran was stood under the archway with Sansa by his side. 

"You would have killed each other," he told them as Tormund slowly got to his feet. Both fighters were a head or two taller than Jon now that they were weren't bent, ready to fight. "What were you thinking?"

"Needed the release," was all Tormund said, never one to apologise for his actions.

"I think the stress of the past few days made my mind snap for a moment or two my Lord," Brienne said quietly.

"Don't apologise to me," was all Jon said in reply as Sansa came rushing from under the archway to their sides.

"Jon? Brienne? Are you alright?" she asked quickly, looking over them both with quick, keen eyes.

"Sansa, you shouldn't be out here. You will muddy your pretty dress," Theon's voice halted whatever Jon had been about to say.

"Piss off Theon before I give my Sword another chance to kill a man today," Sansa replied coolly and Theon glances at Brienne for a second. His cocky grin made Jon reach for Longclaw again but a sharp look from Sansa halted his movements and his arms flopped to his sides uselessly. 

"Are you finished Greyjoy?" he asked, accepting the cloth Sansa gave him and he dabbed at his brow.

"Watch your tongue Snow," Theon said before looking at Tormund. "Willing to show some of these cock-suckers a thing or two about holding a sword?" he asked, gesturing to the crowd of boys he had been training before the fight.

"Not unless she is," Tormund said, a bite to his words that was easily picked up on. Theon looked the flustered Knight up and down with an unreadable expression until he finally inclined his head towards her and then to the bannermen.

Brienne looked incredulously back at him and then to Sansa for guidance.

"Tormund would be an invaluable help to you Theon and I am sure it would be beneficial for him to be out in the Northern air but Lady Brienne will be teaching the women with my sister so her time is otherwise taken I am afraid," Sansa said, sounding anything but sorry.

Theon's eyebrows raised. "The women? And with Arya? Good luck with that," he scoffed, turning back to his men and barking orders to them.

Tormund was making a growling noise. "She'll snap you like a twig boy," he shouted and Theon hunched his shoulders but did not look back.

"Stop it," Jon ordered the Wildman who subdued after a moment or two. "We cannot go around making more enemies than we had last time."

"Go see Maester Luwin Jon, and take those two with you," Sansa said, placing a hand on his arm as she looked up at her father and Ser Rodrik who were talking above them on the walkway. 

"Is that an order from a Queen?" Jon replied with a bloody grin, his teeth stained red from the blood that had trickled down the side of his face from his wound.

"From your wife," Sansa replied so quietly that only Jon could hear.

"Yes, my love."

The Walk through the castle to the Maester's rooms was tense but when he saw Catelyn waiting in front of the Maester's door with a sleeping Rickon in her arms, Jon wished the frosty walk with a fuming Brienne and a pissed off Tormund had continued for a lifetime.

"Lady Brienne," Catelyn nodded, allowing the woman to pass so that the maester could see to her minor injuries. She looked coolly at Tormund who sniffed and continued walking into the chambers. The two had taken to ignoring the other in order to keep the peace. "Jon."

Jon wanted to wipe at the dried blood on his face but he remained frozen, hand on Longclaw's pommel as Lady Catelyn began to walk towards the glass gardens. She inclined her head and Jon followed quietly, not wanting to be the first to talk or wake the baby. 

They walked through the stone corridor until it became walls of glass and the temperature rose and the air became sticky and hot. Jon had not frequented the gardens in either of his lives. Without speaking, Catelyn led him through the more common foods such as potatoes and root vegetables and through to the other side of the gardens where the herbs, flowers and more exotic flora were growing.

They stopped under a clump of lemon trees and the smell made Jon think of Sansa instantly. It must have shown on his face because Lady Catelyn sat on a small bench hidden under the canopy and frowned down at her sleeping son.

"I used to come here before I left with Robb and whilst the girls were in King's Landing. I would sit here with Rickon and pray that the girls were safe and that Bran would wake and that Robb would be a good King."

Jon remained standing, his boots shifting in the soft soil beneath his feet. He didn't know if it was the warmth in the gardens or his own anxieties but he wished he could take off his heavy cloak as he was beginning to sweat.

"Lemons were always her favourite. Before she was born, we only had one tree and rarely did Ned and I indulge in anything made with the fruit that wasn't medicinal. For Sansa's fourth name day, the cook made a small batch of lemon cakes and Sansa ate all of them. She asked for them daily and I came out here and ordered for three more trees to be planted, just so that we would have enough to supply her demand."

Jon didn't know what to say so he remained quiet. He could just about remember that name day and how she had not let anyone else try the lemon cakes. 

Lady Catelyn stroked her finger down Rickon's nose bridge. "I am sorry."

"There is no need Lady Stark," Jon began but he relapsed in silence when Catelyn held up her hand.

"I am your aunt Jon, please, call me Catelyn. I transferred the anger I felt towards my husband on to you. I had promised myself that I would never love him after he brought you into our home but as I watched you grow with Robb, I so desperately wanted a daughter that would grow protected by her two older brothers, just like your mother had been."

Jon shifted uncomfortably, feeling as if he had no right to listen to Catelyn's confession but she continued regardless.

"It took us several moons to return to a fraction of what we had shared before. Sansa was a blessing from the Gods when she arrived and she healed us in a way I don't think we could have done alone," she said, still only looking at Rickon's peaceful face bundled up in her arms.

"I should have been a better mother to you," she said finally.

"I am glad you weren't," Jon replied instantly. "I will never know another love like that I have for your daughter and I understand that it looks sinful," he spat out the word harshly, breathing deeply as he remembered just how difficult it would be now that they were thought of as siblings again. "But I love her beyond words Lady Catelyn."

"I know," Catelyn said after several moments of quiet. "Sit with me, Nephew."

Jon slowly walked to sit beside her. She shifted Rickon in her arms so that his head was resting in the crooks of her other arm, closer to Jon. 

"You were a good brother to four of my children and I know you were and will be a good husband to my daughter."

That was all Jon needed to hear and he began to quietly cry as he sat with Catelyn under the lemon trees. 

"The lone wolf dies Jon..." Catelyn murmured.

"But the pack survives," Jon finished.

Chapter Text

Sansa climbed the stairs to the walkway where she had seen her father last. 

Ser Rodrik had met her halfway and allowed her to pass before descending in silence back towards the training ground, leaving Sansa alone in her search.

A cold wind was blowing the ends of her hair around and Sansa was grateful for her thick cloak as she climbed past the walkways and towards the walls that ran around Winterfell.

A sudden memory hit her and she lost her breath. 

Ned was stood with his back to her overlooking the snow-covered land that lay beyond the walls of the keep. Sansa briefly thought him to be Jon with so much conviction she nearly cried. She had always been able to find him in the exact same spot overlooking the barren icy lands in their last life when they had been King and Queen.

Ned turned his head at the sound of a small sob, catching sight of his eldest daughter staring at him as though she had seen a ghost.

She has. You are a ghost to her, a voice inside his head told him.

"Sansa, my sweetling," Ned said, holding out the side of his cloak in invitation.

Without hesitation, Sansa walked to him and buried herself in his side, allowing him to drop his cloak around her envelope her in his warmth. She could barely see over the wall but it didn't matter, she already knew what was waiting for them out there.

"I wrote the letter father." Sansa handed Ned a small scroll and her father unrolled it to read the delicate writing that mimicked his own when he put the effort into his penmanship. "All you have to do is seal it and then send it with a raven."

Ned grinned down at her. "I take it you want me to read it, otherwise I would have assumed you'd have sealed and sent it yourself since you've used my handwriting and all."

Sansa blushed and pressed her nose to her father's side. She wanted him to be involved and should have guessed he would read her need for his approval easily.

I, Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell hereby request the presence of any young blacksmiths you have under your charge to apprentice under my Smith here at Winterfell. The price of his horse and tavern will be covered by my House on his journey North. Refusal to send your smithy will result in ill-faith from a Northern Lord and all of those he is allied with. Rest assured you will have no use of a forge if my request is refused. 

Ned's brows rose as he read Sansa's letter. The threat was not hidden within the words and he was unsure of her decision to include it so plainly.

"Sansa, my sweet, you may be threatening the man here," he told her.

"I am threatening the man. Gendry was the only Smith capable of forging the dragon-glass last time. And besides, he may remember don't forget," she told him and Ned nodded.

"And if he doesn't?"

"I'm sure Arya can still charm him in that special little way of hers," she replied lightly.

"Sansa." Somehow her father managed to convey so much warning in just her name.

"I do not know Father. I cannot bear to think who might have woken up as we did," was all she said. 

Ned patted her back and rolled the scroll back up. "I will send this before the sun sets. How much will I be out of pocket by the time the boy comes?"

"I'm not sure father, I've never ambled along the King's Road if you dare to believe. It shouldn't take him more than a month or so should it?" Sansa asked.

"Who knows how time works anymore," Ned said quietly, returning to look out over the landscape.

The Starks settled into a routine after a week. They broke their fast together with their people in the Great Hall and attended to their duties around Winterfell.

Sansa and Arya stopped having lessons with Septa Mordane and instead began filling their days with things they each deemed more useful, much to their mother and the septa’s annoyance.

For Arya, that was training with her brothers and Brienne. She was slowly returning to her previous peak as she got used to her smaller, lighter body. Arya also began to sit with Bran in the Godswood and would just watch over him as he returned to warging; first with small insects and then with the Ravens. Hodor joined them sometimes, quietly going about menial tasks in the company or swimming in the waters.

Sansa spent her days altering her sister's clothes into more Arya-friendly styles and starting to order all they would need to create more glass gardens from their allies closer to the capital. She spread her communications around, ensuring that each person sending either glass, produce or labour would not become suspicious of Winterfell's plans. 

Catelyn and Ned returned to their previous duties as Lord and Lady with ease. They held court with the smallfolk and Catelyn began overseeing the repairs to the Broken Tower. She had plans for it after it’s restoration.

Ned took his children and Theon hunting in the woods one afternoon when the sky was clear. He followed the same route they had used when they had found the direwolves in their last lives and he taught his brood how to read the land around them, just like his own father had taught him. It fell on deaf ears to Arya and Bran who already knew how to survive in forests, but it was time spent together.

Robb had begun to follow Arya's advice and slowly his attitude towards Theon changed. He couldn't imagine the Greyjoy to become the shell of a man his sisters had described him to be and despite his faults, Robb loved Theon like a brother and was determined to see him through. They spent more time together, both with and without Jon, acting like the brothers they were supposed to be.

Jon, on the other hand, slipped to the crypts most mornings after waking to stare at his mother's statue. He and Tormund practised their sword skills to an audience before the midday sun most days and then he would either pester his siblings or seek out Sansa.

"My love," Jon called out softly, knowing Sansa was somewhere within the library. He had chased out a squire and locked the main door after getting confirmation that she was somewhere between the shelves. 

"This is a library, Jon," Sansa's voice echoed off the books. "You are supposed to come here to read."

Jon laughed quietly to himself. "Sam said the same thing to me once." He walked down the main aisle, his eyes sweeping from left to right until he saw her red hair creating a curtain around her face as she poured over a tiny, clothbound manuscript on the table in front of her.

"Septa Mordane has been following my every move," she told him as he sat across from her and laid his hand on hers. "Apparently I need a chaperone now that my lessons have stopped so that I do not forget the duties of a Lady."

Jon rubbed the pad of his thumb over her knuckles. "Thankfully, someone took care of that. She was desperately needed in the Sept and an unfortunate wind blew down a tapestry. I doubt she will be able to leave, what with the iron rail through the door handle," he teased and he was rewarded with Sansa's bright smile. "What are you reading about?"

Sansa closed the manuscript and pushed it aside so that she could take Jon's hand in her own. "It was Maester Luwin's records of the sennight or so it took to install a glass garden at Moat Caitlin when my Father was just a boy. It's helping me alter my timings and what we might need."

"Always thinking of your people," Jon murmured, amazed at Sansa's determination to have more glass gardens built and functioning before the moon completed its cycle.

"Always thinking of you," she corrected him. "This is something that will benefit us all." 

The handle to the library rattled and the couple heard the mutterings of a disgruntled maid on the other side of the wood. 

"What news of Gendry?" Jon asked, knowing that their time was to be cut short once the maid arrived with Ser Rodrik and his master key.

"He set off two days ago and should be here in a moon's turn. I am unsure as to whether he remembers or not," Sansa told him, slipping the small manuscript into a pocket in her dress.

Jon nodded and then looked into her eyes. "May I kiss you?"

Sansa reached out and touched his cheek, revelling in the soft prickle of hair that greeted her. "You need not ask."

"It is just that..."

Sansa raised an eyebrow. "That...?" she prompted.

"That you no longer look like my wife," Jon said, shame filling his gut as Sansa's fingers on his cheek stilled.

"And you don't look like my husband but I know who you are inside Jon. We should take things slow and carefully. We cannot be seen together like this when all of those around us think of you as my brother. Our behaviour is already talked about by the servants as being strange," she told him and Jon nodded in agreement having overheard Robb's squire inquire about them that morning. At this age in their last life, the two barely spoke to each other, let alone spent any time together. The change had been seen.

"You should have a chaperone. I cannot bear to be away from you and if it is the only way we can be by each other's side, then so be it."

Sansa smiled, tracing the outline of Jon's jaw. She slowly leant over the table and pressed a soft, almost tentative kiss to his lips for a few seconds before pulling back and standing behind her chair.

"I am ten and three once more and you, ten and six. We are to court like any other couple our age would. I agree that a chaperone would be a good idea but not Septa Mordane or Jory Cassle. One of our siblings or Lady Brienne," Sansa suggested, pulling Jon up by his arm and pushing him towards the second, lesser-used door on the other side of the room as the lock began to rattle on the other.

Ser Rodrik's voice boomed on the other side of the door as he spoke to the maid. 

"Go and release the Septa, Jon," Sansa whispered, pushing him through the door. "Make yourself useful and stop tempting me."

"The same goes for you pretty girl," he grinned, stealing a quick kiss before running from the library to find Arya to shoot some arrows with, deciding that the meddling Septa could survive a few more hours, leaving Sansa grinning to herself as Rodrik finally got the other door to open with a bang.

"Mi'Lady. I apologise," the maid bowed, a bucket of soapy water nearly dropping from her hands when she saw Sansa stood in the middle of the library aisle. "I've been sent to wash the floors. I did not know you was in here," she apologised, dipping her head and Sansa smiled at her.

"I'm sorry for locking the door. My sister has been annoying me all morning and I simply wanted to read in peace," she lied quickly to the young woman, running her tongue over her lips when she had finished.

"I will be leaving you alone then mi'lady," the maid began to turn.

"Wait, it would be nice to have someone to read to. Have you ever heard of the tale of Visenya Targaryen and her sword 'dark sister'?" Sansa asked, plucking a well-worn leather-bound book off of the shelf and opening it to the story in question.

"No mi'lady," the maid answer. "But I would be most grateful to hear it as I work." 

Chapter Text

The moon had completed its' cycle and despite it being thirty days since she had first woke up in her childhood bed rather than within her grave, Arya still had to run to the polished silver mirror and stare at her reflection for several moments to determine that she truly was a child once more.

She would pull up her sleeping shirt and check to see whether the scars on her stomach the Waif had inflicted were truly gone. It wasn't until she could see the smooth, unmarred skin of her torso that she would allow herself to relax, realizing it was all true.

Arya turned back to her bed and clambered back into the warm furs, savouring the feel of the indulgent mattress under her knees as she crawled up towards her pillows. Her bed was too large for just herself and could have easily fitted both her and Sansa, with probably just enough room for their father to lay on his back without disturbing them too much.

The light from the sunrise was already spilling into her room, but it had yet to light the entire chamber and so Arya let herself fall back to sleep to the sounds of her sister washing in the connecting room.

The two Stark sisters shared an antechamber between their chambers in which they would spend their free time. It had a tapestry of a pack of direwolves on one side of the room and three tall windows on the opposite facing wall, each with their own seats carved out of the granite wall underneath. A fire had always been lit in the fireplace and it provided the room with a cozy warmth.

In her previous life, Sansa had always had a large copper tub brought to the chamber and filled with water boiled on the small hearth within to bathe. There had been a flurry of maids and ladies helping her scrub her hair or wash her skin. The luxuries of being waited on hand and foot had ceased when she had become Queen. She had called for her people to turn to more useful tasks like repairing armour and finding wood for the fires that were so desperately needed, rather than aiding a woman who could look after herself.

Sansa poured the final pot of boiling water into the tub, blinking at the steam rose in her face. Robb and Jon had lugged the heavy copper from their mother's chambers before retiring for bed the night before. Sansa had found that since returning, she preferred to do all that she could do rather than wait for a steward or maid.

It was technically summer in the North but a fresh dusting of snow had fallen in the night. Sansa tugged on her boots and a thick, plain cloak before hooking the pot on the crook of her elbow, resting the cooling metal on her hip bone, protected by the cloak, and she left the chambers to the small section of the yard that was just outside their rooms.

Sansa knelt in the powder and scooped up several handfuls of snow to add to the boiling bath to cool it quicker. The dogs in the kennels were just across the yard and were noisily moving about, waiting for their handler to arrive and take them out hunting in the woods.

Sansa smiled at the pups and stood up, taking a few moments to brush the snow from her cloak. She bent down to pick up the pot when the guards at the South gate began to open it with some commotion.

Sansa pulled the hood of her cloak up and over her tell-tale red hair, melting back into the wall with her pot as the guards let a horse pass into the yard. She could have been mistaken for a maid gathering snow if they didn't look at her tailored cloak too hard.

A young man was bundled up in ill-fitting fabric and he slowly dismounted, patting his sides to ensure his tattered canvas bag was still slung around his neck. A stable boy came running through the yard and took the reigns from the stranger as the guards closed the gate.

Sansa watched with cool eyes as the stranger unhooked a leather bag from the saddle and tugged it off of the horses back so that it landed in a pile at his feet.

Gendry pulled the fabric back from his mouth and looked around, stamping his feet to fight back the early morning chill. The guards had resumed their posts and the stable boy had led the tired horse to the stables, leaving him alone in the snow.

"Hello," he called out to the maid who was looking at him. She had the bluest of eyes. "I am looking for the Lord. I was sent for..." he continued as the girl stared at him. "Do you know where I can find any of the Starks?"

Sansa walked to him, looking his tall frame up and down. His hair was long and shaggy, protruding out of his hood and into his eyes. She couldn't tell if he had finished growing or not due to her own reduced height but if he towered over her, he would swamp Arya's tiny frame.

"Which Stark are you looking for again? You will have to be more specific as there are plenty here," Sansa asked him, using her higher voice to her advantage. She didn't meet Gendry's eye, wanting to assess as much as she could before revealing herself. She wasn't certain he would know her when she looked as young as she did if he remembered at all.

"Uh..." Gendry rubbed his chin. He had fished the scroll he had received out from his canvas bag but he didn't open it. "There ever been a..."

"BRAN!" Catelyn's shriek cut off whatever Gendry had been about to say. She was crossing the yard and had happened to look up and see Bran confidently climbing over the flat roof of the Smithy.

"What in the name of the Seven do you think you are doing? Climbing those godforsaken walls?" she hitched up her skirts and stormed closer to the two in the yard but her steely gaze was still fixed on Bran as he dropped to the snowy ground with ease.

Bran remained near the Smithy, looking through the eyes of the Raven and it unnerved Catelyn so she turned her anger onto her daughter.

"Sansa! You know what happened last time. Your brother climbing the walls and yet you say nothing to him?" Catelyn had seen her daughter greet the young man from across the yard as she left the main halls. She had been on her way to welcome him herself but hung back, pretending to inspect the bakers' work as Sansa approached the boy.

"Sansa?" Gendry said in surprise. "I apologize, my lady."

"Mother. Nothing has happened to Bran," Sansa said with eyes that conveyed more warning that was acceptable for a daughter to her mother. "I was collecting snow for my bath when I saw Gendry arrive. I didn't even see Bran."

"You know my name," Gendry let slip but neither of the Stark women seemed to notice.

Catelyn's shoulders slid back and she stood to her full height, taking advantage of the inch she had over her daughter. It wouldn't be long before it disappeared and Sansa eclipsed her mother.

"The child of a Lord should not be climbing the castle walls and a Lady would know that."

Sansa's face became a mask, like marble in a heartbeat. She looked calmer than she had before and it chilled Gendry to the bone.

"A Queen would ensure her family was thriving Mother. She would allow them to explore the world in the best way they see fit. Perhaps Bran is supposed to watch from above just like Arya is supposed to fight with her Needle," said Sansa and Catelyn's face morphed into an ill-hidden scowl.

"Arya?" Gendry echoed.

"Yes, my sister." Sansa smiled, still trying to work out as to whether Gendry remembered or not. "She will be breaking her fast in the Great Hall when she wakes up in an hour or so. I can show you to your rooms and let you freshen up before you meet her, and my brother will show you around Winterfell later on today."

"Lord Stark sent for me. Should I not introduce myself to him?" Gendry asked Sansa.

Catelyn made a scoffing noise and turned to properly look at the smith. She took note of his scuffed leather shoes that looked too tight and the multiple clothes he seemed to be wearing all at once, all from different regions of Westeros. He seemed to have added more clothes to his travelling attire as he journeyed North. She didn't say anything about his appearance but her opinion was clear to see on her face and she turned on her heel and left, leaving Sansa to exhale sharply.

"I haven't got the proper clothing for the North, I know, but I figured I'd be working in the forgery all day and wouldn't need to put Lord Stark further out of pocket so I just bought a couple of items when it became too cold to ride properly until I made it here," Gendry explained, his cheeks warming as he looked down at the myriad of clothes he had collected on his month's trip.

Sansa smiled at him and looked back at Bran who was still stood watching them. She let her hood drop and picked up her pot of snow. "I have to return to my chambers but my brother can show you to your rooms Gendry."

Gendry nodded along as Sansa walked back the way she had come before he had arrived. "Alright. Sure," he said warily as they got closer to Bran. "His eyes are white? Is that normal?"

Sansa's lips quirked and she nodded. She looked up around the walls and saw a large Raven sat watching them. Since Bran had returned to warging, he usually spent most of his days soaring through the skies above Winterfell.

"You will get used to it," Sansa reassured the smith.

"It is good you did not stay long in Riverrun. You would have made the Brotherhood without Banners an afternoons worth of entertainment with the fight for your hammer," Bran said, his ominous tone making Gendry's eyebrows raise in alarm.

"How di- how did you know about my hammer," Gendry stammered, his right hand automatically seeking out the bulk of the weapon's head and cradling it through the canvas sack.

"You will get used to that as well," Sansa teased. "Gendry. Bran," she said, dipping her head and slipping back to her chamber with the snow and leaving the two just standing before the forge, looking at each other strangely.

Arya slipped onto the bench between her eldest brothers, elbowing Jon in the side and forcing him to shuffle along and give her more space.

"There is space next to me Arya," Robb laughed, gesturing to his empty left-hand side. "And this entire table is free," he reminded her. They were sat at the table dressed for the Starks on a raised platform near the back of the hall. No one else would sit there besides the family and there was always room.

"But then I would not be sat next to Jon," she said as if it was obvious in reply, already spooning steaming oats into a bowl.

The two brothers shared a look over her head.

"Stop that," Arya demanded without looking up from the small fruit selection.

"I heard the Smith arrived," Robb said, his tone one of conversation but he winked at Jon above Arya's head as she stiffened, her spoon frozen in the air. Robb had been eager to meet the Smithy who Arya refused to talk about.

"Bran showed him to his rooms apparently. Lady Catelyn does not think much of his wardrobe according to Sansa," Jon told him and Arya set her spoon down with too much force, nearly upending the bowl.

"Watch it," Theon said as he dropped into the seat opposite her. "Waste of good oats."

"Piss off all three of you," Arya hissed and the boys shared a bemused look between themselves. "I've always wondered what it would be like to have facial hair. Maybe I'll try it out before the end of the day," she said in a sing-song voice, looking up at Robb and Jon's beginnings of beards as Theon laughed obliviously.

Robb gulped as he set his goblet down, his appetite having left him all of a sudden.

The early meals of the day at Winterfell were served whenever the first man rose til whenever the Lord began his day's work. It was a casual affair in which maids, squires, soldiers, and the Starks would sit together in the Great Hall at their tables and eat with others before starting their day. The fact that neither Lord or Lady Stark had arrived yet made Arya suspicious.

"Where is Sansa? She was bathing when I left but she cannot have broken her fast already," Arya wondered aloud.

"She hasn't eaten yet?" Jon asked.

"At least she used that bloody bath," Robb muttered, still sore over carrying it. "She'll be on her way. She's a big girl and I am sure she has not forgotten where the food is served."

"What is it to you anyway Snow?" Theon asked through his half-chewed mouthful of bread.

Jon glared at him. He couldn't bring himself to parrot the lie about Sansa being his sister so he remained quiet. It was too early in the day to fall out with the Greyjoy.

"Well anyway, Wintertown tonight boys," Theon said with a wicked grin. Robb and Jon squirmed in their seats. "Let's see if Snow can finally man up shall we," he teased.

"Don't talk like that in front of Arya," Robb warned, reminding Theon of the young girl sat glaring at him.

"She's half-wild as it is," Theon shrugged in reply before crying out in pain.

Arya had kicked his shin under the table. "Don't be stupid Theon," she warned him.

Tormund was suddenly next to Theon before he could answer, reaching for the large serving bowl of eggs and pulling it in front of him. "What's with all the shrieking?" he asked, using his spoon to shovel the eggs directly into his mouth from the bowl.

Theon was about to say something when he turned and saw just who had sat next to him. Ever since Brienne and Tormund's scrap in the yard, the Greyjoy had become quiet and respectful whenever the Wild Man was around. He only acted the same way when in the company of Ned.

"Nothing, a miscommunication was all," he said. "Will you be training with me and the bannermen this morning?"

"Suppose. There's fuck all else to do."

 After Bran had led Gendry to his rooms in the guest house near Brienne's and Tormund's, he left to seek out his father in the Godswood. 

Ned had taken solace in the holy lands, polishing his greatsword and staring into the black water below the heart tree. Bran had watched through time as his father had died at the hands of the Lannisters. He could clearly remember the anguished look etched into Ned's brow but Bran didn't think his father had ever looked so tired in all of his life. In either of them.

"My son, how are you," Ned asked when Bran stepped into his vision.

"Gendry has arrived," Bran said in reply. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. It still took him a few moments to process that he was standing on his own two feet in his timeline. He wasn't watching through the eyes of the raven. He wasn't strapped to Hodor's back. He didn't need his chair.

"Why are you shifting like you have something more to say?" Ned asked with a patient smile. He set Ice down softly on the leafy ground before turning his full attention to his son. "Is this a raven thing?"

Ned had taken everything his children had thrown at him in his stride and Bran's short explanation, followed by Sansa and Arya's confused ones about who he had become, and still was, had not ruffled Ned's feathers. On the contrary, Ned wanted to know all that Bran would allow him. He was fascinated that his son, his tiny barely ten-year-old son could see Ned's own birth and death if it pleased him to do so. 

"Do you know of Daenerys Targaryen?"

Ned felt his forehead crinkle as he tried to remember the name. "I think I knew of a Targaryen babe across the Narrow Sea. Are we talking about the same girl?"

Bran nodded, his long hair falling into his eyes. He would have Sansa cut it like she used to so he could see better. "She is going to be married off to a Dothraki king in a few months. Around the same time, we have a deserter from the Nights' Watch flee."

Ned could remember the event in question. He could remember feeling cold to the bone as the boy gibbered about nightwalkers and death. He had had an inkling that the boy had been telling the truth.

"What are we to do about that? She becomes another enemy I suppose."

"She will but she will be our strongest ally before that. If Jon's parentage is revealed earlier than before, it could sway her in our favour but she is not..." Bran hesitated, thinking of the right word. He had not been able to see Daenerys' final moments. There were blurry and the situations he did find himself seemed odd and unfathomable. He resigned himself to holding back for a while. They still had years before Daenerys would be their greatest foe.

"They used to say that when a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin and wait to see which side it will land on," Ned said somberly, understanding exactly what Bran was trying to say. "Did anyone ever tell you about your grandfather and Uncle Brandon?" 

Bran's lips twitched into a frown for a moment as he debated with himself. "I've seen it happen, Father, there is no need to pick at old wounds."

Ned shook his head and pulled his son down to the fallen log and into his side, wrapping him up in his cloak. "The Kingslayer did a great service to our family that day and I swore to myself if there were to be another Dragon I would defend the North and my family till my dying breath. If not for my honour then for my father and brother."

"No more talk about dying, Father. We can see if Brienne and Arya are starting to train." Bran said suddenly, lifting his father's souring mood. "You haven't seen Arya with a sword in her hand yet have you?"

Ned slid his fingers around Ice's hilt slowly, savouring in the weight of the blade and the way the sunlight glinted off of the Valyrian steel. He stood up slowly, pushing off his knees and sheathing the blade. "You are right. The day is escaping us and the Gods will be here tomorrow. I want to see my daughter train."

"My good lady," Septa Mordane began quietly as Catelyn Stark waved her into her chambers. "I have only the best interest of the children in mind when I suggest that Sansa should be fostered in another Northen keep."

Catelyn folded her hands into her lap and ran her tongue over the back of her teeth. The Septa had cornered her soon after she had broken her fast that morning, pleading for Cat to reintroduce her daughters to their lessons.

"Septa, what you are suggesting is removing my daughter from me and sending her half-way across the North," Catelyn said, not turning to her head to the woman hovering near the door.

"She needs to be chaperoned, my Lady. The only daughter of a Lord should have adequate lessons and her brothers are not the correct company for a girl aiming to marry a prince. The bastard Snow is becoming bolder in his speech when he is with her, my lady," the Septa said quickly, rushing through the words in fear that Catelyn would command her silence.

"I have another daughter, Septa." The cool voice of Catelyn Stark made the Septa stand with a straighter spine. "Sansa is not a girl who will be married to the first prince who asks for her. She is a Northen girl and free to chose her own destiny."

"But the bastard Snow..."

"Ensure that I do not hear you utter those words again Septa. He is the son of a Stark," she said fiercely, turning and rounding on the old woman. "I will take into consideration the way you feel about my daughter but she will not be leaving Winterfell."

Septa Mordane wrung her bony fingers. "She should not be around so many young men who are not of her blood. The bannermen are becoming bolder, not to mention Snow, Greyjoy and now there is a new Smithy. Her reputation will be tarnished if she remains unsupervised around them," she added as a last-ditch attempt to bring the Lady around to her point.

"Her sworn sword will remain with her. Does that satisfy you now?" Catelyn asked. "The Wildman would probably accompany Lady Brienne and Arya has become her sister's shadow. Sansa is very rarely without a chaperone or company these days."

The Septa remained silent, her face stony and her faint eyebrows pursed but she nodded begrudgingly.

"Please latch the door when you leave," Catelyn told the woman, dismissing her easily as she turned back to her writing on her desk.

She listened as the Septa's footsteps echoed off of the flagstone and then the door swung open and closed without a word. When she was certain she was alone, Catelyn reached for the untouched jug of wine and poured herself a hearty glass and took several gulps of the rich, crimson alcohol.

It dribbled and tricked down the sides of her mouth and when she had drained the glass, Catelyn wiped at her chin with the back of her hand and set it down without care. The foot of the goblet landed on the parchment she had been writing on, the spilt liquid seeping into the fibres and mixing with the still wet ink.

Catelyn had been watching her children more closely, both biological and not since she had reawakened. She watched silently as Bran clambered higher along the castle walls then he had ever done before. Robb had slipped off to Wintertown with Theon on more than one occasion as the night fell. Jon and Sansa had allowed themselves to spend more time together around the castle. Catelyn couldn't deny that if she hadn't known they were in love, she wouldn't have known it, but the sight of her daughter walking or talking to Jon made something jump inside of her.

The most worrying thing that Catelyn had wandered upon had been Arya and her small blade. She had been in a lesser-used room that had once been used for talks with foreign lords. It was now packed with the forgotten or broken furniture that hadn't been restored or was waiting to be chopped down into firewood. Catelyn had watched with wide eyes as her daughter danced with her sword, fighting invisible enemies with startling accuracy. Arya had her back to the door where her mother was watching from and when she pivoted on the ball of her foot and swiped through the air, Catelyn bit her tongue to hold back the gasp she had made. Arya had tied a strip of fabric around her eyes and was weaving through the tables and chairs she had scattered around the room with startling ease.

It had only been a month since Arya had woken up in her younger body and Catelyn feared what Arya would become if she was already this vicious.

She used to pray for the safety of her daughters when they had been South in the viper's nest but Catelyn knew that they no longer needed her prayers, she would only be wasting her breath. If she was to pray for anybody's safety, it should be those who were foolish enough to cross them and the thought chilled her to the bone.

Sansa wandered through the glass garden, her cloak folded over her arm as she slowly acclimatized to the hot temperature. The wispy tendrils of flame-red hair that floated around her face were sticking to her skin as she perspired in the heat, her Northen wool dress proving its efficiency as she began to sweat.

The small walk through the freshly planted garden made her feel almost breathless and lightheaded, her body still reeling over the difference from the snowy air on the other side of the glass.

She hung the cloak upon a jagged piece of soldering that fused the glass sheets together to form the walls and roof of the garden's enclosure, making sure the hem was lifted from the soil. If Sansa wasn't tailoring her sister's clothes or spending time with her family or the smallfolk, she was in the gardens, planting and tending to the seeds and getting lost in the work.

Like most days, Jon arrived an hour or so later to help in whatever way he could. He admired the way she would kneel in the mulch and use her bare hands to dig holes and sow the seeds. This was a girl who had been a Queen, on her hands and knees making sure that her people would be able to eat enough when Winter arrived.

"What are we planting today?" he asked, unbuckling his sword belt and laying Longclaw down with care.

Sansa's lips quirked when he said 'we'. It was the small, unconscious slips of the tongue that reminded her they were still a solidified unit. One heart and mind working in perfect tandem in two separate bodies.

Sansa knelt back onto her heels and wiped at the sweat gathering on her brow. She had no clothes suitable for the heat and had taken to wearing her thinnest gown when she knew she would be spending time in the gardens but still, it was too much. She couldn't bring herself to touch the lighter southern gowns hanging limply in her wardrobe.

"These are pea plants. We need to plant them and then create something for them to climb up according to Maester Luwin," she told him. The cooks in Winterfell's kitchen were adept at gardening and the Maester had amassed more knowledge about botany and herbology than anyone else at the Keep but it was Sansa who ensured the plants thrived.

Jon nodded and handed her another small clump of soil that had several shoots of green at one end. He assumed it was another pea plant and handed it to Sansa who smiled in response. "I can gather some wood and create a structure of some sort," Jon offered and his love giggled.

"You know nothing," she laughed heartily when his lower lip jutted out and his eyebrows sunk. The words echoes in his head. "There is a sketch in Luwin's diary. I don't know how tall it needs to be though," she warned him. "Make it taller than you or I."

"Now or then?" Jon picked up the diary and read through Luwin's small, scratchy writing.

"Then. The taller it is the more room for it to grow and the more they grow the more food we can produce."

"Tall then," he chuckled and they lapsed into a comfortable silence as they worked on their own projects.

"Your ten and fourth name day will only happen once," Catelyn's voice took on a melodic note as she broke her fast. 

The Starks were dining in Ned's solar for a change so that they could talk more freely. Catelyn had taken one of the head chairs whilst Arya sat on one side, with Bran and Sansa on the other. Rickon babbled and gargled at the foot of his mother, sat upon a fur rug with several carved wooden dolls in his pudgy little hands.

"Correction; twice," Arya said quickly but her mother pointedly ignored her remark.

"The Northen Lords are expecting a large celebration."

"Fourteen is an important age for a woman," Bran said absentmindedly from Sansa's left side and Arya lent over the table to flick the hand he had resting on the tabletop.

"Idiot," Arya hissed.

Sansa paled at the thought. She had been fourteen the first time she had flowered. That was why the Northen Lords were eager to celebrate. She knew this was when her hand would be asked for.

"I do not want a lavish day Mother. We have already celebrated my nameday once as a family and it was a happy time. To repeat it and set our food and coins back would be foolish," Sansa tried to argue.

"Please, for just this conversation, be the little girl you were," Cat murmured as her husband settled in to break his own fast opposite her.

Robb and Jon trailed behind him and took the empty seats, each beside Arya.

"What's going on here?" Robb asked, looking from his mother to his sister with an intrigued expression. "A standoff before nine? A new record I believe," he joked.

"Robbert," Ned warned and Robb held up his hands in mock surrender.

"It was only a question, father," he said lightly before elbowing Arya in the side and looking pointedly between the two Starks who were staring at each other.

"Mother wants to celebrate Sansa's nameday," Arya told him through mouthfuls of sausage. "Sansa doesn't want to waste food and money on a big ceremony but Mother is thinking of the Northern Lords and how its Sansa's fourteenth."

"Big age for a woman," Robb nodded, faking wisdom in a way which made Arya smile. "Who do'ya think'll win?"

"Sansa," both Arya and the eavesdropping Jon whispered confidently.

"Mother, I have no doubt that the Northen Lords will descend upon Winterfell but days of elaborate feasts are a waste and unnecessary," Sansa said, looking to her father for support.

Ned kept his head low and continued to eat.

"It is our duty, my sweet," Catelyn said firmly. The pet name softened the blow slightly but all Sansa could think about and imagine were the Northen Lords asking for her hand or measuring her up to see if she was fit to carry their son's heirs.

She began to slip between imagination and her memories from her past life. The sudden all-encompassing panic that swept through her made the blood rush from her head and she gripped the table until her knuckles turned white.

"No," she whispered, remembering how she had been married off to Tyrion as punishment. How there had been no one to stop it or save her; no knight in shining armor. She could feel the blows from the so-called knights on her thighs as if they were happening at that moment.

"Sansa?" Arya asked, concerned as her sister's shoulders started to shake.

Sansa felt her chest constrict and she began to overcompensate, her breathing speeding up to the point where she felt dizzy and could no longer feel her feet or fingers. When she blinked she could see Littlefinger's face coming closer to hers, his lips pressing against her own, his fingers clutching at her face.

"Sansa!" Ned cried and Jon got up from his chair and came around to her side.

She could feel Ramsay's hand on her shoulders, her neck, her back. The smell of his hounds' fur as he manhandled her into position on a bed. See the mad glint in his eye whenever he looked at her. She could feel his fingers and his teeth on her chest, in her hair and on her-

Jon.

Jon's hand was covering her shaking ones when she looked down. Jon was the one whispering her name as she listened. Jon was beside her, stroking her upper arm and chanting her name in a soft, slow way. His eyes were looking into hers. He was there, taking care of her.

"I think talks of any name days should be held off," Jon said, not looking away from Sansa's misty eyes as he tucked a loose strand of hair back behind her ear.

"Perhaps that is for the best," Lady Catelyn replied, a single tear staining her cheek.

"They were there. Here. Touching me," Sansa babbled. "Littlefinger. Ramsay. The knights. Joffrey."

Jon nodded and cupped her face, forcing her to look into his eyes. "They are not here now. They never will be. I will protect you."

"You cannot protect me," she whispered hoarsely. 

"I will try," Jon promised her. He finished with a soft kiss to her clammy forehead and then a gentle, lingering one to her lips as Sansa's own hands grasped at his jaw.

Ned coughed and turned away as Robb and Arya made identical expressions of mild disgust. Catelyn looked down at her folded hands in her lap.

Suddenly, a jolting crash sounded near the door of the solar and the family turned to watch the jug of water empty itself onto the floor. The Starks had averted their gaze as Jon worked to calm Sansa down and since Sansa was sat on the side of the table closer to the door, no one saw Theon enter.

"What the fuck?" he cried. Theon turned and fled before anyone could answer him, leaving the Starks sat in stunned silence.

Chapter Text

"Gods above," Catelyn breathed out, her eyes as wide as dinner plates as she watched Theon flee the room. "What are we to do?"

"I'll go after him," Robb announced, standing quickly and exiting the room before he had fully finished his sentence.

Jon and Sansa were still statuesque, staring at one another in a mild panic. Ned's expression matched his daughters and if Arya hadn't known the gravity of the situation, she would have laughed at how Ned's spoon hung half-way between his open mouth and his bowl; forgotten in the chaos.

"He cannot know! He won't understand!" Sansa cried, scrabbling to get up from her chair and chase down Theon.

Jon caught her hand and pushed her to retake her seat. "Sit. I'll go and make sure Robb hasn't killed him or somethin'," he said gruffly.

Theon, meanwhile, had not gotten very far before he ran into the back of Brienne, sending himself reeling to the floor in a daze.

"What the bloody hell?" Brienne muttered as she turned and looked at who had barged into her. Unlike Theon who was sprawled on the flagstone floor, Brienne had only stumbled forward upon the impact. "Theon?" 

"Theon!" Robb's voice carried down the corridor. "It's not what it looks like!"

Brienne rolled her eyes, now familiar with the love-hate relationship the two men shared. She assumed as she knelt down to assess Theon that the eldest Stark and the Greyjoy must have fallen out over something trivial and, like usual, were at each other's throats when that happened.

Robb rounded the corner and stopped, a dull bread knife clutched in his hand. "What the hell?" he said surprised, taking in Theon who was still on the floor. "He's not dead is he?" His eyes widened and he tried to hide the knife in his sleeve when Brienne raised one of her brows.

"I think he knocked himself out, my lord," Brienne said uncertainly. Theon's eyes were closed and he had a visible lump forming on the side of his head. She wished Podrick were by her side as he had always had more knowledge about medicine and healing compared to herself. "Can you call for a servant to bring some cold water," she asked. "That might bring him around." 

"Or just use this," Jon said as he appeared over Robb's shoulder with a handful of snow he had scooped off of the nearest window sill.

Robb shrugged and nodded, moving to the side so that Jon could rub the cold snow in Theon's face. It took a few seconds but Theon came round with a gasp and a groan.

"Fuck," he moaned, screwing his eyes shut and patting his head to find the egg-sized lump. "What happened?"

"You ran into me, my lord," Brienne said gently. She pushed off her bent knee and stood up at her full height. Robb and Jon covered their snickers in the collars of their clothes at seeing Theon on the floor and Brienne without a scratch. "Is everything alright?" she asked the two men.

Jon glanced down at Theon who was groaning quietly, an arm thrown over his eyes. "Sansa was becoming hysterical. He saw me kissin' her," he murmured.

"Is Lady Sansa alright?" Brienne asked suddenly, her hand landing on the standard sword she had taken on.

"She's fine now. We just need to figure out what to tell the idiot here," Robb glared down at Theon, kicking him in the ankle lightly.

"The truth is too much I am assuming," Brienne replied and the two young men nodded.

"What you on about?" Theon slurred. "Why am I on the floor?"

"Oh perfect, he can't remember," Robb huffed sarcastically, crossing his arms as Jon and Brienne looked at him incredulously. 

It took Robb a few moments before he broke out into a grin. "He can't remember!"

"Who can't remember?" Theon asked.

Jon smirked and offered Theon a hand. He pulled the man up and clapped him on the shoulder. "Let's get you to Maester Luwin. That bump may just kill you," he joked. 

"We can only hope," Robb jested as he slung one of Theon's arms around his neck.

"Robb," Jon warned.

Robb held up his hands, remembering only at the last second that he was supporting the dizzy Theon and the Greyjoy nearly collapsed back into a heap on the floor before Robb grabbed him again. "Joking, you know I am. Anyway, what would I do without him?" He nudged Theon's head with his own.

"Fuck!" Theon groaned as Robb hit the lump. "You mug."

"See, we complete each other, don't we Greyjoy?" Robb added with a fond smile. "You're probably concussed or something." 

"My Lord," Brienne began as she watched the two stumbled towards the Maester. "I know as well as anyone that you don't have to be a wolf to belong in Winterfell. There are always going to be those seeking shelter and a home in the den. Those who are just as important to the pack."

Robb looked at the Lady with quizzical eyes.

"The lone wolf dies," he said slowly. Robb nodded tightly and turned away, helping Theon walk. The two left in the corridor watched them until they disappeared down one of the hallways.

"Are you sure Sansa is alright?" Brienne said suddenly, turning on Jon.

His smile dropped instantly. "She will be eventually." He seemed to age in front of Brienne as his shoulders slumped and his thick brows drew together.

"She is strong Jon."

"I know. The Red Wolf will always lead. She just needs time."

Arya slipped out of Ned's solar soon after Jon had left.

She had somewhere to be and someone to see.

The walk to the forge made her skin erupt in anxious energy. She felt as though her hair was crackling and standing on end with every footstep and her stomach was knotting itself tightly.

The fires of the forge were already lit despite the early hour and the small outdoor area was sweltering with heat. The snowflakes melted on her cheeks as she slipped past a mucky worker and hid behind one of the support beams holding up the slanted roof of the open forge.

Despite his difference in age and appearance, Arya's eyes immediately found Gendry. He was working without a shirt and already his back was shining with sweat and soot. 

He was hammering away at a dented chest plate, the rhythmic clang of metal on metal lulling Arya into a sense of calm.

Dragonglass was a temperamental material at the best of times and Gendry had spent countless hours ruining chips of the precious weapon, trying to figure out the best way to fashion delicate but strong arrowheads.

The warmth of the forge meant that he was surrounded by the majority of those who could wield a hammer despite it being the middle of the night. There seemed to be a constant buzz of activity within Winterfell's forge as it was arguably the warmest place in the North since the unforgiving Winter had descended.

"You are supposed to be sleeping," Arya's smooth voice cut through the tinkering of the hammers and it took all of Gendry's self-perseverance not to jump at the sudden appearance of the young Stark.

"So are you, Lady Stark," he replied, allowing Arya to take the half-formed arrowhead from his fingers. 

"Don't call me that," she warned but the bite she had used to deliver it with had disappeared over the years and it was simply a fond retort to an overused jest. 

Gendry watched as she flipped the dragonglass between her gloved fingertips. He was transfixed as she held it between two fingers, looking through the glass into the flames of the forge. Arya's other hand was resting on her Valyrian dagger like always and an idea struck him.

"Pass me that," he said, sliding his hand down over her arm slowly and pulling the hilt free from her belt.

"It's rude to take a lady's weapon," Arya teased, leaning back into his chest as he came closer to her, still looking at the glass in her hand.

"You're no Lady," he breathed into the shell of her ear.

Gendry carefully pulled the dagger free and took the hunk of glass from her fingers. She was still stood with her back to his chest, his arms encased around her, content in watching him work out whatever he had been mulling over.

Gendry held the glass just as Arya had, between his thumb and index finger, and he slowly pressed the blade to the edge, cutting a smooth chip off as though it were an over-ripe fruit. They both watched it fall to the floor and bounce on the soil a few times.

"Valyrian steel," he said in awe. 

"Finally worked out how to arm the living then," Arya said with a smile.

"Let's go to bed."

"The best thing you've said all day."

Gendry had finished repairing the armour and had moved on to straightening out a bent dagger blade. Arya watched with careful eyes as he dipped the hot metal into a bucket of snow and listened to it sizzle and hiss.

Gendry pulled it out of the water and flipped the handle of the blade with his fingers, sending the small knife twirling over his thumb and into his palm, ready to fight, just like she did.

"Impressive," Arya found herself saying. She stepped out from her hiding space and smirked as Gendry's shoulders lurched as he jumped. The knife clattered onto the workbench.

"You scared me, my Lady," Gendry said quickly, scrambling to pick the blade back up but Arya was quicker.

"Don't call me that," she said reflexively. Arya took a slow breath and flipped the knife in the same way Gendry had. "You travelled from King's Landing to Winterfell at the request of a man you have never met."

Gendry shuffled back from the workbench and pulled on his overshirt and jerkin once more. He nodded, still watching the knife in Arya's hands be expertly moved across her knuckles and fingers.

"I did."

"Why?"

"What? Besides the threat that had been written into it?"

"You and I both know that you would have come, threat or not," she said and Gendry looked up sharply, his brown eyes meeting hers as his brows quirked. "So why?"

Arya waited with bated breath for him to reply. She knew she looked like the scrawny child she had been when they had first met, not the confident warrior he had come to love. She hadn't dared to think about what would happen if he didn't remember her. If he didn't know her. She needed to know but she didn't want to.

Gendry's tongue darted out and he wet his lips as he studied her face.

"A feeling, m'lady. I rode out because I had a feeling that I was supposed to be here. In the North."

"With you," she wished he had added but he didn't.

Arya didn't know whether to tell him all she knew. She wished she had spoken to Sansa about her worries but the person she had usually spoken to about things like that in her last life was the person in front of her who she wasn't sure knew her anymore.

"My name is Arya Stark," she said slowly.

"I know. My name is Gendry Waters," he replied. "Nice sword you have there. Skinny too," he added, motioning to Needle's hilt.

Arya looked down at the gold reflecting the forge's flames. "Its called-"

"Needle. I know, I've heard."

 A month later

 The lords and ladies descended upon Winterfell a moon's turn later for Sansa's fourteenth name day. 

Catelyn had conceded to her daughter's request and scaled back on the feasts and costs of the celebrations. The smallfolk and castle enjoyed a generous meal on her name day and then the leftovers were shared between the Keep.

The Northen houses gifted the young Stark with expensive fabrics and materials, along with more exotic plants for the glass gardens and several lords had sent their heirs to Winterfell for the nameday feasts to try and ask for her hand. Jon, Arya, and Brienne had hardly left her side.

The only time during the week-long celebrations that Brienne left her Lady had been when riders from House Mormont arrived with two of the Mormont girls. Dacey and Alysane Mormont arrived bearing gifts for the young Stark and had promptly gotten into a fight with a drunk bannerman too deep in his cups as soon as they entered the Great Hall.

The Starks were sat at the high table, each facing out over the rest of the hall, with Ned and Cat in the centre and the children sitting on either side of their parents. Sansa, Arya, and Bran were on Cat's side whilst Robb, Jon and Theon were on Ned's. The unified family, with bastard and ward included, was a purposeful seating arrangement by Catelyn and all watched as the two girls got into some trouble at the back of the Hall.

"Sister, please," Alysane sighed as Dacey held a knife to the drunk's throat. He had slapped her arse as she had walked past and the eldest Mormont did not take kindly to the gesture.

"Lady Mormont," Brienne called, leaving Sansa's side to ensure that peace remained. "May I be of some assistance?"

"And you are?" Dacey asked, not even glancing at the woman.

"Sister..." Alysane warned.

"Lady Brienne of Tarth. Lady Sansa's sworn sword, my Lady," she said calmly. "Please remove yourself from the man and put your knife away. This is a time of celebration."

Dacey turned and looked up at Brienne in shock. "You're Brienne of Tarth?"

"I apologize," Alysane said with another deep sigh. "She does not think before she acts or speaks."

Brienne shook her head in reassurance. "I am, my Lady and there is no need to apologize."

"Fucking hell!" Dacey said with a wide grin, dropping the drunken man back onto his chair without a second thought. "I've heard stories about you since I was Lyanna's age."

Brienne's cheeks tinged pink and she shifted her stance.

"I would love to spar with you one day if you would have me," Dacey said suddenly. "Wait! We have gifts for Lady Sansa."

Brienne looked over her shoulder to see Arya and Sansa watching them with quirked lips from the high table. Brienne had never met either Mormont girl in her last life but she knew Dacey had died at the Red Wedding with Robb. These were loyal allies of House Stark and all of the Starks sat upon the high table knew it. Ned and Catelyn were talking quietly, Catelyn's eyes not leaving the two newcomers and Robb was staring at Dacey with intense eyes as Jon and Theon attempted to engage him in conversation without success.

"My Ladies, if you would like to follow me," Brienne said with a dipped head as Sansa motioned subtly for them to approach. She turned and led the two through the busy hall.

Robb leant forwards and caught his sister's eye. "What are you planning?"

"Nothing. The Mormont girls bent the knee for you, not I."

Robb sat back as Sansa smiled and Brienne announced their guests.

"Ladies Dacey and Alysane Mormont," she returned to her previous position of guarding near the wall, leaving the two girls alone in front of the family.

Alysane climbed up onto the small platform and handed a cotton-wrapped gift over to Sansa with a smile. "For the Red Wolf on her nameday," she beamed.

"Red Wolf?" Catelyn inquired. 

Alysane's soft features turned into a mask of unease. "I apologize if I have spoken out of turn. The name has travelled across the North and reached us. We assumed it to be a name of respect, at least that was how it was spoken to us. The smallfolk use it."

"We have not heard it spoken by someone outside of Winterfell, that is all," Ned reassured her as Sansa pulled apart the cloth.

A wooden carving sat nestled between the fabric. It was a thick slice of a relatively small tree trunk in which a howling direwolf stood tall in front of a snarling bear, all carved elegantly into the wood. 

"My younger sister Lyra carved it. She is handy with a knife when she wants to be," Alysane joked back to Dacey who rolled her eyes.

"It seems all younger sisters are like that," Sansa replied, knocking Arya's boot with her own under the table. "It is beautiful and I will happily display this within my chambers, thank you."

"Let's have a look," Theon said further down the table and Sansa handed the wooden carving down to her brothers. As it travelled down, Dacey's eyes followed it until they landed on Robb.

"Shamelessly, we have also come inland for another reason," she said slowly as Alysane returned to her side. "We are both of age now and have come to pledge our swords to House Stark."

Ned's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. The two girls were barely out of their teens. Alysane was shorter than her sister but had defined arms underneath her bear furs and armour. Dacey, on the other hand, was tall and willowy, wearing an amalgamation of armour and formal wear all covered with a bearskin cloak. She seemed to be wearing a Northen style dress but it had been cut in the skirts so that her trouser covered legs could be seen. He couldn't deny that they looked capable but they were still children in his eyes.

"My Ladies," he began but Catelyn rested her hand on his, effectively silencing him.

"Who would you be laying down your swords for? The Starks are large and whilst we may not all share the Stark name, those sitting at this table are wolves. Can a bear defend a Kraken or a bastard if needs be?" she asked cooly.

Jon and Theon looked over at Lady Stark as if she had grown a second head. Jon was still getting used to the civility between himself and Catelyn whereas Theon had never heard her refer to him as a part of the family before.

Dacey narrowed her eyes at the spluttering Greyjoy but she turned back to Catelyn. "House Mormont is loyal to the Starks. Every last one of them."

"As my lady wife said," Ned continued, "our pack is large and diverse. We aren't just wolves here."

Alysane dropped to one knee before them and set her sword down on the floor. "House Mormont is loyal to House Stark, whoever they have deemed them to be." Dacey followed, sweeping her long skirt away by the split at the side, her trouser covered legs appearing as the material fell away as she knelt beside her sister. 

"House Stark accepts you, Lady Alysane and Lady Dacey," Ned said after several moments, finally satisfied. He stood up from his chair and lifted his tankard of mead high. The room quieted instantly, mimicking his movements. A server rushed forward and handed two tankards to the Mormont girls. Ned waited for him to return to the side of the hall, a tankard of his own lifted high. Everyone within the Great Hall's walls, from bannermen, Lords, and Ladies to the smallfolk and servants of the Keep were stood, glasses raised in a toast.

"The lone wolf dies but the pack survives. It is these words I tell my children and it is these words we Starks live by. Not all of you here are wolves, but those loyal to the pack are protected by the pack." He paused and let the words sink in. "To my daughter, the Red Wolf of Winterfell. To Sansa!"

"To Sansa!" came the chorus replied.

"Long live the Pack!" cried out several more after they took hearty gulps. "Long live the Pack!"

"The big woman is training the smallfolk in the yard," Tormund said to Jon in passing. "She's got Arya and the two Bears with her."

Jon grinned. "I pray I am never on any of their bad sides."

"There's only one woman you want punishing you," Tormund replied.

"Not here!"

"There is no one around!" Tormund laughed as Jon's cheeks darkened. His facial hair was slowly coming in more and more but the Wild Man still couldn't look past Jon's youthfulness. "Go to her now."

"We have to be chaperoned," Jon told him with a groan.

Tormund's grin was from ear-to-ear. "I can chaperone."

"No you can't," Jon replied instantly. "You will just wander off and watch Brienne."

"Exactly."

Jon was silent for a few moments. "Alright. We will be in the Godswood."

"Is that not a holy place for you?"

"Yes? So"

Tormund shrugged, already walking towards the training yard where the women were fighting. "Just thought it would be wrong the fuck around in front of your gods."

"Fuck sake!" Jon said, exasperated. "We aren't!"

"Then somethings wrong with you!" Tormund shouted in reply.

Arya had been avoiding the forge as though it held the plague. She had panicked the day she had spoken to Gendry and left without looking back, accidentally taking the dagger with her. It small and precise with a sharp edge and a smooth handle and it reminded her of one she had seen in the House of Black and White. 

"Do they have to be dead?" Sansa asked one night as Arya explained her idea. She was going to wear a face, talk more to Gendry and see if he truly remembered and talk more with Theon. The idea hadn't unnerved Sansa as much as Arya thought it would. Her sister had made her promise not to cross her path when she was wearing the face and Arya agreed.

"I'm not sure you'd want to be walking around without a face," Arya quipped. "I'll head down to Wintertown tomorrow night."

"I think this is a horrible idea."

"Brienne will be with me," Arya said as she slipped the dagger into the leather belt wrapped around her waist.

"Take Tormund and Robb with you," Sansa advised. "If Robb is there, Theon will surely follow."

Arya nodded tightly. She no longer minded Sansa's overbearing need to ensure her safety but it still made her skin itch. She didn't want Robb to be near her when she took on whoever's face. They were slowly becoming closer but it was still tentative and fragile.

"Robb won't like it," she warned her sister.

Sansa waved her hand. "He won't know. Go down with Brienne before and procure your face, then Tormund and the boys will arrive and you can do whatever it is you do," she finished, her nose scrunching up as she said it.

~

The following night

Arya was tucked into a borrowed cloak, silently following Brienne's tall shadow as they trekked through Wintertown. The smallfolk moved aside as Brienne, dressed as Bannerman, entered the Smoking Log inn. 

She haled the innkeeper for a mug of warm ale and nodded to the small figure following her, letting Arya know that she was free to find her face.

Arya turned on her heel and left the inn. The neat rows of huts and houses were slowly filling up with families as the mild Northen summer shifted into a cooler period. There were fires raging in the hearths, illuminating the smallfolk as they settled down for the night. 

There was one house with a blacken, chared plank of wood nailed to the open door and Arya went straight for it. The mourning family was gathered around the body of a young lady who was lying prone on the table dressed in her finest clothes. 

One by one, the mourners were standing by her side, stroking her face and whispering prayers to the old gods. Arya was at the back of the makeshift line, waiting her turn patiently. As the man in front of her cried and stroked the dead woman's face, Arya slipped the blade free and began to think about how she would undertake the task of taking the face without horrifying her family.

"The pyre is finished Esobel," a man said somberly as he shuffled into the house and laid a hand on a stout, elder woman's shoulder. "We should move her before those at the tavern come stumbling home too deep in their cups."

Esobel, the woman Arya assumed to be the dead girl's mother, sighed deeply and nodded. Arya stepped back, letting Esobel stand beside her daughter. It made her chest tighten as the mother placed a gentle hand on the dead girl's pale skin.

"Whoring was no way for her to live," lamented the matron. "She should have worked within the Castle."

"She put food in our bellies and wood on the fire my dear. We cannot fault how she lived her life, not whilst she lies dead," the older man replied.

Arya mentally took note of the house and the family and vowed she would send some coin down for those the girl had left behind. They would not go hungry just as winter was on the cusp of its arrival.

"Alright. Let's move her."

"I can help," Arya said quickly, volunteering herself and situating herself near the dead girl's head. Along with the girl's father and brothers, Arya tried to shoulder the weight of the table but she was too short and had to resign in just following as they left the house for the pyre behind the home.

She watched as they slid the dead girl off of the table and onto the makeshift pyre. It wasn't as tall as the ones Arya had become used to seeing in her last life. The amount of wood given to the funeral pyre would have fed the family's fire for a month or two and the loss was sure to be felt as Autumn arrived.

"Wait, ma'am, I haven't said goodbye," Arya said quickly, realizing that her chance had appeared right before her.

Esobel looked down at Arya suspiciously. "Never knew you knew my Palina." Arya waited with bated breath. "I won't deny you," Esobel said and she let her approach the body. 

Arya walked over and had to crouch so that she could bend over the girl's, Palina's, face, shielding it from her grieving parents. With careful fingers, she slid the blade out from her sleeve and as she thanked the girl for her face, Arya expertly sliced through the skin and pocketed the bloody face. With blood-stained fingertips, Arya scattered Palina's hair over where her features had been.

As soon as Arya stood up, a flaming torch hit the dried wood and engulfed the body. Arya turned and fled, fighting through the smallfolk on the muddy road back towards the inn.

She saw Brienne sitting at the back of the inn, a head and shoulder above those who seemed to have crowded around her. Tormund and Theon were by her side and Arya elbowed through the crowd. 

Before they saw her, she slipped Palina's face over her own and rolled her shoulders. When she caught Brienne's shocked, wide eyes, Arya was no longer standing in the crowded tavern.

Theon felt Brienne's arm tense and he looked up, following her gaze and seeing the short woman coming towards them. He thought he knew her but he couldn't put his finger on who she was. 

"I'm looking for the new Smith," the girl said and Theon frowned. Gendry had been dragged to Wintertown by Tormund and he was nursing a tankard of mead nearer to the fire. Theon pointed the girl in his direction as Robb handed him another horn of wine.

"Who was that?" Robb asked as he sat down. He took a sip of his wine and smacked his lips. 

"Not sure," Theon replied. "Went looking for the new smithy."

Robb snorted. "Let's hope Arya doesn't hear about th-" he began to say but he stopped himself and paled. "How tall was she?"

"Huh? I dunno. Short."

Robb nodded slowly and downed half of his drink as Theon laughed without truly knowing what was going on.

~

Gendry didn't think he would ever get used to the cold of the North. The forge at Winterfell kept him warm during the day and the hot springs under the castle ensure he was semi-warm at night, but he couldn't deny he was missing the sweltering heat of the South.

"Snow getting to ya?" a girl said as she appeared by his elbow. 

Gendry jumped and looked down at her. "I'm not from the North so yeah," he joked. "I'm-"

"The new smithy. I know."

Gendry nodded into his tankard and took a sip. "The North seems to know a lot," he mused.

"So do you if words can be believed," the girl said. "Palina."

"Gendry."

"How do you know the Starks? They handpick those who work in Winterfell," Palina asked him and Gendry shrugged, used to the Northen way of saying directly what you wanted.

"I knew one of his daughters a long time ago. I don't think she remembers me now." Gendry glanced down into his mug at the thought and when he looked back he was staring in the eyes of Arya Stark.

"That was all you ever had to say," she told him as he dropped the mug. It clattered and soaked his feet as he stared at her in shock.

"Fucking hell Arya!" Gendry knew all about Arya's ability to become another but he had never gotten used to seeing her pull off the features of a stranger like a mask and melt back into herself.

"All this time, you knew and you never thought to come and find me?" she growled and Gendry's mouth hung open.

"Me?" He sputtered in disbelief. "I don't remember seeing you come rushing to talk to me."

"Because I didn't know if you remembered or not!" Arya cried in response.

"How was I supposed to tell you if I never saw you!" Gendry roared in her face.

"Little Wolf! What are you doing here? What's that?" Tormund's loud voice cut through their intense glaring and Arya quickly stuffed the face into her pocket. Most of the tavern's occupants were watching the pair with quick eyes as their argument had increased in volume. 

"Nothing." 

"Arya?" Robb asked, blinking slowly as he stood up and swayed slightly. "You should be at home."

"So should you," she replied. "Father will have your head so you better walk me back."

Gendry reached out and grabbed her sleeve, stopping her from slipping back into the crowd who slowly got back to their drinks.

"I remember everything. The white-walkers, the dragon glass and you," he said softly. 

"You remember who I used to be. I'm eleven again," she faltered.

"And I'm barely fourteen. We aren't the people we were but we know what we experienced," he told her gently. Gendry was unsure of himself. He didn't know how to act around her. "I don't know what to say," he said truthfully. "I know it's you but you look like a child."

"You could say the same thing about yourself," Arya replied, insulted.

Gendry laughed in frustration. "I meant we were in love and now you don't look like the child version of you I knew. Does that make sense?"

Arya's dark brows quirked. "No."

"In our last life we didn't meet for another year or so, maybe less, and by then all those things had happened and you were pretending to be a boy."

Arya smirked. "Does that change some things? Do I have to be a boy to win your favour again?" she teased.

"You haven't lost my favour," he replied earnestly. "I just feel as though we should get to know one another again."

"Who said anything about that? I'm young again. What makes you think I want to be saddled in life with you once more?" Arya asked and Gendry thought she was serious for half a second before he saw the teasing smile.

"I can make your weapons," he whispered as though he were promising her the world.

Arya tapped her chin and pretended to mull of the proposition. "There are several others who could do that."

"Not like I could. I will forge that spear you used to talk about," he told her.

"Finally get around to it in this life then? That's a big promise," she laughed as Robb finally stumbled through the crowd to their side.

"If my Lady commands it," was all Gendry said and he was out of her reach before she could punch his arm. "That's not very ladylike."

"She's not a lady," Robb told him as he slung an arm around his sister. "Come on, we're all going back. He remembers then."

Gendry looked at each Stark in shock. "You remember?"

"All of us do except Theon. Brienne and the Wildling included," Robb slurred. "Suppose we were brothers in the last life, you know before I died."

"Robb," was all Arya said as she led them through the tavern towards Brienne. "Ignore him."

Gendry nodded uneasily. "Right. Sure," he muttered to himself as they left for Winterfell.

Six months had come and gone and it was coming up to a full year since the Starks had woken up. The glass gardens were up and running, producing more food than was needed for both Winterfell and Wintertown and the cooks were slowly filling up the freshly repaired Broken Tower with supplies for the winter.

The smallfolk had been training with Brienne and numbers to the Starks' bannermen had swelled to accommodate the women.

Sansa had slowly grown taller than her mother and taken on more duties than ever before. She had begun corresponding with the Tyrells of Highgarden after receiving several seeds for her glass gardens.

Gendry and Arya practised their sword skills under the watchful eye of Ned who had taken to watching over his keep in the afternoons with his wife at his side.

Little Rickon was beginning to form words and sentences to the delight of his siblings but he usually just mumbled and butchered the names of his sisters. He seemed to have taken delight in saying Arya's name with a beaming, toothy smile whenever he saw her, much to the annoyance of the others.

Jon, Robb, and Theon began filling out and were looking more like men, soldiers, and kings than ever before. Their facial hair had filled out and Jon's curls had grown long as Sansa had preferred.

Robb spent more time training with the bannermen and the smallfolk than he had before as Bran scaled the castle walls, more sure of his footing than ever.

It was a cool, sunny morning when he dropped down from the roof of the forge to startled his mother and father who were ambling across the yard, arm in arm, with Rickon perched on his mother's hip.

"Today is the day," he said cryptically and Catelyn shushed him and pulled him close, running her fingers over the soot that had managed to stick to his cheek. She handed the wiggling Rickon to Ned who set him on one shoulder with a grin.

"Even the Three-Eyed Raven cannot escape his mother's hand," Ned joked as Bran squirmed uncharacteristically and Rickon babbled. As Ned laughed at his children's antics, Ser Rodrik approached with a grim expression.

"My Lord, a deserter from the watch has been found," he said somberly and Ned looked down at Bran with a tired expression. He handed Rickon back to Catelyn with a frown.

"How I wish you had been wrong and the peace could remain," he told his son before turning to Rodrik. "Gather all of my children and have their horses ready to be mounted."

"Ned," Catelyn hesitated, transferring Rickon from one hip to the other. "Is this really for the best? They are so young."

"It was their decision, my love," Ned reminded her as he rubbed Rickon's chubby cheek. The Stark children had unanimously decided to be there whenever the deserter from the Watch showed up. 

"Sansa..." Catelyn began.

"Saw her fair share before," Bran told his mother. "Arya did her fair share."

"Bran," Ned chastised, wishing people would stop reminding his wife about the vicious little girl she now had as a daughter. Every time someone did, Cat seemed to take it as a personal blow.

Ned's shoulders dropped. "He is right Cat. They are not the children they were. When we get back we will have the pups. We need to decide the next course of action tonight."

Catelyn's lips pursed. "I will have your solar set up for sup. Come straight there when you get back," she told him. Ned nodded and pressed a soft kiss to her lips and then dropped one onto Rickon's curly head. 

"Come on Bran," Ned warned his son as the rest of his pack appeared in the yard. Arya and Sansa were dressed in woollen breeches rather than skirts as if they knew they were going to be riding that morning. "This will not be any easier the second time around I fear."

Chapter Text

The ride was a quiet and sombre affair and even Theon couldn't rouse himself to make a joke or a grin. A dark cloud of negative emotion seemed to follow the group as they rode through Winter town and onto the moors where the deserter had been found.

Sansa suppressed a shiver as they halted to a slow walk and then ambled to a stop on the side of a hill near the blood-stained executioner's block. She had never seen it in her last life, only ever overhearing gruesome stories about it from bannermen, and it looked far more intimidating and cold than she had ever imagined it to be. The blood of those whose lives it had taken had seeped and stained the wood and stone over the years.

The white mare Sansa was straddled upon threw her head and took several nervous steps. Sansa reached forwards and threaded her fingers through the animal's mane, trying to soothe herself and the animal. The heat of the horse warmed her fingertips through her leather gloves but she was still repressing the shiver.

"Remember, don't look away," Sansa could hear Robb saying as he helped Bran off of his horse. "Just like last time, alright."

Jon was at her side, placing a hand on her knee and she could feel his warm palm through the woollen breeches as he quietly got her attention. His dark eyes were half shut as his eyebrows drew together but Sansa could still make out his worry plainly. Without a word, she freed her boots from the stirrups and swung her leg over the saddle as Jon gripped her sides and helped lower her to the frosty ground.

"Thank you," Sansa breathed and Jon worried his bottom lip with his teeth. “Stay by my side?" There was no confidence or queenly power in Sansa's voice, just worry and apprehension and it made Jon's chest tighten.

"Always," he told her as Robb and Bran came to their side, both looking pale and as though this was the last place they ever wanted to be. Arya had already slid off of her horse and was stood by Theon, ten feet in front of her siblings.

"She wanted to be here last time," Robb said, nodding towards Arya as Ned joined them, placing his hand over Sansa's shoulder and squeezing it gently. "Thought it was only right cause she was going to be a knight."

"Arya is the last person I am concerned about right now," Ned said with a deep sigh. "This is not a pleasant act, my sweet," he said directly to Sansa. "You may have seen horrors last time but why see them all again? I don't want you to feel as though you have to be here. "

"If Bran does then so do I," she replied with her chin tilted up high although her voice was wobbling slightly. Jon took her hand, as did Bran and she was sandwiched between the pair of them with Robb stood behind Bran.

"Do not leave her side," Ned ordered the two older boys and he made his way slowly towards Ser Rodrick and the deserter.

Arya had her hand on Needle's hilt, rubbing the pad of her thumb over the silver to ease her racing heart. Theon was stood beside her, scowling into the distance as the wind whipped at their cloaks and made their cheeks and noses turn red with windburn.

"White Walkers," Theon muttered and Arya turned her head sharply to look up at him.

"What did you say?" she said quickly and Theon looked down at her as though he hadn't realised she was even stood beside him.

"White Walkers. Its what the Deserter is muttering about," he finished by nodding in the direction of the restrained man. "Can't you hear him? It's carrying on the wind."

Arya strained to hear what Theon was supposedly hearing but she couldn't make out anything but the wail of the wind and a distant howl. "Do you think that's why he ran?" she asked him.

Theon scoffed. "What do you care what I think?"

"Because you're my brother," Arya said, ignoring the way Theon's mouth dropped open slightly as he looked at her. "Do you think they're real?"

"I'm not a wolf," Theon said slowly, scowling down at his feet.

"I don't care. Kracken or wolf you're my stupid, idiot brother who is not answering my one question," she replied through gritted teeth, annoyed at having to repeat herself so many times. "Do you think that white walkers could be real Theon?"

Theon licked his lips and then swore, rubbing them with his hand as the cold wind burnt his skin. "They could be. Anything could be real Arya. Even dragons and white walkers and a world where you don't pester me into madness," he added to try and lighten the mood but Arya just nodded and stood closer to him, leaning into his side and resting her head on his arm until Theon wrapped her up in his cloak without a word.

~

"White Walkers. I saw the white walkers," the Deserted babbled to the bannermen holding his upper arms. "White Walkers. The white walkers, I saw them."

Ned felt a chill run down his spine as he got closer to the block, reaching it the same time the Deserter did. Ice felt heavy on his belt, almost as though it would pull him down into the ground if his knees buckled. It took almost all of Ned's resolve not to turn and check that his children were okay.

Arya is safe with Theon, he told himself, and Sansa and Bran are with Jon and Robb. The bannermen were here, they were all south of the wall and if his children were to be believed, they had years before they had to truly worry about the army of the dead.

The Deserter looked hagged and broken, held up by the bannermen and with wild eyes but when he saw Ned he struggled to stand and speak to him as the bannermen tried to get him to kneel before the block.

"I know I broke my oath, my Lord, and I know I'm a deserter. I should have gone back to the Wall and warned them, but I saw what I saw. I saw the white walkers. People need to know. If you can get word to my family tell them I'm no coward. Tell them I'm sorry. Forgive me, my Lord," the Deserter, barely older than Robb said, his voice trailing off into a whisper as he dropped to his knees in defeat. Ned's shoulders sagged under his furs and he turned his head to catch a glimpse of his children.

Arya and Theon stood side by side, unified under his cloak. Bran staring at him, his Raven eyes looking blank but alert at the same time. Robb nodding gently, his hands on his younger brother's shoulders in support. Jon's gaze flitting between Sansa, Bran and Arya. Sansa with her head held high staring at the deserter with cool eyes.

"I will tell them and I will tell Castle Black about what you have seen," he told the Deserter who was crying softly. "I promise to you that I will tell them all about the threat that is coming, I swear it."

Ser Rodrick shifted on his feet beside Ned but he held his tongue.

"You have broken an oath and for this, I, Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sentence you to die."

"He who passes the sentence must swing the sword," Jon said under his breath and Sansa squeezed his hand.

The Stark children watched with bated breaths as Ned unsheathed Ice and held it aloft. They could see his lips moving and the condemned man crying but it was over before it began and the blade cut through his neck in the blink of an eye. Sansa jumped slightly as the decapitated head rolled for a few moments. Robb's fingers tightened on Bran's shoulders where they had been resting and Arya pulled the dagger she had stolen from Gendry free, only to twirl it over her thumb and sheath it again, repeating the action several times to calm herself.

"Take his body and burn it. Make sure there is nothing left but ashes," Ned told the bannermen.

"But my Lord, we bury our dead in the North," a bannerman replied as Ned wiped Ice's blade on his cloak.

"Not anymore. Winter is coming. The ground is frozen and if words are to be believed, so are the dead."

Just like in their last life, a bloody great carcass of a stag was blocking the track and Jon was off his horse and slipping through the forest before Ned could say anything. Theon and Robb followed quickly with Bran and Arya on their heels whilst Sansa waited for her father to dismount.

The giant body of the dead direwolf swamped Arya as she knelt down to look into its glassy eyes. "She's not even fully grown," she whispered, recalling how large Nymeria had become in the wild, leading her own pack.

"It is just a bloody great wolf that's what it is," Theon said, grabbing Arya's cloak and hauling her back. "It may be injured but it could still chew your face off."

Arya rolled her eyes and wiggled out of his grip. "She's dead. Look," she told him, fingering the base of the stag's antlers that were protruding from the side of the beast. "And they're not just wolves. They're direwolves Theon. We have to take the pups."

Ned helped Sansa climb down the muddy embankment just as Robb pick up a small grey pup by the scruff and held it close. "Greywind," he said slowly, smiling brightly as the pup wriggled in his arms.

"There are five pups, one for each of the Stark children," Ser Rodrick said more to himself than to anyone else. "Direwolves never come this south of The Wall."

"Well, now there are five," Jon told him, just like he had told Robb last time.

Summer and Nymeria were lapping at their mother as Theon bent down to pick them up. He placed Summer in Arya's arms and Nymeria in Bran's. The siblings looked down at their pups and clumsily switched them over, nearly dropping them in the process.

"What was wrong with the one I gave you?" Theon asked the pair as Lady trotted up to Sansa.

"This one is mine," Bran said, stoking Summer's honey coloured ears.

"And this is Nymeria," Arya beamed, not at all bothered by the blood on Nymeria's snout from where she had been pawing away at her mother's wounded side.

Sansa knelt on the muddy ground, waiting patiently for Lady to get closer. The pale puppy ambled straight into her arms and Sansa almost cried in relief. It had been years since she had been able to feel the silky fur of her wolf and the comfort she had brought her in their last life was back, warming and filling her heart.

"Jon, he's here," Robb said, pointing a little further down the bank to the shivering white mass of fur. Jon didn't look at Ghost with the same trepidation he once had. Instead, he swiftly picked up the wolf and tucked him into his jerkin, knowing that he was half frozen and in need of his body heat.

"There's one for you and Rickon, Theon," Bran said, moving aside the bushy tail of the mother to reveal Shaggydog.

"I'm not a Stark," he replied instantly, stepping back from the wolves. "It should be Rickon's."

"It will be Rickon's but Rickon cannot stand, let alone train a direwolf. You will raise him and love him, just like Father does for you," Bran told him in the same monotonous way the Raven spoke.

Theon looked up at Ned with wide eyes for permission and Ned nodded. Theon carefully picked up the pup and looked down at Arya and Bran, attempting to mimic the way they were holding their own wolves. Bran readjusted Summer so that Theon could see how to hold to pup once more.

"You all seem to have names picked already," Theon said, concentrating on holding the squirming pup.

"Rickon will want to name him Shaggydog," Arya laughed as Theon finally settled the animal, with one hand holding its behind and its front paws resting on his collarbone so that Shaggydog was looking over his shoulder. "It suits him."

"That's a terrible name," Theon replied with a grin but he ran a hand over the wolf's face and smiled. "Shaggydog."

"It won't come as a surprise to you, but these wolves will be your responsibilities," Ned said and Ser Rodrick nodded in agreement.

"They say that the blood of the Children of the Forest runs through the Stark veins. They could warg with their animal familiars," Rodrick said to Ned as the party turned back towards their horses. "Perhaps this is the Old Gods way of ensuring protection for your pack."

Ned bit back his laughter and simply clapped his friend on the shoulder. "I do not doubt you, my friend."

Catelyn ripped another hunk of fresh bread apart and wiped up the remained of her soup as she watched her family from her seat.

The wolves were laying in front of the fire in a tangled, sleeping heap, drunk off of the food they had consumed courtesy of the kitchens. Sansa and Arya seemed to have one eye on their pups and the other on their food. Jon had placed Ghost back into his jerkin after the pup had finished its fair share of the meat and Catelyn could just make out the animal's pitch black nose protruding from his clothing and peaking out just underneath Jon's chin.

To her surprise, Cat watched as Theon placed a pup in front of Rickon after they had returned. She listened carefully as Theon whispered to her youngest son.

"This is Shaggydog," he began, placing the all black wolf into the baby's lap. "I'm gonna look after him until you can one day." Now Shaggydog was laying with his siblings and Theon had retired to his chambers, leaving just the Starks.

A series of knocks at the solar door broke Catelyn out of her stupor and she called for whoever it was to enter as her family continued eating in silence. Brienne and Tormund entered, both looking warily around until they saw the heap of puppies.

"Wolves!" Tormund cried joyously, making Nymeria stir and look at him. "The Little Wolf has her wolf!" he laughed and Arya’s lips twitched into an affectionate smile.

Brienne ignored the Wild Man's outburst. "We were summoned, my Lady."

Catelyn looked at the woman in surprise. "I did not summon you, Brienne."

"I did," Sansa cut in before the two could continue. "We have our wolves and the Deserter is dead. This is the beginning now." A mournful atmosphere cloaked the room and they turned towards Sansa. "I have been thinking about this in detail and it is time," she added. She had been fiddling with her fingers to calm her nerves but it was doing her no good and she had just buffed her nail beds to shine, rather than settle her stomach.

Ned took Catelyn's hand, instinctively soothing her. "What are we to do, my sweet?"

Sansa looked at her parents and bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself from crying. There was so much love and trust in the eyes of her parents and it almost made Sansa want to crawl into their laps like a child and have them hush and comfort her.

"We will not be here when Jon Arryn dies," she started, only to be interrupted by Robb.

"What? There must always be a Stark in Winterfell."

Sansa gave her brother a hard, withering look. "If you would let me finish... Mother, Bran, Theon and Rickon will be here in Winterfell. I meant the rest of us, we won't be here."

Robb sat back in his chair. "Where will we be?"

"Robb, stop interrupting her!" Arya hissed, flicking her brother on the arm.

"Children, please," Catelyn sighed. "Go on, sweetheart."

"Thank you. As I was saying; Robb, you and I will go to Highgarden with Brienne and the Mormonts. Father, you and Arya will go to Moat Cailin and visit Domeric Bolton with Gendry. Jon, Tormund, you will both go to The Wall."

"South?" Robb said with a frown.

"North!" Tormund exclaimed in glee.

"Is this wise? Splitting up again?" Catelyn said carefully.

"This way, our allies are being secured before we need them and when Robert and the Lannisters come calling after Jon Arryn's murder, they will have to travel to Moat Cailin, not Winterfell. They will never step foot in the North, nor will they see the face of any Stark but Father," said Sansa so confidently that her mother nodded and backed down.

"What about Arya?" Robb wondered aloud. "She'll be with Father and the King will see her."

"Arya won't be Arya and even if he does, he wouldn't call for her hand for Joffery," Jon said with a grin. "Anyway, who would want a wildling as a potential wife for their son?"

"Piss off," both Arya and Tormund said as the table laughed.

"We will leave by the end of the week," Ned told his family as the laughter died down. "The sooner we leave, the sooner we can return. Sansa, tomorrow you will meet with everyone individually and explain your ideas in more detail. For now, we should all retire. We have had a trying day."

Arya, Eddard and Gendry

Sansa sat with Lady napping at her feet in the shared chamber between hers and Arya's room with Gendry and her father, all waiting for Arya to arrive back from breaking her fast.

The silence that had descended upon them was strange and made her skin itch. Every time Gendry opened his mouth to say something, Ned held up his hand with a withering look. Gendry gulped and returned to twiddling with his thumbs as Sansa smothered her laugh each time.

The door to the chamber clattered open and shook on its hinges as Arya kicked it, her arms full with a wriggling Nymeria.

"Sorry. She escaped through the Hall and went running around the forge," Arya told them, wheezing slightly with red, sweaty cheeks. "It's so bloody hot in there and she wouldn't stop running."

Gendry had jumped to his feet when she’d entered and both Ned and Sansa looked at him with half-raised eyebrows.

"What are you standing up for? Well, move then," Arya bossed Gendry, taking his chair without another word, leaving him to stand awkwardly as there were only three chairs in the room.

"Now that we are all here..." Sansa smirked as Arya dropped Nymeria next to Lady. "You remember Domeric Bolton? And the Freys?"

One of Ned's legs was crossed, his ankle balancing on his knee, his foot jerking nervously and he nodded slowly as Arya's grin became maniacal as she recalled her encounter with Walder Frey in her last life.

"If for some reason, Domeric was to be warned about Roose's bastard, the power within House Bolton would shift and we could count them as an ally to the banners," Sansa began. "We also need the Frey's loyalty as they control who comes and goes between the North and South."

"Go South, kill the Freys and Ramsay. Okay, then what," Arya said just as nonchalantly as when she talked about the weather.

Ned shook his head. "We cannot kill the entirety of House Frey," he reminded his daughter, almost exasperated at the thought.

"They killed half of our bannermen," Arya sassed back instantly.

"Because they had sided with Roose and House Bolton if I remember correctly," Ned reminded her. "Which we are going to ensure doesn't happen again."

"Well Roose and his bastard won't be around to be sided with," she said to Sansa as though it were a promise.

Sansa held up her hand to regain their attention. "There is also Moat Cailin to remember and Stannis Baratheon will soon by seeking allies. Gendry's identity must remain hidden."

"Howland Reed is a trusted friend. We will resolve the Bolton situation and then travel through the Neck to the Crannogmen to find him," Ned assured his daughter. "I will instruct the Squires to begin packing for the Riverlands."

Catelyn, Bran, Rickon and Theon

By the time the sun had reached its midpoint, Sansa was already anxious about the future, despite the fact that nothing had actually happened yet. She had said goodbye to her father and had taken Lady to the Godswood so that they could be alone.

It was there that Bran had found her as he ran after Summer with Catelyn on his heels. Her mother dropped Rickon into Sansa's lap and began chasing Bran around the trees, holding her skirts and laughing joyously as she played pretend. It wasn't often that the Lady of Winterfell allowed herself to be so soft and childlike but she couldn't help but join in with Bran's adventures if only to see his smile.

"I hope you don't mind about staying in the North mother," Sansa said as Bran dodged Cat by ducking under her arm. "Father wanted to know if you wanted anything bringing back from the Riverlands."

Cat pushed a loose lock of hair behind her ear and huffed, trying to catch her breath as she sat down next to her daughter. She looked younger than ever before with a healthy glow to her skin and a beaming smile.

"I am going to invite Lysa and Sweetrobin to stay for a moon or so. They have never been to Winterfell before and I think it is only right that a sister should see how the other lives, don’t you think," Catelyn said in the same conspirital tone Arya had used when talking about the Freys. "She will, however, have company in the form of a Baelish I presume."

Sansa stiffened at the name but didn't say anything. Lady seemed to sense her mistress' distress and trotted over to her, pushing her soft, wet nose in the back of Sansa's hand repeatedly until Sansa began to stroke her.

Catelyn sobered up and placed a hand on her daughter’s, entwining their fingers slowly. "Petyr Baelish is a vile human being. He will not get the chance to repeat his behaviour, my sweet. I promise you as your mother that he will not touch, talk or see you in this life."

Sansa nodded shakily. "What if he remembers?"

"I may not be happy with Arya wielding a knife or you witnessing death but I am not blind Sansa. It was necessary for your survival. If he remembers then I will take his life, even if it costs me mine. My children are my legacy, Sansa, and protecting all of you is the most important thing to me, even if it calls for murder," Catelyn said seriously, running her thumb over Sansa's knuckles.

Bran's face suddenly appeared between theirs, sending both women jerking back slightly in fright. "He doesn't. Baelish doesn't remember."

Sansa nodded. "Have you seen it truly Bran? Or are you just guessing?"

Bran came around and sat in front of his sister and mother with Summer climbing into his lap as soon as he was sat down. "I will check."

Catelyn and Sansa watched carefully as Bran's dark eyes shifted into a milky white and he seemed to relax and cease breathing, he was so still. As the Raven looked through Bran's eyes, the sleepy Summer seemed to become wilder, standing and looking around the Weirwood, protecting his master.

“I wish he wouldn’t do that,” Sansa said under her breath, feeling her skin erupt into goosebumps as she watched her little brother.

"I worry that things will not work out again and that we are being tortured slowly," Cat murmured to her daughter. It was a worry she hadn’t wanted to burden anyone with. "That one day we will cease to exist once more, or terrible things will happen to us all."

Sansa took her mother's hand in hers, taking the comforting role now. "This time is a blessing that I never thought would possible to have. Just talking to you, sitting here in our home, is more than enough and if the Gods were to take it all back then I would still be grateful, Mother."

In front of them, Bran silently returned to himself with a blank expression, blinking several times. He caught the tail-end of the conversation but held his tongue. Slowly, Summer made his way to Bran's side, once more becoming a playful puppy and not a guarding beast.

"He doesn't remember but he has already given Lysa the tears of Lys that she will go on to use to kill Jon Arryn. Father was right. You should leave sooner rather than later," Bran told them and the two women nodded.

"I've got to see Jon and Tormund," Sansa said in a way of excusing herself as she stood up, wiping the non-existent dirt from her skirts. "You should start composing a letter to Aunt Lysa, Mother, and send it before nightfall."

Catelyn hid her smile at the reminder, thinking it to be an echo of what she herself would have said. "I will, my sweet."

Bran and Cat watched Sansa and her ever-present shadow in the form of Lady walk through the woods, back towards the Keep. "This is going to be hard for all of us Bran," Catelyn told her son when she had finally lost sight of Sansa's bright red hair. "But now that we're alone, show me whatever it is you wanted me to see so desperately this morning."

Bran looked at Summer who seemed to be looking back at him with perfect understanding and then turned his head towards his mother with an impish grin. "Have you heard the stories of the Starks still having the blood of the Children of the Forest?"

Robb, Brienne, Dacey and Alysane

As soon as Sansa had stepped foot in the training yard, she was ambushed by the Mormont girls and her brother, all talking over each other as Robb hooked his arm through hers and led her into the nearest room.

Greywind and Lady took off, running through the legs and under the feet of the workers, yapping and chasing each other until they disappeared around a corner.

"I didn't mean to," Robb apologised as the Bears followed the pair loudly.

"We are here to protect you, my Lady," Alysane's voice echoed as they entered the room and Sansa made a bee-line for the roaring fireplace.

“What did you do Robb?” Sansa asked warily.

“I’ve never been south before,” Dacey said with a grin. “Is it true they walk around half-naked due to the heat?”

Sansa looked up at the ceiling, taking a calming breath so that her giggle didn’t overspill. “They are certainly more confident,” she laughed. “What did you tell them?”

Robb had the decency to look slightly guilty. “I was just teasing. Saying that their furs were redundant in the sun.”

“It was a little more explicit than just ‘redundant’,” Dacey quipped. “But may I ask, why are you travelling South? There are whispers going around that all of the Starks are heading South.”

Sansa frowned. “My mother and youngest brothers will still be in Winterfell. My Father and Arya are visiting Moat Cailin. The Warden of the North has not visited it in all of my life and it is his duty.”

“And the Wildman? Will he remain behind?” Alysane asked with a grin. Tormund had become a frequent fixture in the training yard when the she-bears and Brienne were leading weaponry training sessions and she was becoming fond of the oaf.

“Tormund and Jon will be going to Castle Black.”

“Can a wilding take the Black?” Dacey asked.

Robb snorted. “The Watch would not take Tormund, even if they were down to Old Maester Aemon and no-one else.”

“They are going to Castle Black and then through The Wall,” she told them. Sansa didn’t want to reveal too much to the bears, despite knowing that they were loyal but she couldn’t entertain the idea that Winterfell would be left open to attack without her Father and siblings.

A horn echoed throughout the yard and filtered through the open door and the two Mormonts began to stand.

“How are the smallfolk?” Sansa inquired.

Alysane smiled in thought. “They are Northern warriors, every single one of them. The women fight and train twice as hard as the men.”

Dacey laughed. “Gotta show them bastards that they aren’t the only ones Winterfell can call upon.”

“They have excellent teachers,” Sansa added with a grin and the two girls laughed. “Robb,” she said gently, holding onto his elbow as the two bears left to get food in the Great Hall that had been signalled by the horn.

Her brother stopped and retook his seat.

“The Tyrells are a powerful and protective family. They are always looking to better their position in life and Margaery Tyrell is the key. I’ve have been corresponding with Margaery since my nameday and we have become tentative friends through our letters,” she explained. 

“And I am not to trust them…” Robb added unsurely with a cocked brow. He couldn’t read Sansa on the best of days.

“No! She is a wonderful woman,” Sansa said quickly. “Her grandmother Olenna is the head of the House and she just wants the best life for her family.”

Robb nodded as though he understood but Sansa could see it on his face that she would have to tell him in plain words.

“You are the heir to Winterfell, Robb. The soon-to-be King in the North. Be hesitant of any affection the Tyrells give you,” she warned. “I am certain she is going to be married to Renly Baratheon currently but he is in love with the Knight of Flowers.”

“Who?”

“Loras Tyrell.”

“Renly Baratheon and Loras Tyrell are married?” Robb asked, stunned.

Sansa rolled her eyes. “No. Margaery is engaged to be married to Renly and Renly is in love with Loras, her brother. I’m just saying, she might place her affection onto you because you are the heir to Winterfell and would be able to return her affections, unlike her soon-to-be-husband.”

Robb sighed, running a hand over his stubbled cheeks.

“I never want to be King of the North again,” he breathed out slowly. Robb took Sansa’s hand in his own and looked into her eyes. Sansa was too stunned to reply and he took the opportunity in her speechlessness. “I will lead our bannermen and raise my children to be Starks but, and I swear this Sansa, I will never be the leader of the North.”

Sansa blinked several times. “What do you mean?” she asked carefully. “Tell me exactly what you mean, Robb.”

Robb nodded grimly. “In my last life, people wanted me because of the power I wielded. I am the firstborn son of Eddard Stark. They thought that alone made me capable to lead them. I was murdered Sansa, and I am tired of the pretence. I am a good fighter but I do not have the intelligence or the mind fit for a crown.”

“But you are the heir to Winterfell,” Sansa said lamely. She had never thought Robb would turn his back on the crown.

“Only because I am the firstborn son. I could have Greywind’s head sewn onto my neck once more and the Northern Lords would still say I was a fit King. You, Sansa, are the best of us.”

“Robb…”

“Jon tells stories of your last life all the time. Well, I guess they are more like memories.” Robb said softly. “He told me about your coronation. He gets this misty look on his face and he tells it so well I can so easily pretend I was there. Tell me about it. I want to hear it from the Queen herself.”

Sansa smiled and pulled her chair closer to both her brother and the fireplace. Her coronation was one of her clearest memories.

“It was the heart of the Long Winter and the snow was falling harder than I had ever seen before if you can believe that,” she began with a closed-lipped smile. “If you went out for even a moment, you would be covered in a layer of flakes. The Northern Lords were dead or dying and those who had survived the Winter travelled to Winterfell. Little Lyanna Mormont proclaimed her allegiance to me. She said Jon was a Stark but not the right Stark to lead the North against the threat of the dead and he agreed.

“It was a silly fantasy of mine, a lingering piece of the child I had been, but I had been making a gown and cloak in my spare time to remind me of all of you. A black, shaggy cloak like Jon’s in the same style as Father’s that was halved like Arya’s. I had embroidered the leaves of a Weirwood for Bran and the sleeves had scales like a fish, like the Tully banners, for Mother. I commissioned one of the leather smiths to fashion me a corset that doubled as armour,” she said wistfully and Robb could picture her in her creation easily, standing tall and proud.

“What reminded you of me?” he asked with a grin.

“Gendry fashioned me a crown of two direwolves. Arya told him about the crown you had worn. It was placed on my head by Arya and she was crying. First time I have ever seen her cry and they were tears of happiness and joy.” Sansa sniffed, tears threatening to spill over her lashline.

“What was it like?” Robb asked.

“Everyone gathered in the Great Hall but it felt wrong to me. Like we needed to be somewhere more open, more sacred. Miraculously, the Old Gods seemed to hear me and the snow stopped and Jon pushed Bran and they led us through the keep to the Weirwood. Everyone stood within the tracks of his chair and I was crowned before the Heart tree.”

“Sounds peaceful.”

“It was. It felt right deep in my bones and I remember I could breathe properly for the first time in a long time. It felt like I was home again,” she told him, a single tear falling onto her cheek.

“You are the only person fit to lead us, Sansa. The true Queen of the North. Margaery Tyrell can fall in love with me a hundred times and the Tyrells can pressure me into making her a queen until her last breath but it will not change anything,” Robb said earnestly.

Sansa nodded and wiped at the errant tear quickly. “Olenna Tyrell poisoned Joffrey last time at his wedding to Margaery. We can see if she is willing to speed up his timeline but we cannot let them know that we remember an alternate time. Robb, swear it to me that you will be careful with your words when we arrive in the garden.

“How long will it take to get there?” he asked.

Sansa gave him a hard look and applied pressure onto the bones of his hands. “Swear it.”

“Gods, woman. I swear I will try. How long will we be on the road for?” he asked again, withdrawing his hand and flexing his fingers.

“I don’t know. A moon’s turn maybe. It will take us all a fair few weeks of travel.”

Jon and Tormund

Tormund stood with his back to the keep, tossing snow over his shoulder with his bare hands as a man possessed. Jon was carefully dodging the snow, a grin splitting his usually dour face, just watching his friend. Ghost was pouncing upon the snow, playfully snapping at it as it flew by his snout.

“What is he doing?” Sansa asked as she stopped by Jon’s side. Brienne was a few paces behind Sansa and was unfortunate enough to get hit by one of the snowdrifts.

“Urgh!” she groaned in disgust, wiping the soft powder out of her hair and off of her armour. “You bloody, great, ginger, fucking fool!”

“Lady Brienne,” Jon teased her, faking a scandalised tone and a gasp.

Sansa bit her lip to stop her laughter and gathered the hem of her cloak in her hand, offering the corner to her friend with a sympathetic smile. Jon was cackling, bent double and clutching at his sides as Tormund dived into the small hole he had made in the snow.

He shuffled and wriggled until he was reclining in the hole, his hands resting behind his head in a picture of perfect happiness with Ghost looking down at him from the lip above.

“Was too warm. Now I am cold.”

“You lump of shit!” Brienne hissed in annoyance. She kicked the snow and sent it raining over the Wild Man and the direwolf who pounced once more upon his prey. “One of these days I will run you through with my sword.”

“Only if I can run you through with my sword,” Tormund replied suggestively, his bushy eyebrows wiggling in a way which made Brienne groan with half-formed fury. She began kicking and pushing the snow into the hole and over the Wild Man who didn’t protest with Ghost’s help as he began to dig.

“I have been looking for the pair of you since noon,” Sansa told Jon as the two stood and watched their friends. “I spoke to Father and Arya this morning and Mother and Bran shortly afterwards. Robb and the Mormonts know we are travelling to Highgarden and the final people I have to talk to is the pair of you.”

Jon looked over his shoulder at the keep, seeing only the lower-ranked bannerman patrolling near them. He held out the side of his cloak and wrapped it over Sansa’s shoulders, revelling in the fact that for the moment, he was still taller than her.

“We’ve been gathering things to take to Castle Black and talking about the land beyond the Wall. Tormund began to complain that he’s ‘too hot this far South’,” Jon mimicked the man perfectly and Sansa laughed, resting her head on his shoulder. “This was his only solution.”

“I’m glad I didn’t miss it,” she said, motioning to the scene in front of them. Comically, only Tormund’s head was visible above the snow but Brienne was still kicking and covering him in the powder but she was laughing now.

“Do you have to go South?” Jon asked, suddenly serious and broody. Ghost noticed a change and abandoned his hole in favour of laying on Jon’s shoes.

Sansa felt her stomach knot and twist. The last thing she wanted to do was leave Winterfell and all those she loved, especially Jon.

“I’ve been writing to Margaery since my nameday and she was the one who suggested I travel South and experience the gardens she speaks so highly of. She is eager to meet the wolves.”

Jon reached out and cupped her cheek. “No doubt you’d planted the seed within your words several letters before.”

“This will be beneficial for our family and she was a good friend to me in the end, and besides, the Gardens were beautiful and it would be nice to see them again,” she replied, her sparkling, mirth-filled eyes confirmation enough for Jon to know that Sansa had manipulated the situation.

“But taking Robb? What is your reasoning for that?” Jon pressed on.

“Maybe he is just my favourite sibling and I wanted to spend some time with him,” said Sansa with an impish grin.

Jon pinched her chin between his gloved fingers. “Be serious. I will be hundreds of miles away and then unreachable by Raven when we pass through The Wall.”

“Robb needs a wife. I would have put all of my energy into matching him with Dacey Mormont or another Northern Lady but this is a better match. Robb needs someone who will match his will and wit. Margaery is looking for a comfortable match since her husband is in love with her brother. They can fall in love and both be happy and then the Tyrells will align with us, not the Lannisters.” Sansa had thought it through. She didn’t want to put Robb through any trauma and she knew he had truly loved Talisa, but Sansa needed to know her brother would be secure in life, and Margaery Tyrell enabled that better than some foreign lady.

“I wish you could come North with me. I have never seen land as beautiful as that past the Wall. It is clear and icy for as far the eye can see. There are these mountains and caves with bright crystals and hot-spring waterfalls. Even with the threat of the Night King, I would protect you.”

Sansa wrinkled her nose. “The wildlings are volatile and unpredictable. If they followed you once they will follow you again. I will be no use beyond The Wall.”

“I’ll have something pretty to look at and someone to have a decent conversation with,” Jon charmed.

Sansa laughed and pressed a gentle kiss to his bearded cheek, wary of the bannerman on guard. “Isn’t that what Ghost is for?”

“Fuck!” Brienne’s frustrated cry broke the couple out of their playful conversation. “Thank the Gods, both Old and New, that I am going South!” Sansa watched in amusement as Tormund clambered out of the hole, covered in snow and laughing heartily.

“What happened this time?”

“She thought she’d killed me,” Tormund said as Brienne glared. “I am immune to your frosty looks, Woman!”

“When do we leave Lady Sansa?” Brienne almost pleaded, ignoring the chuckling man who was picking the frozen snow out of his beard behind her and throwing it in her direction.

“The day after the morrow.” Jon’s eyes widened in shock. “That soon?” He didn’t know how to feel about returning to Castle Black and the Night’s Watch. He wouldn’t have the reputation of Lord Commander anymore, he knew more than all of the others combined and he had Maester Aemon’s sword, all of which he couldn’t explain.

“Not soon enough!” was all Brienne said in exasperation.

The darkness of the following night almost felt constricting but the soothing crackle of the logs on the fire and Lady’s warm fur made her feel happy and light after spending the day as a family.

The Starks and those living at Winterfell had enjoyed a final spread prepared by the kitchen. It was a grand affair, the final one before they separated for a few moons and it brought a festive feeling to the bittersweet time.

Sansa, Arya, Robb and Bran were mushed up and tangled, all tucked under the furs of Sansa’s bed, laughing together as Theon manipulated Rickon’s arms and legs on the floor in front of the hearth, making the baby dance and jump whilst Sansa sung. Jon sat on Sansa’s window seat with Ghost tucked into his side, leaving Gendry to sit on the stool in front of her looking glass.

“I know that it will all work out but I want everything to stay just like it is now,” Robb breathed out once Theon had gently manipulated Rickon into bowing before his clapping audience.

“It will always be like this. No matter where we go, who we meet or what we do, we are still a pack,” Arya said fiercely. “We will meet back here in a few months time, stronger than ever before.”

“Some horrible things have to happen before that,” Gendry reminded her quietly, glancing over at Theon who was still out of the loop but he was too busy holding Rickon under the arms over Shaggydog in an attempt to make him ride the direwolf.

“The good outways the bad,” Sansa said and Bran nodded. “The lone wolf dies but the pack survives.”

Outside of Sansa’s chambers, Catelyn was stood with her head inclined to the door, listening to the laughter and happiness of her children filter through the wood and it warmed her heart.

Ned was waiting for her at their end of the corridor, patient and wise enough to know that Catelyn needed to hear her children so that she could be reassured that they were alright.

After several more moments, Catelyn turned and joined her husband. A nursemaid would soon be retrieving Rickon and dispersing her children and ensuring they went to sleep.

“Who is leaving first?” she asked as she slipped her arm into Ned’s, allowing him to lead her to their chambers.

“Jon and Tormund are leaving for Castle Black shortly before sunrise. Benjen is meeting them half-way to ensure Tormund isn’t a savage and vouch for him to the Watch,” Ned told her, chuckling at the image his mind was producing of Tormund and his youngest brother meeting.

“And yourself? When will you be leaving?” Ned could hear his wife’s sadness and it made his chest ache.

The last time he had left her and travelled South, he had died there. He was determined to return to her alive and breathing, not a headless corpse. “As soon as Arya and the Waters boy are ready. The cart is packed and the saddlebags are ready to leave whenever.”

Catelyn smiled and scoffed as they entered their antechamber. “You know as well as I do that he is called Gendry.”

Ned grumbled something unintelligible.

“In the last life, didn’t Robert say something about joining our houses through his son and our daughter?” Catelyn asked as she began unbraiding her hair in front of her looking glass.

Ned toed off his boots and plucked his wife’s brush up and took over her nightly task, revelling in the feeling of her hair like silk under his fingertips. “I will die before Joffery lays eyes on Sansa again.” Cat leaned back into his touch and tutted.

“I meant Gendry and Arya, you fool. Please, for my sake, don’t scare him like you are doing now. And call him by his actual name.”

Ned’s lower lip pouted and he continued to brush Catelyn’s hair with a frown. “She’s our baby. Arya was the last person I thought I would be fixing for marriage.”

“They have years before any talk of marriage. Arya may never marry him but right now he makes her happy and Sansa said they were inseparable last time. She will like you even more if you don’t threaten to kill her friend every time he speaks in her presence,” she told him. “And she can handle herself.”

“That’s not the problem. Have you ever seen her water dance?” Ned asked as Cat took the brush from his fingers. She stood up from the stool and reached out, unthreading Ned’s jerkin with nimble fingers.

“She is hypnotising,” Catelyn agreed half-heartedly. She couldn't deny it but the thought still scared her when someone else voiced her thoughts.

“More than that! She’s deadly! She looks like Nymeria the Queen. Huh,” Ned stopped, smiling at himself, suddenly amused. “That’s what she named her wolf.”

Catelyn smiled and pressed a kiss to his lips. When she pulled back she had a deep look of love in her eyes and Ned wrapped his arms around her waist. “I am very thankful to have been married to you in two lifetimes,” she fondly said.

“And every single one to come, my love.”

By the time the nursemaid arrived to take Rickon to his nursery and make sure that they went to their own rooms, Sansa was half-asleep.

Robb took Bran to his rooms and the pair kissed the crown of her head without a word. Arya stroked Lady’s muzzle and left with Gendry and Theon, leaving Jon still sat at the window.

With half-lidded eyes, Sansa smiled and looked at him unashamedly. His hair was longer, curling around his jaw and he had a nearly-formed beard. With every passing day, Jon looked more and more like the man he had become. His skin was unmarked and smooth but he still held all of his soul in his dark eyes.

“Stop staring at me,” he grumbled, his own eyes closed. “I know I am pretty but…”

Sansa laughed and rubbed at Lady’s ears so that her hands had something to do. “How are you feeling?”

Jon rolled his shoulders and groaned, dislodging Ghost who jumped up onto the bed and curled into Sansa’s side. “I feel stiff and sore.”

“And this is coming from a man who has risen from the dead,” she joked, breaking off into a yawn at the end.

“Seriously. How are you feeling? Going to Castle Black was hard for you and now you know what will happen.”

Jon sighed deeply and crossed her room to stand in front of the hearth. He stared into the flames, getting lost in the glow. “We spent so long apart and not knowing each other. We only had six years together from the time we were reunited at Castle Black to the end of our lives. How is it I am unable to do anything without thinking of you?”

Sansa remained quiet, just watching him.

“I wake up and my first thought is you. I go to sleep and my final thoughts are of you. You are all I dream about. We could be together for longer in this life but I am your bastard brother now and we are going to opposite ends of the country.”

“Jon,” Sansa said in warning, knowing that either she was going to cry or he would begin shouting out of pure frustration. “Don’t fall in love whilst beyond the wall.” Jon couldn’t even fabricate Ygritte’s face. When he did she simply morphed into Sansa. He smiled at her, coming to stand at the foot of her bed. “As long as you don’t fall in love whilst in the South.”

Sansa smiled lazily at his return. She couldn’t even imagine the idea and they both knew it.

Slowly, Sansa peeled back one of the furs on her bed. The direwolves created a divide between them and Jon was still clothed in his daywear and boots, but if an unknowing servant found them, they would both be in trouble.

Jon unbuckled his sword belt and laid Longclaw on the floor by the bed before climbing into the furs. They were a foot or two apart and couldn’t even see each other over the mountain of direwolf but it was enough.

Innocent in nature, comforting and a reflection of how they used to lay whilst King and Queen, the young couple fell asleep without word or care.

Chapter Text

Catelyn had not slept.

She had laid awake just listening to the sound of her husband's deep breathing, praying that time froze or that the moon never left the sky and she wouldn't have to face the oncoming day. After what felt like an age of half-muffled crying, the watery first light of dawn broke through the darkness in their chambers and the Lady of the Keep sobbed loudly.

Ned woke at the sound and turned over, blinking the sleep out of his eyes to find his wife curled up into a ball.

"Cat?" he said, thinking for a moment that he was still dreaming. He wondered what she was crying for and then it hit him suddenly and Ned felt winded.

We're leaving today. I'm leaving today, he thought and he reached out to touch her forehead, gently tracing her browbone with the tips of his fingers. Cat's eyes were red and her nose was running but Ned's heart still stuttered a few beats, as had become customary since the morning after their wedding all those moons ago. He had taken her for granted in their last life, he realised. She was everything right within his life and she was laying next to him, crying. It broke his heart and he swallowed thickly.

"My love, don't cry," he said, his grumbling voice washing over her in a soothing manner but it did little to stop the small sob that escaped her.

"What am I supposed to do," Catelyn replied, sniffing and blinking away her tears. "The last time we parted and you went South, you died. I will not stand for that to happen again, Ned."

"I won't die."

"Of course not, I won't allow it. And when you do die, you will do it at my side, do you hear me Eddard," she said fiercely and Ned chuckled, bringing her body closer to his and pulling the furs up closer around them.

"And you by mine," was all he said in reply.

They lay together, simply holding one another until the last of the darkness had left their room and they could see each other in the bright morning sun.

Without an exchange of words, simply soft kisses, the pair clambered out of the furs and began to change into their clothing, helping each other with laces and ties. They had done away with their servants in the morning since they had awoken. Ned pulled Cat's outer dress down over her arms and in return, she buckled his sword belt with swift, practised fingers.

"My lady wife," Ned murmured as Catelyn finished running an ivory comb through her long hair and tying half of it back.

The domestic routine was ingrained so deeply into the pair of them that Catelyn briefly wondered who she would help to dress when he left. She had not had help dressing from another person in nearly a year. She didn't dwell on the thought too much or else she felt she might begin to cry once more, so Catelyn simply took her husband's outstretched hand and allowed him to lead her through the corridors and halls and down to the yard where bannermen and stable boys were putting the final necessities into saddlebags and a cart.

Tormund was dressed in his old furs and was sorting out his stallion, swearing away any stable boy that dared to come near. His scraggly beard and wild hair seemed to be slightly tamer and Catelyn put it down to Sansa's insistent begging in allowing her to cut his hair. She seemed to have finally gotten her way and the Wildling looked slightly less feral but still terrifying.

Catelyn knew the first to leave would be those heading North to the Wall.

"Where is he?" she found herself saying aloud. A sharp breeze made her cloak and hair flap and she pressed herself a little closer into her husband's side, uncaring about her duty and image. Those around them were Northern men.

Ned looked over his wife's head, taking full advantage of his taller stature. He knew she meant Jon and he scanned the busy yard for any sign of him.

"I can't see him, my love. Arya and Bran are coming this way though," he told her and Catelyn tutted.

"Father, have you seen Jon anywhere?" was the first thing Arya said when she was close enough not to have to shout.

"No, sweetling. Where are the rest of your siblings?"

Arya shrugged and ran her finger's through Nymeria's fur to channel some of her nervous energy. She was resting her hand on Needle's hilt but a firm look from her mother made sure that the sword stayed in its scabbard and Arya stayed by her side.

Bran, who was still trailing behind his sister and her wolf, stopped walking and turned his head, looking into the darkness of one of the arched passageways. A pair of glowing red eyes gave away Jon's position but Catelyn knew Ghost hadn't given away his master to Bran.

"He's waiting," Bran said in the eerie, monotonous voice of Raven.

"For what?"

Catelyn shook her head as her husband's question. "For whom should be the better question."

Summer and Nymeria's ears pricked back and the two direwolves turned to look at one of the doorways from the hall that connected the Great Keep to the rest of the Winterfell. Shaggydog bounded through a second later with Greywind at on his tail and the two direwolves joined their littermates eagerly as if sensing they would soon be separated.

"Robb!" Arya cried suddenly as her eldest brother strode across the yard and made a beeline for them with Theon and the Mormonts in tow, all following the wolves. "Where were you! We went to your chambers but you were missing."

Robb's charming laugh echoed off of the stone walls surrounding them. "Been halfway round the bloody keep looking for you!"

"My Lord," a bannermen said quietly. "We are just waiting for Snow and then the gates will open and the procession will leave for the Wall." Ned nodded as Catelyn swallowed thickly. This was the first of several goodbyes she would have to make that day.

"Where is Jon? I've not said goodbye yet," Robb said with a slight frown.

"No one has yet. He's waiting for Sansa."

The Mormonts looked at one another behind Robb's back and seemed to exchange numerous looks that conveyed an entire silent conversation.

"We will take our leave and wish Lady Brienne and Master Tormund a good ride," Alysane said and the two sisters slipped off in the direction of the Wildman and the Knight who was stubbornly standing by the walls of the Keep rather than engage him in conversation.

"Will somebody tell me a story or sing me a song. I may go half-mad with anxiety and refuse to let any of you go," Catelyn asked and her family turned and began talking over one another, trying to soothe her. None of them saw Sansa and Lady slip through the yard and into the passageway where Jon and Ghost were hiding.

"What am I supposed to say?"

He could hear the sadness in her voice and if it weren't for the darkness of the passageway, he would have seen the first tear roll down over her cheek.

"I will see you again," Jon replied earnestly, taking Sansa's hands into his own. "This is a blessing Sansa. We will reunite in a few moons times stronger than before. Please don't cry."

"You're going to a place where you were murdered by your brothers and beyond the safety of Castle Black into an unforgiving land filled with the very evil we died trying to defeat in our last life. I am allowed to worry and cry," she told him flatly.

Jon let a small laugh escape and he pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and burrowing his nose into her hair. He doubted that he would be able to so just as easily the next time he held her, as she would have probably grown even more.

"You're going South. I am just as worried about you as you are about me," he said but it didn't bring her any comfort. Sansa just pressed a soft kiss to his mouth and then pulled out a stack of letters from her cloak, all bound together with ribbon and sealed with wax. She thrust them into his hands and toyed with her fingers nervously.

"I wrote you some letters..." she began.

"I can see," Jon replied but he wasn't teasing. He seemed to be in awe as he ran the pad of his thumb down through the letters, trying to count how many there were.

"Sending a raven every time I have something to say seems to be farcical. By the time it made the trip, I would have probably sent several more and when you leave beyond the Wall, even a raven wouldn't do," Sansa explained. "I thought I would write half of my thoughts down and just give them to you. As though they were my favour to you," she added.

Jon swallowed thickly. He hadn't thought to write his feelings down but he was mentally kicking himself. It was yet another reason why Sansa had become such a brilliant leader. Unlike himself, who had forgotten that no raven had survived a trip beyond the Wall, she planned ahead.

"I wish I had done the same thing," he said regretfully. "I have nothing... Wait," he said, suddenly remembering the leather cord around his neck.

Jon carefully tucked the letters into his jerkin and untied the leather cord. On the end of the necklace was a small, fang-like tooth that Sansa recognised to have once been Ghost's.

Jon and Robb had gotten into the habit of taking bones from the kitchens and giving them to their pups and Ghost had lost one of his canines several weeks before. Jon had felt guilty about giving the pup the bone and rather than discard the puppy fang, he had used a dagger to carve a small hole in the top and threaded a loop of cord through so that he could wear it.

"You're giving me Ghost's tooth as a favour?" Sansa laughed and allowed Jon to tie the cord around her neck without protest.

"He's apart of me and now you can carry that with you," he reasoned. A twinge of some foreign emotion ran through his gut at seeing the direwolf fang fall between her breasts, despite her high necked gown. He knew it would be there, under her clothes and against her skin. He watched with equal measures of disappointment and pride as she tucked the necklace into her gown.

"I wonder what the Southerners will think of a Northen lady showing up with her direwolf at her heels and the tooth of her love's wolf at her breast," she teased, her fingers easily finding the small bump of the tooth that was beneath the fabric. Jon's hand rose and he pressed on the bump, revelling in the feeling of the fang under the fabric.

"You're the Red Wolf of Winterfell. They should expect nothing less."

Sansa's broad smile fell and she wrapped her fingers around Jon's hand. He tucked a tendril of flaming red hair that had escaped from her half-hearted braid behind her ear and let his fingers trace over her cheek and under her jaw.

"You know I would stay by your side if I could but we need a white-walker. We need the proof and we need allies," Jon began, tilting Sansa's head up slightly so that she was looking into his eyes. "Talk to Lady for me."

Sansa's brows drew together. "Pardon me?"

"Just like I talk to Ghost."

A small giggle escaped through her lips. "You talk to Ghost?"

Jon rolled his eyes and gripped her chin in between his fingers. "Sansa."

Her bright smile returned. "I apologise. You were saying..."

"Its just something Bran told me to do. He said I should talk to Ghost as though he were you or Arya or any other human. He said it would help," Jon told her and she nodded to the best of her ability, despite her chin still being in his grasp.

"He told me to do the same thing. 'The wolves are connected just like the Starks are connected'" she said, imitating Bran's monotonous voice. "There is no harm in trying and at least you will have some company past the Wall."

"I am going with Tormund."

"Who is well known for his stimulating conversational skills," deadpanned Sansa. "Honestly, Jon... be safe." The mood shifted from teasing and light to sombre and sad once more. The passageway felt cold and dark and the young couple held one another tighter.

"Look after yourself and Robb. Talk to him and Brienne. Don't be a heroic Queen, Sansa. Talk to them, explain your plots and plans with them. Don't do it all alone," he said, his tone almost pleading her. "Write to Ned and Arya. Send a raven to your mother whenever you can. Don't be alone."

She nodded slowly and a tear slipped down over her cheek which Jon caught with his thumb.

"Go say goodbye to the others. I can't keep you here. It's unfair," she whispered and he nodded slowly.

"Until we are reunited," Jon murmured.

Sansa's nose brushed against his and then they were kissing, wrapped in each other's arms in the dark, guarded by their wolves as they lost themselves in each other for a few stolen minutes.

When they separated for a breath, Sansa's cheeks were wet with tears and Jon was gripping her as though she would disappear into nothingness if he let go.

Ghost growled in a warning and they released each other, both looking pained as the did so.

"I love you."

"I love you."

With her head held high, Sansa left the passageway without giving him a second glance. She looked aloof and untroubled and it soothed Jon, knowing that regardless of her emotions, she could carry herself without letting anyone know. Sansa called Lady away and the two left the passageway and walked through the keep until they entered the yard from the opposite side to where Jon and Ghost would emerge. Sansa slipped into the crowd her family had made and before Jon's eyes, Sansa's tortured expression became a mask of indifference as she wiped her cheeks and set her shoulders back laid her hand on Lady's head, seeking comfort from her familiar.

"Fuck," Jon muttered to himself and he sniffed, rubbing his hands over his face. Ghost nudged his nose into Jon's thigh and he looked down at his direwolf. He wandered down the passageway and exited into the snowy courtyard from another doorway.

"Jon!" Arya cried and he braced himself as she threw her body into his arms.

"Arya," he breathed, tucking her under his chin and hugging her close. "Write to me. Even if it's just about Needle or the way Ned and Gendry are pissing you off or the bloody weather."

Arya wriggled and he set her back on her feet. She had a fond look on her face and she smiled. "I will. You won't be able to read my penmanship but if it'll stop you complaining I'll send two a day."

Jon laughed and set her on her feet. "That's a false promise if I ever heard one."

"I love you. Be careful," she whispered and Jon sniffed once more.

"I love you too. Be safe Arya."

After saying goodbye to Arya and hugging her once more, it was Robb's turn and the two brothers hugged, patting each other roughly on the back.

"Look after Sansa for me and yourself, alright," Jon said gruffly and Robb laughed heartily as they pulled away from each other.

"Only if you make sure Tormund returns in one piece when you get that white-walker. Lady Brienne needs him in her life despite how much she says otherwise," he joked.

Bran stepped forward and hugged him quick, elbowing past Robb who held up his hands and left to talk to Tormund. "Talk to Ghost," Bran ordered.

"I will. Only if you talk to Summer," he replied and Bran smiled, returning to Sansa's side to hold her hand. Theon clapped him on the shoulder and Jon pulled him in for a hug.

"Look after Winterfell."

"Look after yourself," was all Theon said in reply.

"Jon," Ned's deep voice boomed and Jon turned slowly on his heels, letting go of Theon.

Ned's kind eyes bore into Jon's and it made his stomach flip. Without any words, Ned opened his arms and Jon grabbed him, hugging the man close whilst fighting the urge to cry. Ned's hands were patting and rubbing Jon's shoulders reassuringly.

"Look after yourself out there," he said and Jon nodded into his cloak, not letting his father-figure go. "Arya will have me. Sansa will have Robb and Bran will have Theon. We will all be fine." Ned gently peeled Jon away from him and held his cheeks in his hands, ensuring that he was looking into Jon's teary eyes.

"I will write," Jon promised and Ned laughed, shaking his head.

"No need. Enjoy yourself at Castle Black but do not take the Black, Jon. Swear it to me."

Jon nodded. "I won't. Once was enough," he chuckled but it was slightly flat and Ned's thick brows drew together.

"Son," he said softly and a tear escaped Jon's eye. "I love you very much Jon, never forget that. I am sorry that I lied about your mother last time but I swore an oath. I would do anything to keep you safe."

"I know. Thank you," Jon mumbled and Ned released him into Catelyn's waiting arms.

"If someone had told me I would be crying at the thought of you leaving Winterfell in our last life I would have thought them to be too deep into their cups," she said, trying to stop herself from crying as she hugged him quickly.

"Look after Theon. Keep an eye on him for me," he replied, rubbing his nose with his sleeve.

"The lone wolf dies..."

"But the pack survives," he finished slowly.

"We will be alright Jon. She will be alright," Catelyn whispered and Jon nodded as Ser Rodrick called for the Northen gates to be opened.

Jon stole one more glance in Sansa's direction as he mounted his horse and took the reins from a stableboy. She was still stood with her chin high and an indifferent mask upon her features but Jon could just make out the tear rolling over her cheek as the wind whipped her red hair around her face.

"She looks just as pretty heartbroken," Tomrund said to his left. "Shame about my woman."

Jon looked over at Brienne who had her sword in her hand and looked more frustrated than anything. Rather than the approach Catelyn and Sansa had taken which looked more like they wanted to tear him from his horse and keep him in Winterfell, Brienne looked as though she wanted to slap the arse of Tormund's steed to send it galloping through the gate.

"What did you say?" Jon asked, watching in amusement as Brienne kicked a lump of snow in their direction before storming over to Sansa's side.

Tormund grinned and shrugged, resettling himself in his saddle as the procession began to move. "Just asked her if she would miss me warming her bed at night."

Jon laughed. "You hadn't been doing so had you?"

"No, but I knew I had been doing so in her dreams," he cackled and Jon cracked a smile despite the fact that his heart felt as though it were breaking in two. He glanced over his shoulder one final time and saw Sansa smiling in his direction. She brought her hand up to her lips and kissed her fingertips before lifting them to him. He smiled and turned back around, kicking his horse into a canter. The sooner he was at the camp for the night, the sooner he could read her letters he thought.

Catelyn wiped her tears away and took Rickon from his nursemaid. She set the baby on her hip and covered him with her cloak as they wandered through the keep towards the yard.

The same commotion of steeds and stableboys greeted her as the bannermen readied another cart. Rickon patted his mother's wet cheek and she smiled down at the boy with a fond look in her eyes.

Gathered in the snow once more were the Starks, all wishing farewell to Robb, Sansa, the Mormonts and Brienne. Ned had Sansa wrapped in a tight embrace as Theon and Robb said goodbye.

"My Lady," Alysane dipped her head. "I would like to thank you for opening your home up to myself and my sister these past few months. I promise no harm will come to either of the wolves as we travel south," she said fiercely and Catelyn smiled, cupping the bear's cheek.

"Thank you, Lady Mormont for your unwavering commitment and bravery. I pray that your journey is uneventful but pleasant," she told her and Alys smiled.

"Forgive me, my lady, but we are going South. I doubt I will not stop missing the North and my home the entire time," she added.

"Mother," Robb interrupted and Alys dipped her head in goodbye and left to mount her horse.

"Sweetheart," Catelyn said, turning to face her eldest son. "Theon, my sweet, would you hold Rickon for one moment," she asked.

"Come here little sire," Theon said, taking the baby and hugging him close. "We have said our goodbyes, let's find our wolf shall we?"

The two Starks watched him go with soft smiles. Robb turned and looked down at his mother.

"I hate the thought of leaving you here alone," he said and Cat placed a hand on his stubbled cheek, her most known sign of affection.

"I will have three of my sons by my side. My sister will be arriving before the end of the month and you will all have returned to me before I know it," she told him. "Enjoy the South, Robb. There is nothing you need to do but experience all that Highgarden has to offer."

Robb rolled his eyes. "You as well, Mother? I would have thought you'd want me to marry a Northen girl and settle here."

Catelyn laughed. "I don't know what you mean."

"Sansa is convinced I will find my wife on this trip," he told her with a groan and Cat pinched his cheek.

"There are two wonderful Northen girls accompanying the pair of you. Perhaps either of the bears? Or maybe a rose for my precious wolf?" Catelyn teased and Robb shook his head.

"Be safe, mother."

"And you, my son."

Catelyn watched as Robb went to say goodbye to Bran before taking the reins of his horse. His spot besides Catelyn was quietly taken by Sansa.

"Don't leave your brother in the dark. He is a clever man, and whilst he did make some mistakes, he was a good king," Catelyn began and Sansa placed a hand over hers.

"I will. Jon and Bran have already told me not to be so secretive. We will only be gone for a month or so," she added as if that would reassure her mother about all of her worries.

"With a rose in tow, if all goes right, I presume."

Sansa's high cheeks darkened slightly. "She is a good woman and was a good friend. The Tyrells rivel the Lannisters in terms of power in the South."

Catelyn sighed, watching Robb mount his horse. "He had a love, Sansa. Talisa may not live up to a Tyrell but he did love her. Be careful about pushing this onto him. He had a wife that he loved. He may try to seek her out on your journey South."

Sansa nodded, squeezing her mother's hand as Robb called out for her. "I know. It is delicate and may never work but I will try."

"Then good luck, my sweet," Cat told her. "May both the Seven and the old gods bless you on this journey."

"And you too, mother."

Cat watched from Ned's side as two more of her children left the safety of Winterfell. She managed to keep the tears at bay but she clutched at her husband with a vicelike grip as they watched the redheads of Sansa and Robb ride South.

By the time the sun was setting, the final round of horses and carts were finally ready for the Lord himself.

Gendry had packed an entire cart with swords, hammers, an anvil and numerous other metals. He had briefly mentioned wanting to source some dragonglass or valerian steel and Cat had politely wished him well before turning towards Arya.

"How I will miss telling you off for something or other," she laughed, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her daughter's ear.

Arya had sat before Sansa a few days prior and let her sister cut her long hair into a short, shoulder-brushing bob which she had half scraped back into a knot at the top of her head. It was neither a Northen or a Southern-style and Catelyn had wondered where Arya had picked it up.

"Just think mother. No more reminding me to be a lady every few minutes," Arya joked but her smile didn't reach her eyes.

"I know we have never seen eye to eye fully, but know that I love you very much and I hope that you and your father look after one another," Cat said quietly.

Arya blinked several times and threw herself into her mother's arms. Nymeria whined and Cat let her daughter go with a smile.

"Go and have your adventure, my sweet. Keep up with your needlework," she added and Arya grinned wickedly.

"I intend to, don't worry."

"How did we raise such a child?" Ned asked, laughing as he wrapped an arm around his wife, content in just watching as Arya leapt into the saddle of her horse without assistance.

Catelyn smiled up at him.

"Ned."

"I know," was all he said in reply. Ned leant down and kissed her soundly, pouring all of the unspoken words into it. "I feel the same."

Catelyn nodded and took several steps back, breathing to compose herself. She was getting closer to breaking down with every passing second.

"Mother." Bran was by her side, holding out his hand and she took it gratefully.

"Until we see each other again, my love," Ned shouted out across the yard, already seated, ready to lead the procession.

"Be safe Ned!"

"The lone wolf dies..." he called out.

"The pack survives," several people chorused, from Cat herself to numerous bannermen and smallfolk.

"Close the gate and gather in the Great Hall for supper after you have been dismissed from your stations," Catelyn called out over the yard, already falling back into the role of Lady of the Keep. "Come, Bran. We wait for their return but until then, let's go inside and look after this home," she murmured into his hair as they turned back towards the keep.

Chapter Text

Several uneventful days passed as the separate groups of Starks ventured through the villages and countryside, each destined for a place they wished they never had to return to.

Arya, Ned, and Gendry rode hard for three days before stopping at a small inn which Ned had visited as a boy many times. The family welcomed their Lord with warm, fresh bread and offered to put the entire fleet of bannermen up in one of their stables.

To Ned, it felt as though it were all a pleasant dream. He missed his dear wife and the comfort of his own keep but he had never spent so much time alone with his youngest daughter, in either life and he was revelling in it. Arya would lead the charge in the day, cantering along on a horse that moved under her direction as though he were an extension of the girl herself with her wolf running by her side. Gendry would ride beside her and whilst neither were avid talkers, they would fill the hours of daylight with jokes and comments that went over Ned's head but he didn't mind.

When they stopped for the day, Arya was always one of the first to begin setting up camp for the night. She would slip off after a fire had been built with Nymeria and her clever little Needle in her fist and reappear an hour later looking a little unruly with a wild gleam in her eyes.

It was these moments that Ned watched his daughter with fresh, appreciative eyes. She moved fluidly, no longer stumbling or tripping over her own feet as she had in the beginning when they had all woken up. Arya had gotten used to her smaller, growing frame and when she sparred with Gendry or one of the bannermen, she could easily dodge and duck out of their way, dancing out of their grip with a grin.

"Come on! Sansa could do better than you right now!" Arya's loud voice carried as she stepped out of the way of Gendry's rough axe. "Put your weight behind it!"

Gendry grumbled as the heavy weapon fell short of her again. "I am doing," he hissed. "Fuck!" he yelped as Arya poked him in the back of his neck with her cold fingers.

"And now you're dead."

Ned chuckled, giving himself away and the young pair turned and looked at him with wide eyes. Gendry dropped the handle of the axe and the blunt end fell into his foot.

"Was he ever a good swordsman?" Ned asked his daughter, wrapping her into his arms once he was close enough to do so.

Arya snickered into his shirt as they watched the boy hop around in pain, swearing and grumbling under his breath. "I guess he's better at making them than wielding them."

Ned nodded and sobered. "Was that important in the end? Making new weapons?" Ned set his hand onto Ice's hilt unconsciously.

He felt Arya shrug her shoulders. "Steel did nothing. If you sliced them apart with a steel blade, the hands would crawl towards you like spiders. Fire and Valerian steel were our main weapons but dragonglass, when forged into a blade, kills them too," she said without any weight to the words as if she was commenting on the frozen grass beneath their feet or the ancient trees that surrounded them.

Ned nodded grimly. "And he can forge dragonglass?"

The he in question was nursing his sore foot by leaning against one of the trees in the clearing as Nymeria sniffed his forgotten axe with intreset. If the direwolf were to suddenly grab it and start expertly weidling it, Ned doubted he would even shrug, reaffirming how strange his life had become.

"It took a while but yes. He can. Gorgeous works of art twisted into deadly points and feather-light," Arya said softly.

"My Lord," a bannerman interrupted them as he came through the trees. "There is a-, well, a crannogman here demanding to talk to you."

Ned pushed Arya behind his body subconsciously, chosing to ignore her protests. The party were still too far north for crannogmen to be any trouble. At worst, it was a rogue, nomadic man or an enemy dressed up for the part but there was still a risk that he didn't want to take.

"Lead the way. Waters, keep her away," he ordered, pushing Arya to his side and following the bannerman.

Closer to the track road they had been riding on, the camp had settled and at the end of every blade in their possession stood a lone man dressed in little more than ferns and moss. He was short and squat, corded with lean muscle and despite his wild hair and unkempt appearance, Ned could easily see that this was truly a crannogman.

"Sire," he began, placing a heavy hand onto one of the closest men's shoulders. "Can I help you with anything?" he asked slowly, wary of the way the man was looking him and his men up and down.

The man cleared his throat and held out his hand. Ned held out his own, palm facing upwards and let the man drop a heavy gold coin into his hand. It made his breath catch. He hadn't seen the coin in decades. It still looked and felt exactly like he remembered it being all those years ago. Scratched into the surface of the roughly made coin were his initials and as he ran the pad of his thumb over the metal, he could remember being in the smithy of Winterfell as a young boy, scratching away at the coin as though he had just finished the task.

He had given the coin away to Howland just after Jon's birth in exchange for his loyalties. The coin was to be given back to Ned if Lord Reed ever needed him and Ned would answer. It had never happened in his last life but here he was, the coin in his hand rooting him to the spot.

Ned took a deep, bone-shaking breath and looked into the eyes of the shorter man. The crannogman nodded once, tightly and then turned on his heel. Several bannermen went to move but held back, realising that their leader hadn't moved so much as a muscle.

"Father," Arya's quiet voice broke Ned out of his heavy musings. Ned looked down at her, feeling the weight of all that was troubling him settle on his shoulders. Arya picked up on the subtle change in his body language and covered his hand with her own as best she could. The metal of the coin bit into his skin but her warm palm comforted Ned more than anything else could at that moment.

"We ride for Moat Cailin with the sunrise and do not stop until are in the presence of Howland Reed," he ordered and the bannermen sprung into action. Some rushed to finish the camp whilst others went to the horses and checked their hooves and coat. The ride would take another three days and even if they managed to switch horses, it would be a tiring trip.

Arya's dark brows drew together. "What does the coin mean?"

Ned gently peeled her fingers back and placed the coin in her palm. She picked it up with quick, nimble fingers and began turning it over, inspecting the carving and the crude, half-finished embellishments on it.

"I gave this coin to Howland Reed just after Jon had been born. I carried it around with me when I was a young man. I never really knew why I did until Reed forced me to let go of Lyanna and hold the babe. He helped me bring her home from Dorne and in return, I gave him the coin and if he ever needed me, all he had to do was get the coin to me," he told her, his voice taking on a soft, almost detached tone as he recalled the death of his sister.

"I had a similar coin," Arya murmured and Ned took a ragged breath. When he looked down at her, all he could see was Lyanna in Arya's face. They had the same dark, wild look and he reached out and gripped her chin.

"Ned," she whispered. Lyanna whispered his name and he nearly buckled. His sister was stood before him, looking at him with the same look that lived in his daughters. She looked wild and alive, with the same determined glint he could remember so fondly. Her long, dark hair fell into her dark eyes and she shook it aside.

"Lyanna," he breathed. She looked as pale and a beautiful as the statue that stood guard over her bones in the crypt back in Winterfell but her skin was warm and soft under his fingertips. "I'm sorry," he begged and Lyanna's fingers wrapped around his wrist.

"Father," she whispered and Ned blinked in confusion. When he opened his eyes, he was gripping Arya's face and she had Needle in her hand, the other wrapped around his wrist and applying pressure to release his fingers.

Ned stepped back quickly, falling onto the snowy ground with quiet shock. "Arya," he said as though she was a ghost.

Arya slid Needle back into its leather sheath with shrewd eyes. "It's me," she said bluntly. "Arya. Your daughter."

Ned hung his head and felt his shoulders drop. Carefully, Arya walked to stand before him, so silently that when she placed her hand on his shoulder, Ned jumped.

"I'm sorry," he sighed and then his arms were filled with the warm, wriggling weight of his daughter who was pressing herself into his chest.

"It happens to me sometimes," she whispered quietly, waiting patiently as Ned remembered how to move his arms and hold her close. "I see Jaqen H'ghar and the waif sometimes," she told him although he couldn't recall the names of the people she mentioned. "When I was with the Faceless Men I was on the lookout all the time and there's always the possibility that it is them but I cannot live with the shadows of my past life hanging over me. I will never be like I was."

Ned let her go and looked into her face with a weak smile. "How did you come back so wise?"

Arya watched the corner of his eyes crinkle and the half-hearted grin blossom into a true smile. He was looking over her shoulder. Arya turned her head and caught sight of Nymeria nipping at Gendry's heels as he carried three tin plates of roasted rabbit over to them, above his head to keep them out of reach of the animal.

"Stop it you great mutt," he said fondly, gently pushing her away with his hip. It was harder now that the direwolf's head came up to his chest. "I'm going to step on you."

"Don't threaten my wolf," Arya joked as she got out of her father's lap to take a plate off of the boy. "Nym," she added and the direwolf dropped back instantly. "Go hunt, girl."

"Now you're just showing off," Gendry grumbled and then he gave the final, largest plate to Ned who stayed on the ground.

"Watch yourself, boy," Ned growled, only half-heartedly joking and he silently laughed as the young blacksmith straightened his spine and sat down several paces away from him.

"We ride out at dawn. Eat then rest," Ned announced, his voice carrying to all of those around the camp. "Bless us," he prayed before picking up the meat and eating, lost in thought and buried memories of his sister and old friend.

Chapter Text

Jon pressed his numb fingers into his eyes, wishing away the uneasy knot that had formed in the base of his stomach as he sat under the bare canopy of the dead tree in the snow. It felt like a stone, weighing him down. They were one day's ride out from Castle Black and whilst Jon's emotions dipped and darkened, Tormund's brightened and he seemed to come alive with every passing hour.

The wildman took a great gulping breath as he finished making his camp for the night, a crude pile of dried leaves and moss he'd dragged out from the forest. The feral man grinned as he joined Jon near the fire where they were roasting some rabbits. The bannermen had made their own fire a little further away, giving the two men some privacy in the icy forest.

"We are close. I can smell the snow," Tormund laughed and it echoed in the empty expanse around them.

"We have been surrounded by snow at Winterfell," Jon reminded him but Tormund waved him off.

"That piss. Ha!" He dropped gracelessly into the powder, forgoing the log Jon had dragged over to sit upon. "What will we do tomorrow?"

Jon sighed, his shoulders heaving under the question. "Dunno. Last time I arrived with my uncle and Tyrion Lannister. Didn't do no talkin' and Benjen hasn't sent word that he'd escort us," he explained, reaching forward to move the spits the rabbits were speared upon just to give himself something to do.

"No wise words from your lady?"

Jon glared into the flames. If he reacted to Tormund's every mention of Sansa, they would be weeks behind and the bannermen constantly pulling the pair apart.

"Despite what you think, she had not planned this out detail by detail. Things can still go wrong," Jon bit out in frustration.

Ghost was stood several feet away, looking out through the trees for something neither man could see. His ruby red eyes were the only thing they could see for certain as the wolf's coat blended seamlessly into the snowy surroundings.

Tormund followed his friend's eye line and looked at the wolf. "He's seen something. Look at his ears," the wildman said in a hushed voice as he pulled his sword free and stood behind the closest tree. The bannermen were moving into position as well, abandoning the doe that was being butchered for their supper.

Jon copied their actions, hoping that the smouldering fire was too small to give away their position. It had taken time and energy to light the small pile of kindling and the thought of smothering it with snow and the intruder turning out to be a rabbit or a deer was too much for him.

"Ghost," Jon whispered, knowing that his wolf would hear him despite the distance. The animal flattened himself into the snow and those who had travelled north watched in fascination as a black steed came hunkering through the forest, easily clearing the frozen brook and a fallen tree.

Ghost leapt out in front of the horse, causing it to buck and whine, nearly throwing its rider off. As the animal spooked and neighed, the bannermen pounced forward, swords held high. Jon and Tormund followed, stalking through the men until they were both beside Ghost who was growling.

The horse and its rider slowly calmed and Jon recognised the uniform as a member of the Night's Watch.

"State your name, watchman," Jon commanded and the rider tugged at his hood.

"Jon?"

"Uncle Benjen?"

"Is that a direwolf? The rumours are true then and my brother wasn't making up tall tales," the man asked in awe and Jon placed a hand on Ghost's raised heckles, instantly calming the snarling animal.

"Stand down," Jon ordered the men. "Return to your meal. Benjen Stark is no threat." The bannermen nodded and reluctantly returned to their camp and Benjen slid off of his horse and handed the reigns to one of the stableboys who had travelled with them. He watched as his steed was led over to the rest of the party's horses. Tormund remained beside Jon, his sword still raised and his body poised for a fight.

"A wildling?" Benjen said in shock, his mouth dropping open as he reached for his own blade. "This is the man in which I am to vouch for?"

Tormund spat at the floor near the man's feet and Jon inwardly groaned. Ghost put himself between the two men without any prompting from his master.

"This is my uncle Benjen," Jon said to Tormund. "Uncle, this is Tormund Gianstbane, a friend of mine and of House Stark's," Jon said, his voice clipped and his eyes still fixed on the wildman who looked more likely to strike than to stand down.

"A wildling, bending the knee? I know all about you, Giantsbane," Benjen said. "There was talk among the smallfolk that you had been swallowed whole by that giant you say nursed you. We celebrated the death at Castle Black."

"Uncle," Jon warned darkly, already wary and on edge. He didn't think he could handle mediating between the two if they were to clash swords. He dreaded to think how the situation would go when, if, they arrived at Castle Black if Tormund and Benjen were already at each other's throats at the mere sight of one another.

"This is the great Benjen Stark," Tormund replied tauntingly. "Our weakest woman could snap you in half without even raising a weapon," he scoffed.

"'Our'?" Benjen repeated with a raised brow. "The Wildlings cast you out the moment you disappeared. There is no 'our' for you, feral."

"Enough," Jon cried, throwing his hands up between the pair. "This is childish and for nought. Benjen, we ask that you give safe passage and vouch for Tormund," he said to his uncle before turning to his friend. "Tormund, you swore an oath that you would behave."

The wildling sneered and let his sword drop, albeit reluctantly. Benjen followed suit.

"Are you sure this is wise, Jon?" the nightwatchman asked, glancing between the wildman and the direwolf that was still between them. "The Watch won't take kindly to it."

Jon nodded and called Ghost to his side, knotting his cold fingers into the thick fur of his familiar's neck. "Tormund may look and sound..." Jon struggled for the right word, trying to channel Sansa's easy diplomacy. "He is a great ally and friend to myself and House Stark. He is here to accompany me to Castle Black and beyond the wall."

"Beyond the Wall? Jon, are you insane?" Benjen echoed in disbelief. "There are horrors beyond that wall that you cannot fathom, boy."

Jon looked into his uncle's eyes and Benjen took a small, involuntary step back at the look on his nephew's face. Jon's dark eyes seemed to possess more age and wisdom than Benjen had seen grown men twice his age possess and for a second he believed that the boy in front of him did know the struggles beyond the wall.

"That wall will not stand forever, Uncle. I would rather venture beyond it now, whilst there is still the Watch and wall itself," Jon said and Benjen's brow furrowed.

He clasped his nephew by the shoulders. "That wall has stood for hundreds of years and will continue to do so but if you insist on going beyond the wall then you will need to speak to Master Aemon and gather your own supplies and men. The Watch cannot afford it."

Jon nodded, his hand resting on Longclaw's hidden hilt under his cloak. "I know. My bannermen and Tormund will accompany me. Perhaps some of the new recruits if Master Aemon agrees but come and eat with us, Uncle. Spend a little time with the wildling you will vouch for."

Benjen agreed, allowing his nephew and his wolf to lead him over to the fire. Tormund threw a stick with a cooked rabbit at the man and Benjen caught it deftly. Jon sat and ate in silence, staring into the flames with intense eyes as the trio tore at the meat.

After several tense, quiet minutes, Jon excused himself and wandered off into the trees, his ghost by his side.

"Benjen is here," the young man said and the beginning of his conversation with his wolf travelled on the wind and reached the man in question. He turned and watched with keen eyes as Jon spoke to Ghost as though expecting a reply.

"He does it often, don't think 'bout it too much," Tormund said, sucking on the bones of the rabbit. "The beast answers him somehow. Always comes back looking more at ease," the feral man added with a shrug although his furs muted the movement.

"They all got wolves?"

A gleam returned to Tormund's eyes. "The old boy has a grey one that's already up to his chest and the little wolf shares his with the Kraken boy."

Benjen nodded along, easily understanding that the old boy was Robb and the young one to be Rickon, although he was slightly taken aback by the mention of Theon.

"Crow has his ghost and the Little wolf has her Nymeria. That beast and her wolf would terrorise Sansa and her girl if the Red Wolf let them. " the wildling finished, chuckling to himself over some memory.

"The Red wolf," echoed Benjen slowly. The name had been heard briefly being used by the local smallfolk but those in the Watch were unsure as to which Stark it had been about, although now that he thought about it, Benjen realised it had always obviously been Sansa.

"Aye," was all Tormund said in reply. His admiration for the girl was plain to see and Benjen could see the respect the man had for his niece. For a few moments, he worried that it was based on lust or some other primal desire but Tormund's face remained impassive.

Benjen turned to look at the wild man more closely. "How is Sansa these days? I sent her a pair of woollen socks for her nameday and received a Raven in response but it's not the same as seeing her. How does she look?"

Tormund's bushy brows drew together. "Dunno. Like a child. Red hair. Blue eyes. Ask Crow, he wastes away all of her time."

Benjen relaxed and found himself to be happy when he realised that the feral man had no lust for his niece. It sounded like he hardly saw the girl. The revelation about Jon stirred something up inside of him, however.

"Jon? I thought Sansa was aiming for the hand of a Southern prince and had no time or patience for any of us Northern men."

"She is a Northern girl destined to be a Queen. She will not marry a Southerner. Her father has expressly said it," Jon's voice was suddenly behind them, sounding firm and authoritative. "What is with all this talk of Sansa?" Ghost whined at the mention of her name and pressed his head into Jon's upper arm.

Benjen filed away the particular quip about Sansa becoming a Queen, but he didn't dwell on it for long. "No particular reason. I was just asking after my nieces and nephews but since one of them is here I will ask about you instead. Tell me of Winterfell, Jon," Benjen said, patting the same space on the log Jon had abandoned not ten minutes before. "Does Arya still sneak off with you and Robb for archery lessons? And what of Bran?"

Jon sat down and allowed himself to smile. The mention of his love and how she had been, or at least was still thought to be by that outside of Winterfell made his chest burn but he pushed it aside and launched into a quiet story about Arya and her Needle followed by one of Bran and another of Robb and Theon until they decided to turn in for the night.

The ache of missing his siblings and his home and his love returned in full force as he curled into Ghost's side under the stars. He looked up at the constellations, hoping that at least one of his siblings or Sansa was doing the same.

The stars were different each night they journeyed further south but Sansa could easily pick out her favourite cluster, despite its shifting place in the night sky every time they set up camp after a day of riding.

They had travelled down the King's Road for three days and then deviated, taking a path Brienne had travelled in her last life which avoided the possibility of crossing highwaymen or overpriced taverns and travelling merchants.

Sansa was sat inside her tent which was pitched close to the Mormont sisters'. The three girls were slowly becoming closer but when she found herself alone after the two sisters had slipped away to spar, Sansa would retreat to her own space.

The canvas walls moved in the wind and Sansa wished she had her wolf by her side, but Lady was hunting with Greywind.

"Stop it," she whispered to herself. "It is just the wind."

"Is it?" Robb's voice made her jump and she ripped back the canvas to reveal him.

"You bastard," she hissed, pulling him by her shirt sleeve into her tent. "I thought..." Sansa trailed off. The thought that he had been a whitewalker had briefly crossed her mind but it felt silly to say it out loud.

"I was some bad man out to steal you away," Robb filled in the silence easily, a charming grin on his face. "Just your brother, no stealing to be had here," he added as he settled onto the side of her cot.

Sansa's returning smile was weak as she fiddled with the material of her gown, pulling at non-existent threads and specks of invisible dirt.

Robb's eyebrows pinched together. "What is the matter, Sansa?"

She sniffed and shook her head minutely. "It is nothing. I am just being foolish."

Don't be so secretive, Jon's voice echoed in her head. Don't do it all alone.

"Robb," Sansa began, fishing the leather cord with Ghost's tooth on from out under her dress. She ran the pad of her finger over the dull point. "I worry that this will not go to plan."

Robb nodded, bumping his shoulder into hers gently. "Tell me about them. The worries."

"Jon is trying to collect a white walker but he has to appease the Watch before he can go through the wall. In our last life, he was the Lord Commander to those men but then they killed him. I worry that he will be treated the same and that he'll never find Samwell Tarly. They were like brothers in the end."

Robb remained still and quiet.

"Arya and Gendry and Father have to revive Moat Cailin within a moons turn and whilst I don't doubt Father's skills as a leader, all of the North knows that winter is coming. Who would be happy to send their best livestock or labourers at this time?"

Robb continued to sit in silence, letting Sansa babble about her concerns.

"Lysa will be setting off for Winterfell soon and she will be greeted by a sister who knows she will poison her husband and kickstart a war, the three-eyed raven and a Kraken who is still figuring out his place in the world. I doubt it will be a warm welcome and there still the slight chance that Baelish will follow Lysa."

"And what about me? What are your worries for me, Sans?" Robb asked gently and his sister turned and grabbed his face within her hands.

"I want you to be happy, Robb. I want you to find someone to love and who loves you and never have to watch your back or double-check those around you," she said softly.

Robb's Tully blue eyes were shining. "I first saw Talisa on the battlefield. She was sawing off the leg of some poor bastard. I think he lived because of her healing," he began slowly. "We married in secret and I was so happy that night because there I was, in the middle of a war but I had found somebody."

"We could find her again. If it is what you truly desired," Sansa told him.

Robb shook his head with a wry smile. "No Northern lady? No Southern Rose? Sansa, I did not know my happiness meant so much to you."

Sansa's lips turned into a serious frown. "My family is the most important thing in the world to me, Robb. If you told me you wanted to join a travelling troop and waste away your days on the road juggling then I would find the best troop for you to be apart of."

Robb wrapped an arm around her and grinned. "I want to be by your side, breaking the wheel first. Then I will learn how to juggle."

"And Talisa?"

Robb looked off into the corner of the tent. "If I cross her path once more then I will know it is meant to be but I am not holding out hope. My heart will grow to love and care for whoever it is I am to marry but don't focus on it, Sans. We have more important things to concentrate on."

Chapter Text

The growing heat of the South made Sansa's skin crawl with each passing day and as she lay in her tent at night, listening to the insects call out to one another with clipped clicks, and she couldn't help but think about her family as they spread across the lands.

It had been a moon's cycle since she had left Winterfell and the scraps of letters she received every so often from Arya and the plentiful scrolls the Ravens would bring from her mother warmed her heart and she kept them tucked away in the pockets of her dresses, but she was holding her breath, waiting for a word from Jon. The trip was taking longer than planned to even get to Highgarden but according to Brienne, they were only a day's ride away.

As she thought about Jon and how his hair would be longer now, closer to the length he had kept when they had ruled side by side, Sansa's hand slipped into the neckline of her sleeping gown and pulled free the tooth she had on a leather cord. The enamel was smooth from her constant worrying of the bauble.

"Please be safe," she whispered to the tooth, thinking of her love, all alone at the same place his brothers' had killed him. Lady looked up at her, head tilting to the side as she panted, already too hot even with the sundown. "May the old gods be watc-"

A muffled shout interrupted her prayer and Sansa sat up in her cot, fingers scrabbling to the bone-hilted knife she'd taken to carrying around with her under her skirts. Lady's ears pricked up as she rose to her feet, blocking Sansa into the corner of the tent. Forgoing her slippers, Sansa followed her wolf as she slipped out from the canvas quietly, the sound of her bare feet softened by the grass below them.

The bannermen were sleeping in tents on the outer perimeter of their settlement for both privacy and security. The inner circle of tents consisted of Sansa, Robb, Brienne and the Mormonts, both of whom were poking their heads out of their tent with guarded expressions.

"What was that?" Dacey hissed over to Sansa as Lady trotted throughout the tents, sniffing and checking on whatever she could sense. Sansa watched her familiar turn back to her and she nodded, watching on as the wolf ran towards the warm woods were Greywind had been hunting since sundown.

Sansa shrugged slightly, the knife feeling heavy in her hands. "Maybe it was just one of the bannermen too deep in his cups?"

"My lady," Brienne almost fell through her tent flaps. Her hair was a shock of white in the moonlight and sticking up at all angles as she squinted and rubbed at her tired eyes that were refusing to stay open. "Are you alright?"

Sansa couldn't help the quirk of her lips as she saw her sworn sword battle her tiredness for her. Before she could answer, the same shout echoed around the quiet clearing and Sansa made a beeline for her brother's tent.

His candle was still burning, close to snuffing out but the wick was twice its usual size and the flame was casting grotesque shadows on the canvas walls as it flickered wildly. Robb was thrashing on his cot, sweat on his brows which were scrunched up as he groaned.

Sansa gasped, her usually cool resolve dropping instantly at the sight. The knife clattered to the floor as she leant over him and grasped his shoulders, digging her nails into his skin, trying to break his nightmare.

"Robb."

"My lady?" Brienne asked, her eyes wide. "Is there something I can do?"

Sansa ignored her in favour of shaking her brother harder. "Robb! Wake up!"

The smell of the snow was like a soothing balm to his soul and Robb couldn't seem to get enough of it. He had never realised it had its own peculiar smell. He gulped it down with a smile on his face. For a few fleeting moments, Robb didn't have two legs but four and was panting, his tongue lolling out over sharp, canine teeth before he was a man again, standing in front of his home.

Winterfell shone in the early morning sunrise as the frost on the stonework sparkled. The gate was open and his father was standing just beyond the threshold, waving him closer. Somewhere within its walls, he knew that the rest his family were waiting for him but as he tried to take a step towards the gates, he realised that his feet were frozen in the ice.

Robb swore and pulled on his shins, hissing against the sudden pain in his freezing toes. He looked up, about to call out to Ned for help but his father had turned his back on him and was retreating as the gate slowly closed.

He opened his mouth and all that came out was blood, spilling onto the snow and painting it a shocking crimson. Robb's eyes widened in panic as he realised that he wasn't stood in front of Winterfell but in the middle of a battle, stuck knee-deep in mud with his sword nowhere to be seen.

A roar behind him sent him scrabbling to dig himself free but the more he tried, the deeper he seemed to sink and a man with an axe raised high over his head, was getting closer, murder in his eyes. As he got closer and Robb sunk to his knees, he realised that Theon was about to deliver a killing blow but someone was calling his name.

Sansa shook her brother a little harder than before and he sat up instantly, knocking his head into her chin and sending her swearing, stumbling back from the bed as he heaved and looked around with wild eyes.

"Theon!" Robb cried out, forgetting where he was for a few moments until his eyes adjusted to the candlelight and he saw Sansa dabbing at her lower lip, still lying dazed on the floor. "Sansa," he whispered, gulping and catching his breath.

"I'm fine," she replied, slowly getting to her knees as though he were a wild animal and would spook if she moved too suddenly. "Are you alright? What were you dreaming about?"

Robb's shoulders dropped and he sighed, rubbing a hand over his clammy forehead as Sansa propped herself on the end of the cot, smoothing the rough woollen blanket out underneath her fingers. "Its nothin'," he said roughly. "Just some silly dream. Meant nothing. Go back to your tent."

Sansa sighed and her fingers returned to her lap, knowing that her brother was embarrassed and snapping at her because of it. "Did Bran talk to you about Greywind before we left?"

Robb's eyes slid over to his sister but the pair remained sitting stiffly. "Go away, Sansa."

"He told me to talk to Lady as though she could understand me and in the beginning, I thought he was insane but she does understand me. About a week into the journey down here, I began to dream about her but I was her and I don't know what they mean, I never had them last time but they bring me such comfort," Sansa explained slowly, almost whispering.

Robb remained silent, sullen and so Sansa continued. "Sometimes, I'm running through the woodlands around where we had set up camp and then others I was running with the rest of the litter when they were only pups and the same height as my knees. I, or Lady, I presume, would play and run around with the rest of the direwolves and I'd wake up feeling so much better."

"Greywind. I dream I am Greywind but I'm not at the same time and we're hunting with Lady usually. It's been Ghost and Nymeria once but there is always a feeling of being connected to them all. Bran was right," he scoffed, picking at his fingers. "Like usual I supposed."

"I wonder if warging feels the same for him?" Sansa smiled at the thought. "When I am with Lady, or I am Lady," she guessed, not truly sure, "I can run for miles and see so well in the dark. I can talk to her and I know what she's thinking."

"He told me once that he can communicate with the ravens but I never really believed him." Robb rolled his neck and shoulders, trying to release the tension he knew he was holding. Robb lent forward and blew out the candle, the shadows dancing on the tent walls falling to the floor. In the dark, he seemed to relax, waiting for something. Sansa strained her ears to listen but she knew instinctively that her direwolf was returning to her side and the feeling was confirmed for her as Greywind pushed his snout through the tent flaps, stalking closer to his master, his orange eyes seeming to be lit from within.

Lady followed suit and the small space could have felt claustrophobic with the two large beasts but as Greywind settled beside the cot and Lady at her mistress' feet, the siblings felt at ease.

"Ser Rodrick spoke to father about the Children of the Forest when we found them and how their blood supposedly runs through our veins. He mentioned being able to warg with their companions and I always wondered if that could be true," Robb said, running his fingers through Greywind's thick fur.

"I'd like to think it could be," was all Sansa said in reply as she stood up and left the tent, knowing that Robb wouldn't divulge his nightmare, nor would he be up for more conversation, not with his direwolf back at his side. As she wandered back into her tent, she looked into Lady's eyes. "Watch over them all, my pack and yours," she whispered before pressing her forehead to the wolf's.

Moat Cailin held a smell in the air that Gendry couldn't describe. It coated his tongue and stung his nose but it wasn't wholly unpleasant.

The woodland track had given way to a boggy, wet soil and then they'd had to abandon their horses at the nearest inn and travel the rest of the way on foot until they had finally reached the outskirts of the ruins at sunset. Arya had been sat upon Nymeria's back, riding her like a steed and the sight made some of the bannermen bristle. The lone crannogman that had led them had slunk off into the shadows, stepping off of the rocky track and into the murky waters without looking back at them.

Arya had never seen the ruins, she'd only heard about it from stories and legends and the black rocks that had remained were towering over them, casting cold shadows over the waiting party in the humid air. She dug her fingers into the wolf's thick fur.

"Which one is which?" she asked, looking away from the towers and turning to Ned who was scanning the watery surroundings with keen eyes.

"The Children's, the Drunkard's and the Gatehouse," he told her, pointing them out one by one. "It'll take months to rebuild them but they will hold almost as many as Winterfell can."

"How do we go about rebuilding ancient ruins without rousing suspicion from the other houses?"

Ned held up a hand, finally spotting whatever he'd searched for in the horizon. The bannermen around them had lit torches as the final few moments of sunlight had escaped them and in the firelight, eyes were sparkling back at them from every corner around the ruins. Gendry couldn't tell if they were creatures or men.

In the waters, heads broke through the surface and Ned's impassive face split into a wide grin as a man emerged from the water, rising silently and wading through the fauna and the water to greet the travellers.

"Eddard," the man said, coming to a stop before him. The man was short but wiry, reaching only to Ned's chest but he looked stocky and Arya could easily see why her father had taken to the man so well. "You made it here safely, yes? Quickly, too."

Ned reached out and gripped the man's hand, shaking it enthusiastically. "We were already heading this way," he replied. "Is there somewhere my men can camp for the night?"

Howland nodded, picking up Ned's subtle dismissal of his men and several crannogmen came out from the bogs, dripping in aquatic plants and weeds at the signal. "My men will show you to the towers which are still inhabitable."

Slowly, the bannermen followed the crannogmen into the ruins and the torches brought a resemblance of life to the rocks, leaving Howland, Ned, Arya and Gendry near the lapping waters.

"Howland, this is my daughter Arya and our smithy, Gendry," Ned began, pushing Arya forward gently to meet the man.

"Bringing a personal smith along for the journey?" Howland grinned. "How interesting." He shook both of their hands, lingering slightly on Gendry's face and Arya's sword, poking out through her cloak. "Did you have a hand in that fine sword?" he asked gruffly, nodding towards Needle.

Gendry shook his head slowly, wary of the man despite Ned's approval. "No, but the dagger is mine."

"So young to be carrying such weapons," Reed smirked as Arya bristled until Ned's rested his hand on her shoulder.

"Stop teasing her. We both know your Meera had a spear in her hand before she could walk," Ned ribbed his friend. "But we have journeyed this far south for another reason," Ned sobered.

"We're to speak to Domeric Bolton and the Frey's," Arya said in a rush, bored with the slow pretence the conversation had taken on.

Howland just raised one eyebrow, more than used to his own daughter speaking in such a manner. "And Moat Cailin? How does that factor into these plans?"

"It should be restored to its former glory. There are plenty of smallfolk around the Riverlands who need a Lord or Lady closer to them and Cailin is being wasted as a ruin," Arya told him confidently.

"Restored?"

"Basalt," Ned intervened before his daughter could. "Winterfell restored its broken tower in under two months and my dear Lady Wife has turned her attention to Cailin. There are plenty who are willing to exchange their labour and goods for a home within its keep or work within its walls. The Crannogmen need a leader who is visible, rather than dwelling at the bottom of the waters."

Howland scoffed and wrapped the two children in his arms, leading the trio towards the ruins in question. "There have been whispers of something stirring in the North. I will be happy to assist in the restoration but my place is within the reeds and the waters. Someone else will need to lead the keep."

"I'm sure there's someone who already being considered," Ned replied.

"But hush, forget that work. What is this business with the Boltons and the Freys you were talking about? The two families are almost as venomous as the Lions in the capital. You'd need a solid plan in order to even leave their keeps with all of your men," Reed pressed, intrigued by the idea.

Arya smirked to herself as she was led across the threshold of the ruins. The plan had worked once before and she was confident it would work again. But she bit her tongue and remained silent, letting her father take over the conversation and steer it back to neutral topics such as the Reed children and other baseless things. Reed was a trusted ally but the plan was bigger than him.

Jon knew what it felt like to be cold but he'd forgotten how biting the wind was and how unforgiving the snow seemed to be at Castle Black. Despite the fire pits in the courtyard and the layers he had piled on, he still felt the chill.

Tormund had beamed, breaking out into a manic grin as soon as the convoy had passed through the gates of the keep. He looked to be home and Jon couldn't help but feel thankful that his friend was by his side. He missed Sam and the easy comradery they had shared. He couldn't help but wish the man was somewhere within the walls but it was still too early in the timeline.

Jon and the rest of the party had been escorted by a ranger who's name Jon had never caught, through the keep to the empty rooms which new recruits were supposed to fill. The bannermen were no-nonsense men, chosen for the trip for that precise reason and they set about lighting fires in the grates and setting up the cots.

"The maester has requested your company to dine with," the ranger told Jon and the man nodded, half-expecting the request.

"I will be there as soon as my men have settled," he told the ranger and then the Starks' were left alone. Jon turned and helped set up his own cot. Longclaw was wrapped up in a spare cloak, out of the way of the eyes who might recognise the Lord Commander's sword.

Tormund waved Jon off before the younger man could say anything. "Go. Eat. We will be doing the same."

Jon nodded and left with Ghost on his heels, the memories of the hallways flooding back to him with ease and he soon found himself outside of the maester's chambers. He raised his fist to knock but a voice from within the room called out to him.

"Come in, boy." Maester Aemon's voice rang clearly and Jon opened the door, feeling on edge, as though he were about to be scolded like a child. Behind a great desk, the old maester looked exactly like Jon had remembered him too. His white hair and pale skin contrasted the black robes he wore, and with the hindsight of knowing his great-niece, Jon could make out the Targaryen features in the soft slope of his nose and the purple eyes dulled by misty white.

"Maester," he greeted, dipping his head despite the fact that the old man couldn't see him.

"Come closer, let me see you and your beast properly," he ordered, ushering Jon closer with a withered hand and the young man didn't dwell on the mention of Ghost. Aemon knew more than he ever let anyone see. Jon obliged, however, slowly stepping closer to the desk and Ghost gently rested his snout on the man's knee, making Aemon smile as he tentatively stroked the wolf's fur.

"You look well, Jon," the master said. "What are you doing all the way up here?"

"May I sit?" Jon began, stepping back and pulling out one of the chairs across from the man. "It is a long, unusual story and I'm afraid it may sound more like a child's dream than anything else," he began, sounding more formal than usual as the anxiety in his stomach knotted itself painfully.

Ghost settled himself down to lay between the men and Aemon clasped his hands, his eye line wandering back to the flames in the fireplace. He sighed and then smiled at Jon, his eyes still on the flames.

"I have lived this life for longer than I thought I would. I doubt that anything could sway my faith these days, boy. The Gods work in ways no man could ever understand or predict. I may no longer see but I still dream and the gods bring me visions. I could tell you about horrors beyond the wall and beasts across the Narrow Sea who will threaten our very existence, but I do not wish to worry you. Go on, tell me whatever it is you need to and I will listen," the man said and Jon sunk back into the uncomfortable wooden chair. He didn't know whether the man before him had been reborn but something inside of him told Jon that Aemon somehow knew.

"We have travelled here to pick up supplies and possibly more men before we journey across the Wall."

Aemon nodded, his wiry eyebrows only raising slightly at the thought. "Does this have anything to do with the Freefolk man you have with you?"

Jon nodded. "The Freefolk are running south and some will attempt to cross the Wall. Craster is..."

"Craster," Aemon interrupted, leaning forwards in his seat as though it was the most taxing movement. "I apologise, boy, but what do you know of Craster?"

"I know that he is an ally to the Watch but the monsters you spoke of earlier, the ones beyond the Wall, they're not fantasies. Craster leaves his sons out and the White Walkers take them. He is adding to the army beyond the Wall," Jon said suddenly. Ghost raised his head, looking into Jon's eyes and the young man deflated in his chair. "I'm not sure I was supposed to say anything..." he whispered more to himself than to the room.

"What is going on, Jon Snow. Tell me in plain words and do not lie to me. I am no Lord Commander, but a simple maester, do not shield me."

Jon took several deep breaths. Aemon had turned his body to face Jon head-on and the way he was looking at Jon made the man think he could see right through to his soul.

"You will think I have gone mad," Jon laughed weakly, wishing desperately for Sansa or his brothers, or just a glass of warming ale.

"Many have gone mad but they have spoken words truer than any other. Tell me, Jon Snow."

"I know what might happen. I could take the black and go out to Craster's Keep and a mutiny could take place. Mormont won't survive it and I might get captured by a Wildling woman," Jon began, trailing off at the memory of Ygritte but her features were blurry and she morphed into Sansa without him trying.

"A mutiny?" Aemon echoed.

"If any of Craster's daughter-wives have a son, he leaves them out for the White Walkers. The monsters that everyone dismisses as myth and tall tales are real and I have seen them. The only things that can kill them are Valaryian Steel, Dragonglass and fire. They and the Long Night are coming and no one is prepared, they're all too focused on the bloody Throne," Jon spat out, fired up just remembering how hopeless the living had been in the fight against the dead.

Aemon sighed and sat back. "The Throne," he repeated slowly, seeming to roll the words around in his mouth. "What do you suggest we do to defeat them?"

"We need a wight to show them the threat. They'll think the North is plotting something else without proof. The Lannisters are vying for the throne and will not stop, I can assure you that. The wall may have stood for thousands of years but it can fall. The Freefolk know better than anyone about what is laying beyond the Wall and Craster is aiding them."

"But he is a vital ally to the Watch. Men like Jeor and Thorne will not take kindly to having to collect their own information beyond the wall," Aemon argued softly.

"They don't need men beyond the Wall when the freefolk come south. There are castles along the Wall, sixteen of them stand empty and need manning. They have bent the knee before and they can again."

"This sounds as though it has been thought out in great detail."

Jon ran a hand through his hair, swearing softly as his knuckles caught on a matted curl. "Beyond the Wall, there is a Night King who is weak and feeble. He will gain strength and power as more die but right now, he shouldn't be too much of a threat. Gilly and Sam will meet and the wight we bring south will unite the houses into fighting for the living," Jon said, his thoughts spilling off of his tongue, turning into prayers and wishes.

"Gilly and Sam?"

"A friend of mine and his wife," Jon replied easily, half distracted by the thought of what the future could hold. "At least, they could be."

"And this Night King, the leader? He cannot be killed easily?" the maester guessed.

"Valyrian steel, dragonglass and fire were the only ways to kill any of them but for the Night King, we used Wildfire. Don't know if it worked in killing him or just us," Jon's voice took on an edge that made the older man shift in his seat.

"Used," Aemon echoed, noting the change in the younger man's language.

"I had lost Longclaw then, some time in one of the earlier fights. It had been ripped out of my hand and I was so lucky that Drogon was by my side." Jon no longer cared about trying to keep everything a secret, he just needed to tell someone.

"Dragons," Aemon breathed out, barely making a sound. "Gods work in ways that men cannot possibly hope to know, Jon Snow. I will send Jeor to you in the morning, as soon as dawn breaks to discuss your plans. Now go, boy, let an old man sleep on what he has heard and see if the gods bring him more."

Jon slowly rose from the wooden chair, feeling dazed and confused. He shook his head to clear his wandering mind. It occurred to him that the old man now rising from his own chair to cross to the lone bed was one of two living relatives he could have ever hoped to meet, now that he knew who he was. The other was the other side of the Narrow Sea, hatching dragons and marrying a Horse Lord. Jon almost went to say something but Ghost's wet nose pressing into his palm made him bite his tongue.

"Goodnight maester," he mumbled, turning to leave.

Just as Jon had a hand on the door latch, Aemon cleared his throat, already laying down under his thick quilts and blankets. "They say that when a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin and wait with bated breath to see which side it lands on."

"Why are you telling me that?" Jon couldn't help but ask, looking over his shoulder at the man but his eyes were closed and he was already asleep.

Catelyn pulled her last braid free, running her fingers through the hair as she had grown accustomed to fixing without the helping hands of her husband.

On the window, a raven sat with its shining eyes watching her move. Catelyn couldn't decide whether it was simply a raven or her son, watching over her but the bird remained all the same as she got up from her vanity and exited her chambers.

The halls of Winterfell were heated by the hot springs but the open corridors and windows meant that a chill whipped at her dress and gown as she crossed through to the tower where her sons' were sleeping.

Bran's chambers were silent and dark but light split out from underneath Theon's door. Catelyn gathered her gown and belted it tight before knocking on the wood, trying to smooth away her worries.

She could hear movement beyond the door and then Theon appeared, still wide awake.

"Lady Stark?" Theon asked, confused.

"Just Catelyn, Theon, please. May I come in?"

Theon's eyebrows rose and he nodded, slightly unsure of himself but he stepped back and opened the door wider regardless.

"Are you alright?" he asked, watching her as she looked around the chamber.

Theon's chambers were decorated in a similar manner to Jon's and both boys, despite not being legitimate, true-born Starks, had decent rooms with well-stocked fires and large, warm beds. They were better than those in the guest quarters but unlike those rooms, Catelyn had never set foot in either boy's spaces.

"My sister should be arriving tomorrow noon," Catelyn began, standing close to the dying fire. It would never truly extinguish itself, a servant would slip in before dawn to stoke and refuel it. "She has never been to Winterfell and her son, my nephew, Sweetrobin she calls him, is accompanying her. He is a sheltered child and my sister, she refuses to open her eyes to him. I came to ask before they arrive if you would look over the child like you are doing for Rickon. He needs a male figure in his life who will not simply lay down and let a child walk all over him."

"He is a Lord, Catelyn. Even I have heard the stories of the moon door," Theon scoffed, choosing to remain standing but putting his bed between them. "You want me to let him play?"

"There is more to this request than keeping him occupied, Theon. Petyr Baelish will be accompanying the pair, I have no doubt and whilst I will have my hands and my mind full dealing with my sister and Baelish, Robin needs direction. Something that you can provide. I am trusting you with this, Theon."

Theon struggled to follow half of what Catelyn hinted at with her shrowded words but he got her message loud and clear. Keep the boy away from Baelish and his mother. Keep him out from under Lady Stark's feet. Show him who he really was when he was in Winterfell: not some spoilt, petulant Lord-child but just another spoke on the wheel, another body in a crowd.

He nodded, understanding that something more serious was at play. "You can trust me with this," he promised.

Catelyn nodded and wished him goodnight, letting herself out of his chamber without another word. On the other side of the door, Bran stood in his long nightshirt, fur-lined slippers on his feet and a raven on his shoulder.

Catelyn jumped, clutching at her breast as she glared at her son and the bird. The talons were digging through the thick wool and seemed to have punctured his skin but Bran didn't seem to mind or notice. "How I wish you wouldn't do things like this," she almost hissed and Bran's lips quirked ever so slightly.

He tossed his head and the raven went flying down the hallway and out of sight, his long wings brushing against the stone walls on either side.

"My son," Cat said and Bran seemed to return to himself, blinking away something in his eyes.

"Littlefinger is a wise man, mother, and Lysa is blind in love. Theon will be able to distract her with Sweetrobin for only so long," he told her and Catelyn rolled her eyes, scooping him up into her arms and walking him to his chamber door.

"That is where you come in my little raven," she told him, unlatching the door and walking him to his bed. Whilst she mourned quietly inside for the son he had been before his fall in his last life, Bran was still Bran and she treasured that. The nickname had stuck and Bran couldn't shake it, despite his half-hearted protests. "Littlefinger is the master of whispers and the keeper of the King's coin. We need money to rebuild Moat Cailin and the Watch needs more men. Leave Littlefinger to me, little raven, but your Aunt Lysa will need company over the coming weeks as she stays with us. I'm afraid she has become lonely without her husband by her side."

Bran allowed his mother to pull back the quilts and tuck him in tightly. Sansa sometimes spoke in riddles and rarely said exactly what she meant but Catelyn Stark had perfected the technique and it took her son a few moments to understand what she was asking of him, despite all of his years by Sansa's side.

Catelyn pressed a soft kiss into Bran's hair, her fingers running through the shorter strands since he'd had it cut.

"She will never be lonely whilst here at Winterfell, mother. Neither will Littlefinger."

"The pack has eyes, little Raven."

Bran watched quietly as his mother got up to leave. "So do the ravens and the wolves," he told her as she slipped out of the chamber door.

Chapter Text

The sickly sweet smell of the fragrant flora filled Sansa's nose. She hadn't thought about the Tyrell's Highgarden in great depth for some time, not since she had left it in her last life but it was the same as she'd remembered it to be.

Tall, magnificent trees shaded her from the scorching midday sun and the warm breeze lifted the ends of her hair and ruffled Lady's fur as she panted heavily, staying close to her mistress' side.

In front of herself and Robb, Dacey and Alysane were leading them, both looking out of place and feral in the delicate garden in their armour and furs. Greywind had sniffed the soils and Robb had waved him away, letting the animal get a lay of the strange, new land whilst his sister protected their masters.

"My Lady," a mild-mannered servant dressed in soft yellow silks appeared before them, buckling at the sight of the wolf. Sansa nodded down at her familiar and the wolf lay down, becoming less intimidating in size but her bright eyes never left the servant. "My Lord," he said, inclining his head towards Robb, only a slight tremor in his voice. "My Lady is currently taking her morning tea in her garden," he said almost apologetically.

Sansa smiled widely. "Tea sounds lovely, doesn't it brother. We've had such a long ride," she said in a tone which Robb recognised as one not to be argued against. He simply nodded at his sister's words.

The servant's smile faltered. The last thing Olenna Tyrell would want would be having to entertain the Northern strangers and their beasts.

"Siva," a melodic voice spoke before Siva, the man in the silks could. "Have you seen my brother?"

Through the flora, Sansa could just make out a dress and long, dusty blonde hair.

"Do not stare," she whispered under her breath to Robb. "Please."

Her brother's thick eyebrows drew together. "Huh? Stare at what?"

Brienne's heavy hand patted Robb's shoulder with enough force that he winced slightly. "Pretty things can be deadly, my Lord," she told him as Sansa nodded and threaded her arm through his, pulling him closer to her.

"What are you two talking ab-" Robb's question trailed off into silence.

Margaery Tyrell slipped effortlessly between the branches of a tree. She had on a long, ice blue dress bunched in her hands, showing off her toned, tanner lower legs and bare feet.

"My Lady, the Northern guests have arrived," Siva said, indicating to the people stood around him in furs and woollen, dark colours, all of whom stood out in the bright garden. Sansa was suddenly glad that her bannermen had remained behind in one of the inns they had passed, as men in the silver armour would have stuck out like a sore thumb.

Margaery smiled crookedly, a dimple popping in one of her rosy cheeks but she didn't drop the hem of her dress and Robb was looking around, intently studying each and every plant around them. "I apologise for not greeting you at the gates when you arrived. The gardens needed tending to this morning and my Grandmother will have my head if I ruin another gown with mud," she grinned at Robb, her soft laugh making him bite his lip and avert his eyes so quickly, Sansa thought he might have done himself some harm. "My brother?" she asked Siva again.

"With Lord Baratheon, my Lady," Siva told her, looking at Brienne out of the corner of his eyes as she rested her hand on her sword, flexing her fingers at the mention of the lord's name.

"I am so rude," Margaery said suddenly, startling the servant. "You must be exhausted, travelling all that way."

"Sansa Stark of Winterfell," Sansa began, holding out her hand which the young Tyrell took eagerly. "This is my eldest brother, Robb."

Margaery turned her attention to Robb, holding out her hand for him to take. He slowly brought it to his lips and pressed a chaste kiss to the back of her hand, as was custom but he lingered more than was usually acceptable. "A pleasure," Margaery beamed, not seeming to mind the contact. "I have so enjoyed reading your letters, Sansa. I feel like we have known each other for a lifetime," she joked, and an eyebrow rose as Robb stiffened. "And your brother is almost as handsome as my wayward one," she laughed, pulling Sansa closer so that she could wrap her up into a hug that the redhead returned easily.

Robb cleared his throat, remembering that they were there with company when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. "This is Dacey and Alysane Mormont, the She-bears of Bear Island," Robb said, shifting on the balls of his feet as he introduced the two guards.

Margaery smiled warmly whereas the two Mormonts remained stony-faced. "I have always admired the power of Northern women. Wolves and Bears are far more deadly than roses," she said.

"Roses have hidden thorns," Robb said suddenly before Sansa could reply. She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, applying a slight pressure to remind him to be careful with his words.

Margaery smirked wickedly. "I suppose. And who is this?" she asked, turning to Brienne. She dipped into a small curtsey, as one would when meeting a knight or one of the King's Guards.

Brienne's cheeks darkened at the action and she stood straighter, her shoulders further back than she usually held them.

"My sworn sword and dear friend, Lady Brienne of Tarth," Sansa told her proudly, smiling up at the bashful Brienne.

"It is a pleasure. So many powerful women surround you, Lord Robb," Margaery noticed.

Robb pulled his arm free of Sansa's and pushed his sister forward a step with a gentle hand on the small of her back. Sansa fought to roll her eyes at his behaviour and easily slipped her arm into Margaery's.

"I am merely a mouthpiece for my House, my Lady and a lesser specimen of my sex. My sister is the best of us Starks," he told the amused Tyrell who grinned at Sansa.

"How strange, Loras says the same of me. Maybe it is how we were raised. By strong women, perhaps."

"My mother would agree whereas my sister would protest. Robb has always been around strong women and he has helped create a fair few," Sansa mused, thinking of Arya and how Robb had been the one to teach her the boisterous activities that he had learnt at her age, despite Catelyn's displeasure in their first life.

Margaery nodded appreciatively at the thought.

"Speaking of powerful women, I would love to meet the infamous Olenna you spoke so highly of in your letters," Sansa said as Lady stirred, rising to her feet and standing closer to Sansa's elbow than hip now.

"Is that a wolf I spy?" a laughing voice rang through the gardens, echoing off of the trees. Loras, like his twin, seemed to be able to appear and move through the plants and trees like water. He barely made the leaves around him move at he emerged at his sister's side, wide eyes transfixed on the wolf who'd heard his movements in the flora.

"A direwolf, to be precise," the aristocratic voice of Renly Baratheon answer him as he followed the Knight of Flowers, although he had to push a low hanging branch out of his face. "Travelling with essentials aren't we: a direwolf and two bears," he said, turning his attention to Brienne. "A long time no see, Brienne of Tarth."

"Two direwolves, Lord Renly," the knight said tightly. If Sansa didn't know any better, she would have thought Brienne was going to snap.

"My betrothed, Renly and my brother, Loras," Margaery said, her bright smile wavering as she pointed out the two new arrivals. "This is Sansa and Robb Stark."

Loras picked up Sansa's hand, kissing it softly just Robb had done although his lips barely brushed her skin and he was looking at someone over her shoulder. Renly was standing stiffly, his hand on Margaery's shoulder, glaring as Loras greeted the guests. In her previous life, Sansa would have swoon just looking into the Knight of Flower's bright blue eyes but the way his golden curls sat reminded her too much of Jon's dark, brooding face and she sighed sadly, missing him more than ever.

"How long will you be staying with us?" Loras inquired, looking at the wolf and the two she-bears who were still stood flanking the group, sweat gathering at their brows as the sun warmed them and their furs through. Neither made a move to remove any of their furs and it made Sansa smile inwardly.

"A month or so. We have never been this far south and I know my brother would like to take in the gardens and all they offer before we return North."

Loras nodded, looking Robb up and down. "Well then," the knight clapped his hands, his grin broad. "We should feast in celebration, tonight!"

Margaery laughed at her brother's joy. "Loras, why don't you and Renly show our guests and their guards to their quarters. I am going to take Sansa to Grandmother and join her for her morning tea."

Brienne looked as though she was about to object but Sansa accepted the offer before the knight could say anything. "I would love to. Robb, call Greywind back. He could be digging up the plants for all we know," she laughed lightly, knowing he was doing nothing of the sort.

Robb whistled through his teeth and the group waited for a few seconds until the wolf came stalking out from the shadows cast by a tall tree, barely making a sound as he slowly returned to his master's side.

Renly had a hand on the pommel of his sword at the sight. Seeing one direwolf was enough to unnerve anyone but seeing two in person and seeing them so well trained and behaved at the hand of a man barely older than seventeen made his skin ripple with goosebumps.

"Our quarters?" Robb pressed and Loras just nodded along, turning on his heel and motioning for them to follow him.

Margaery watched in silence as Robb followed after her brother. He hadn't been anything like she imagined him to be. There were whispers of the Stark children that had reached Highgarden but before Margaery had even had a chance to think about them, she had been told she was to marry Renly Baratheon before her next nameday to bring together their Houses in a tentative union, and that was barely two moons away.

The Stark turned his head, looking over his shoulder and when their eyes meet, Margaery blinked stupidly at the knots in her stomach. The rush made her gasp audibly and by the time she'd registered the emotional reaction she'd had to Robb Stark simply looking at her, he'd turned away and was striking up a conversation with Loras about something or other.

Margaery opened and closed her mouth a few times, stunned at how visceral she'd reacted. She had to remind herself that she was to be married, albeit not happily and the sister of the man she'd just stared at was smirking beside her.

"He may seem surly right now but he will warm up within a day or two," Sansa grinned as Margaery cleared her throat. "He's so used to being surrounded by ice and snow but he will melt under this sun, just give him some time."

"I am not interested in your brother's behaviour, I am more interested in you. How was your journey?"

The two women linked arms and despite Sansa being fourteen and Margaery eighteen, the two chatted easily as Margaery led her guest through the flowers towards a canopy overlooking the River Mander and down into the lower levels of the castle. Sansa could see gardeners tending to the briar maze that dominated the garden directly below them.

Sat in the shade of the canopy, Olenna Tyrell was watching with keen eyes as a young maiden snipped carefully at one of the climbing ivy plants that had twisted itself around the canopy poles. A steaming pot of fragrant tea sat at her elbow on a small table and the matriarch was nibbling gently on a small block of cheese.

"Grandmother, my friends from the North have arrived," Margaery began as soon as they were close enough to not to have to shout.

The old woman didn't look away from the maiden but she waved her guests closer.

"Lady Olenna," Sansa said, dipping her head in greeting. She knew that in her last life, the old woman had only been interested in her to further her own family's luck but she didn't hold a grudge: it was exactly how Sansa was living her second life.

"A redhead like you will burn in this Southern sun, my dear. Take a seat," Olenna said, bright eyes sliding over to Sansa. "Did you bring any lighter dresses than black wool?"

"I was hoping to have some made for me as we journeyed south but the thought slipped my mind. We have been travelling for so long that I had almost forgotten where we were going to end up," Sansa said, running her tongue over her teeth as she sat on the ottoman across from the matriarch. It had been a while since she had been surrounded by people who's wit and mind were as sharp as Olenna Tyrell's.

Olenna muttered something under her breath at Sansa's answer but she dropped her questioning as Margaery pressed a kiss into her cheek.

"Sansa and her brother Robb have been accompanied by two she-bears of Bear Island and Brienne of Tarth. Have you noticed their direwolves, grandmother?" Margaery asked, pointing out Lady who had been following behind the two girls at a slow pace and had only just stalked into view of those under the canopy.

"A true menagerie."

As Margaery poured out two more cups of herbal tea, exchanging an entire conversation with her grandmother through silent looks, Sansa had to bite her lip. All she wanted to do was to tell Olenna about Joffery and have her dispatch of him in the same manner as before but she knew that staying in Highgarden meant biting her tongue and holding herself back.

There were eyes and ears within the flowers and her blood ran cold at the thought of anything trickling back to Cersei or the Lannisters which pricked their ears too early. Instead, she turned her attention to her wolf.

"She's barely a year old and we are still working our way through some commands," Sansa said, her tone taking on a softer, more child-like note which Margaery noticed with quiet intrigue.

"Like a pet?"

Sansa smiled, cocking her head to the side. "More like a guard. She is very loyal. Greywind is too but they do prefer their own master."

Olenna's mouth twitched as she sat a little more upright than before. "They?" she echoed. "I gather there is more than one this side of the Wall then."

Sansa's lips quirked as she ran her nails through the fur on Lady's ear. "Well, there are two here in Highgarden."

Olenna broke out into a smile, crooked as her granddaughter's. "Tell me, Lady Sansa, has your father had offers for your hand yet? You are fourteen are you not? The same age as my Margaery when she was first courted."

Sansa fought the urge to shudder. "I am a Northern Lady and will no doubt marry Northern but my father knows that the first man to come calling is not always the right man. Both he and my mother are blessing me with time and autonomy. I have the final choice in who I marry."

Olenna nodded and sat back in her chair, fanning herself with her hand. "Ah, so no Baratheon prince for you?"

Sansa's expression hardened. "My father and my brothers have set an excellent example of what a man should be, Lady Tyrell, and no Southerner, be him a Baratheon or Lannister boy, however powerful he may think he is, will ever live up to that." She wanted to pull out the leather cord and Ghost's tooth, to reiterate that she was very much taken by a Northern man but she kept them hidden in her dress and the two Tyrells shared a look across their cups.

"You may just survive the South and all of the politics of Westeros, my dear. Have a cake," Olenna grinned, pushing an ornate tray filled with lavender cakes across to her guest.

Sansa picked up a sticky cake, sucking on her fingers after she transfers it to a smaller plate. "I plan on doing just that, Lady Tyrell."

"How thankful I am that you are not some empty-headed girl like most are these days. I'll have someone bring a dress to your chambers for the welcoming feast tonight. You seem to be the same size as Margaery."

Margaery nodded, nibbling on her own slice of cake. "I'm sure there is something in my collection that would suit you. It may show a little more skin than you are used to," she grinned.

"I'm sure I'll manage. What good is a woman if she cannot adapt."

Olenna's small smile doubled and she topped up Sansa's tea without another word.

"You can remove the fur, you know," Brienne began as she unhooked her breastplate. "They will not think of it as a defeat. They already know you to be Bears."

Dacey rolled her eyes, fingers hovering over her own armour. The three women were in their chambers within the guest tower, slightly down the hall from the two Stark siblings.

"Did you bring a formal dress, Brienne?"

"No."

"Well then you can borrow one of mine," Dacey said, continuing over Brienne's spluttering. "This is a welcoming feast and despite being her sworn sword and guards, the Tyrells are welcoming us into their home as well. They could easily banish all three of us if they felt we were being too hostile. Besides, we are all of a Nobel house as well."

Brienne frowned. "I am not at home in dresses, my lady. Thank you for the offer but I think I will remain in my armour."

Alysane was pulling her own furs and armour off and she sighed sadly. "You cannot keep your armour on all of your life Brienne. You will need to take it off at least once, whether that be before friends or a lover. Just keep that in mind."

Brienne blinked several times at the words. She already knew what it felt like to remove her armour for somebody and then have them disregard her sacrifice. She'd be damned if she did it again expecting the same result. Seeing Renly Baratheon again had reminded her of that fact. She was not destined to be someone's wife and it was becoming clearer to her with every passing encounter and all of her previous knowledge. Her first love loved a man and her other loved his sister. Brienne scoffed out loud when she realised that the only man to show interest in her was feral, and even then she was unsure as to whether he would ever follow through on his words.

"Alys, leave it be," Dacey sighed, realising that Brienne had retreated somewhere inside of herself.

A knock at their chamber door made all three women turn, on edge.

"I have been sent to tell you that the welcoming feast will begin in half an hour," a servant said as she popped her head around the door. She didn't wait for a reply before she was gone again.

Sansa grinned as she walked besides Robb to the courtyard which was lit with lanterns and set up for the feast. The two tables were long and parallel to each other and already, several of those who lived within Highgarden were already seated between the two.

"Sansa, sit beside me," Loras said, calling her over and patting the bench beside himself. Sansa took him up on the offer, dragging her brother to her other side without another word. The siblings sat down and their wolves flanked them at their backs. "You look wonderful in blue silk."

Sansa smoothed a hand over the dress a servant had brought to her rooms. It was pale blue, almost white and it showed off her arms and the neckline dipped lower than she was used to but it was cooling and light.

"Thank you," she said, resting a hand on Loras' shoulder. "I would have assumed you'd be sitting beside your sister or her betrothed."

Loras flinched under her palm.

"Those two will be dining with the Mormont sisters on the other table at Grandmother's insistence," he told her, his charm lacking and his eyes dulling as the couple in question entered the courtyard, neither seeming too comfortable as they took their seats opposite the two she-bears who were dressed in their formal wear.

"Would it be rude if I requested Margaery to sit beside me and my brother? I know that Dacey is looking forward to talking about jousting with you and she'd be disappointed if the opportunity passes her by and I did nothing to help," Sansa asked sweetly and Loras smirked down at her.

"If that is your request then I shall grant it, sweet girl. Margaery, the Northern lady requests your company and I cannot refuse her," he shouted across the courtyard, getting his sister's attention. "Switch seats with me."

Margaery's crooked smile beamed. "Certainly. I would rather sit and talk to my new friend that try to pull this stag away from his talk of knights and battles," she replied easily, already on her feet and crossing the courtyard as Olenna Tyrell took her seat at the head of one of the tables and called for the food to be served.

The two Tyrells switch their seats, each sinking into the other's chair with a wicked grin and Sansa just shrugged innocently as Robb and Brienne looked at her, each wearing identical expressions of half-masked grins.

After the switch, the feast began and a small collection of musicians played whilst those at the tables ate and talked. Robb and Brienne spoke to a lord from the Reach about the local wildlife and became stuck in a long-winded one-sided conversation about the fishing opportunities and the thieves that were hunting at night.

Sansa and Margaery talked as girls their age did, neither hardly pausing for a breath right through up until the plates and dishes from the penultimate course were being removed by the maids. Sansa felt giddy inside as she realised that she wasn't worried about her family or the wheel. She was just talking, laughing and chatting like the young Lady she was. Eventually, she turned her attention to another young woman who was being fostered within the castle and the easy chatter continued until there was a shout from the other table.

A man in what had previously been white silk was stood up, swearing and huffing as he dabbed at the red wine which had been spilt over him and was ruining his clothes.

"My god!" Loras cried out, the empty goblet still in his hand. "I cannot apologise enough! What a great fool I am."

Sansa giggled into her hand as the Knight of Flowers began dabbing at the man's silks with a cloth, making more of a mess and spreading the ruby liquid further around his chest.

As the chaos died down and the final few dishes were cleared and the band resumed their music as the man stormed off, Robb watched as a figure slipped out from the tables and fled into the dark gardens without anyone else watching.

Margaery reminded herself to thank her brother for causing such a scene and allowing her the opportunity to slip away from the courtyard without being noticed. She'd decided she woulf slip out of her chambers and sleep in Loras' bed whilst he slept in Renly's. The servants sent to check on the wayward Loras would relax at seeing a blonde figure in his bed.

Despite the darkness and the fact that the servants had only lit a dozen or so of the lanterns in the gardens before her, leaving the moonlight as her main light source, Margaery expertly slipped between the trees and delicately stepped over bushes and flowerbeds.

She pushed through the branches of a weeping willow and stopped, finally sighing and letting her posture drop, now that she wasn't being watched by her grandmother or by those from the North.

The willow had large, rippling roots which had grown out of the soil and then plunged back into the earth, creating natural seats and hiding places which Margaery took full advantage of. Whilst she wasn't as small as she had been when she'd first discovered the secret hiding places when she'd be seven, she was still slender enough to comfortably sit tucked in between one of the roots and the soft soil, knowing that if someone were to pop their head through the branches, she'd be hard to spot.

The music and the laughter from the feast was barely a background hum and all she could really hear were the insects in the still-warm air. It made her feel as though, for a second, she was the only person in the castle. She had loved talking to Sansa. It had been a while since Margaery had had the pleasure of the company of another young woman and she'd felt as though the two had connected properly during the duration of the feast but there was only so much socialising the Tyrell could handle without beginning to feel as though she was being watched.

The quiet peace she'd removed herself to was broken suddenly when she felt a shift in the air. Slowly, Margaery rose to her elbows to peak over the root. She could just make out movement beyond the willow tree but the branches hung low, curtaining her from whoever it was. She'd only be able to see their feet if they came close enough.

Just as she was about to call out, Margaery had to cover her mouth to hold in her gasp as a dark snout parted the branches and the bright eyes of the larger direwolf looked at her. Greywind stood as tall as his master and so having the animal tower over her, looking into her eyes as though he could understand her made the hairs on the backs of her arms rise.

She had become used to seeing Lady as the white wolf had not left Sansa's side during their tea and whilst she was large, she carried a calm aura and Margaery soon forgot that she was deadly. Greywind, on the other hand, had slunk off through the gardens, watching and assessing all of his surroundings until he'd disappeared with Robb into the castle. She felt as though, in the brief moments she'd seen the wolf earlier in the morning, that he could look through her and see everything she was thinking.

Her chest was heaving in fright. Margaery half expected the beast to snap, his teeth sinking into her neck but instead, it simply cocked his head and stalked a little closer, sniffing her hair and running his cold nose over her cheek.

"Where is your master?" Margaery whispered, still terrified that she was about to be attacked or killed.

The direwolf just stood up and turned on his heel, leaving just as silently as he'd arrived and Margaery pulled up her hem and pinched the skin of her thigh as hard as she could, making herself yelp. She looked down at the red welt she'd created, still not letting herself relax, knowing she'd survived a close encounter with the beast somehow, and that it had all been real.

"Robb?" Sansa asked, poking her silent brother in the side when he didn't answer her question. He didn't react and with his eyes closed and the fact that he was slumped forward over the table, she thought he'd fallen asleep despite the food and the entertainment in front of them. Just five minutes before he'd been animatedly arguing with Brienne about something or other before Loras had stood up and spilt a goblet down himself and the man next to him, causing a shout and pulling their attention to him.

"Should I take him to his chambers?" Brienne whispered over Robb's slumped shoulders but the redhead shook her head. Lady was looking out over to the gardens and Greywind was no longer sat behind Robb's chair.

"No, he'll wake soon, I'm sure," Sansa said slowly, watching in interest as Robb's eyelids fluttered open at the same time as Greywind emerged from the dark gardens, knocking his head into Lady's side before retaking his position behind the Stark siblings' chairs.

Robb opened his eyes, turning to look in the same direction his wolf had appeared from.

"Robb?"

Robb's head snapped back to Sansa's. "We need to talk. Now. Tonight," he said almost breathlessly. "It's about Bran."

Sansa's eyes widened. That was the last thing she'd thought he'd say. "Alright," she said slowly. The final course was being served and the steaming fruit that was being laid before them looked inviting but she no longer wanted to eat. "We shall make our leave in a few moments. Brienne, if you could inform Margaery and Lady Tyrell that we are exhausted from our travels," she asked and the knight nodded, setting down her fork.

"Margaery isn't here," Robb told the woman. "Just Lady Tyrell."

Sansa set her cloth napkin down and smiled as Brienne excused her, dragging her brother close behind her and not stopping until they were in the shared chamber between their bedchambers in the guest tower.

"Lady, guard the door," Sansa told her wolf as she pushed her brother into one of the seats around the empty hearth. She crossed the room and pulled closed the window, despite the fact that she was overheating. She doubted that there were spies in Highgarden but she wanted to be sure they wouldn't be overheard. Greywind joined his sister in front of the door, laying in front of it and acting like a doorstop.

"What's wrong? Did you dream?"

Robb shook his head, loosening his jerkin. "No. I wasn't dreaming..."

"Well?" Sansa asked, hands on her hips as her patience waned.

"I was Greywind."

Robb was met with a simple stare, one Sansa had perfected.

"I promise!" he laughed as Sansa pouted at the thought that her brother could somehow merge his mind with Greywind whereas she'd only dream as Lady.

"Prove it," she ordered, sitting across from him. "Show me if you are so sure you're a skinchanger."

"I don't know how I did it. I saw Margaery leave and I wanted to follow but I knew I couldn't leave the feast and then I was following but I had four paws and I was a dire wolf. I think its what Bran does. Warging, I mean. I think I was warging with Greywind," Robb tried to explain to the best of his abilities but he wasn't sure what had happened.

"And where did you go as Greywind?"

"I could smell her and I followed her to a willow tree in the lower gardens. I thought she was up to something," Robb shrugged as though that was ample enough explanation.

Sansa raised one eyebrow and said "doing something? Why does that matter to you?"

"I don't know, alright. I just wanted to know where she was going."

All his sister did was nod along with a coy smile.

"Shut up, Sans."

Sansa laughed and she retreated to the door of her sleeping chambers. "I didn't say anything, Robb."

"I can hear your thoughts. They are loud and inappropriate. We are here to secure Southern support from the Tyrells and the rest of the Reach, not to find me a wife," Robb grumbled, settling himself into the chair. He doubted that he'd be able to sleep, not with the new environment and the heat that was making him sweat.

Sansa shrugged, unlatching the door and letting Lady wander in first. "Maybe those are the same things, brother."

"My Queen, you summoned me?"

The figure looking out over King's Landing turned quickly, her skirts flapping about her ankles as she pinned her brother with a stare. He simply looked back at her, bored and already itching to leave.

"What have you heard of the North."

"That it is cold and snowy," Tyrion replied. "You are much more suited to the sunshine, don't you agree. It reflects your temperament so well."

"Don't talk shit with me," Cersei hissed, stalking across the room to the full pitcher of wine a servant had left on her side table. "There are whispers that the Starks are moving."

"Well, dear sister," Tyrion sighed. "The Warden of the North is at Moat Cailin, that much is true. It is his duty to visit the ruins every ten years or so."

He'd heard the rumours and Varis had kept him updated but Cersei was paranoid, more now than ever, especially with Jaime suddenly leaving King's Landing for a trip South. Cersei poured herself a generous glass and gulped down the alcohol, in a manner which Tyrion thought mirrored her husband's.

"Go North, make sure Winterfell is not rising up," Cersei demanded suddenly, turning on her brother. "Robert will send you and line your pockets."

"I have no doubt," Tyrion sighed, already calculating how many weeks it would take him to arrive at the Northern keep. "When am I to be leaving?"

Cersei's face morphed from its usual beauty to an ugly sneer. "Don't play pretend with me, Imp. You are gagging to escape me," she hissed, her eyes narrowing to slits and Tyrion just inclined his head.

"I will leave on the morrow. Until I return," he said, excusing himself easily.

Chapter Text

Moat Cailin

Arya sat on an outcrop of fallen rocks, dangling her legs over the dark water and watching over the landscape quietly, contemplating as the sun rose. She'd awoken early and had slipped out towards the crumbled ruins of one of the towers, carefully climbing across until she was on the furthest rock into the moat.

Nymeria had tried to follow but she was heavier than her mistress and her weight had disrupted some of the massive slabs of stone, making them tilt and turn in the water, sinking further below the waterline into the reeds and she retreated back.

Now, the direwolf was sat on the mainland, bright eyes watching over as Ayra took in the morning light.

How are we going to repair this heap of crap? Arya thought to herself. The basalt rocks needed for the repairs were half a days ride away and from what her father had told her, they would need hundreds of slabs and bricks of the stuff. We should be talking to the Freys and the Boltons, not building.

Arya puffed out a breath and carefully lay down, revelling in the fact that she was short enough to fit onto the outcrop of rock that was above the water. She didn't want to think too hard about what was living between the weeds and the waterline.

When she closed her eyes and concentrated hard enough, Arya could smell smoke and ice, not the murky water. The air was crisp and cool in her lungs and somewhere around her, she could smell an open fire and taste the smoke on her tongue. It took her another ten minutes to slow her breathing down enough and she could feel the cold in her bones, not the sticky, humid air of the south.

Winterfell. Arya didn't know how but she knew deep down that she was smelling the smokiness from the forge. She could hear the bannermen and the servants bustling around the keep and if she thought about it hard enough, she could feel the way the snow moved under her feet, but they weren't human.

"Arya!"

She jerked upright, gasping as she slid back into her own body and down the rock towards the water.

"Fuck!" Arya cried, scrabbling to her feet and away from the dark water. "You great idiot!" she yelled over to Gendry and Nymeria growled at the boy half-heartedly until Arya made her way back to the mainland. "I could have fallen in, you prick."

Gendry apologised and glared at the direwolf until she sat back down. "I didn't realise you were sleepin', sorry," he muttered, embarrassed. "I got sent to find you. We're travelling with Howland Reed to the Twins. He called upon Ned to help settle a dispute and from there we will travel to the Bolton's I think."

"A dispute?" Arya echoed as the pair walked back towards the tower that had served as their base. Bannermen were cooking food over open fires and in the centre of the action was Ned and Reed, laughing and joking together. "Wait, Gendry," Arya said, placing her hand on his forearm to stop him. "What dispute? There wasn't a dispute last time."

"Reed said more and more travellers are dying, trying to cross at the Neck, rather than face the Freys at the Twins. He believes that the price to cross at the Twins is too high and he thinks that some of his crannogmen have been hunted by them. That's why he sent the coin to Ned."

"Hunted?"

"Yeah. They seem to be disappearing."

Arya's brows furrowed. "The crannogmen live on floating homes. Is Reed sure they're being hunted and not just floating away?"

"Arya, what do you know of the Freys and your brother?"

Arya's face became stone-like and the lack of expression chilled Gendry. "I know that Frey men are lovely in a pie and that they are too pig-headed to notice they're eating each other."

Gendry looked slightly worried but he shook it off, choosing to ignore her statement rather than dwell on it. It had disturbed him enough in his previous life and he didn't want to dwell on it. "Oh Gods, no. I mean do you know what led to your brother's death?" he dropped his voice to a whisper, steering her back towards the shoreline and away from the bannermen. "Catelyn Stark promised Walder Frey a husband for one of his daughters in the form of Robb and he married someone else. Roose Bolton married one of his daughters or granddaughters, I can't remember," he said, trailing off as he thought about it.

"So..." Arya prompted, sensing that Gendry had more to say on the matter.

"Roose Bolton is as slimy as the rest of them. It was him and Ramsay that took Winterfell. We need to get to Domeric before Ramsay does. That's what they say at least, that Ramsay made him fall ill so that he'd be the only heir, bastard or not," Gendry explained as the pair clambered over the ruins and to a small spot overlooking the waters of the bogs.

"How do you propose we do that without raising my father's suspicions?" Arya asked, taking a seat on the rocky ground beside Nymeria.

"What? No, Arya, we have to tell Lord Stark," Gendry argued, following her actions and sitting beside her.

Arya shook her head. "We can't. There are already so many things he is worrying over and this is something we can do alone, without making him worry even more. We just need to get rid of Ramsay and Roose without too much suspicion from the rest of the Boltons'."

Gendry looked at Arya as though she'd sprouted a second head. "You think we can kill two men without anyone noticing? I don't know if you'd forgotten but I'm a bastard of the king and you've got a bloody great wolf as a shadow. We're going to attract attention, Arya."

Arya smirked as she looked at him. "Who said I was going to be Arya?"

Gendry's eyes widened comically and he shook his head. "Oh no! I am not wearing someone else's face. No way!"

"Relax, you won't be," Arya laughed at her friend's discomfort. "You're just going to make sure I get in their keep and out again without any trouble."

"And your father?"

"Will be none the wiser thanks to you," she grinned.

"God, I hate you."

Arya laughed loudly, making Gendry's frown wobble into a smile. "No, you don't."

Riding through the Neck was harder than Ned thought it would have been. Instead of riding as he'd expected, Ned, Arya, Nymeria, Gendry and a handful of crannog and bannermen took the easiest route south: by boat. The word boat was stretching it, Ned thought as he sat on one of the floating islands the crannogmen lived upon. It was a bed of logs covered with woven reeds and despite never having travelled by crannog, Ned found himself enjoying the experience. Nymeria had remained standing throughout the journey, swaying with the current as she kept watch.

He'd sat with Howland and talked to his friend about their children, the men sworn to their houses and other Northern Lords like two gossiping nursemaids. It took a day and a half for the small collection of crannogs to meander across the bogs and rivers towards the Frey's Twins and by the end of their journey, Ned felt calmer and more at peace than he had done in months.

"Arya," he said that night in the camp on another crannog the company had come across. The people living there had been quick to offer food and shelter for the night. Howland had slipped off to hunt in the waters with Gendry and some of the bannermen, leaving the two Starks behind.

Arya was sat tying her hair back with a leather cord and she looked back at her father. "Yes?"

"Come keep your old father company," Ned began, patting the reeds beside him. The crannog swayed under Arya's foot but it had been anchored to a sunken tree and remained in place as she sunk onto her knees beside Ned.

"Walder Frey is a fickle man," Ned said, looking out over the boggy waters. There was something moving in the distance and Ned couldn't decide if it was the party out hunting or something more nefarious. "He is a man motivated by money and wealth."

Arya nodded slowly, unsure of where the speech was coming from, she finished knotting the cord and slowly placed her hands in her lap. "That's why people are trying to cross at the Neck."

Ned shook his head. "People are crossing at the Neck because they cannot afford the price the Freys are asking but they are a powerful house in numbers at least. There are hundreds of them."

"I know. I remember," Arya told him and Ned smiled lifelessly.

"I do not want you or Gendry to come to the Twins with us," he decided. "I will not have a man like Frey using you as leverage. I want you to continue on to the Riverlands."

"Father," Arya interrupted him softly. "Gendry and I will continue on for a week or so but we will not be going west."

"Where will you be going?" he asked, looking down at her.

"We are going north, to Dreadfort. You will remain down here, overseeing the reparations to Cailin until Robert comes calling," she said in a rush, as though she feared Ned would cut her off.

The older Stark breathed heavily. He wrapped his arm around his daughter and shifted her so that she was leaning on him, tucked close to his chest. Ned remained silent for some time, seeming to chew and mull over Arya's words. The darkness of the swampy forests seemed to thicken before Arya's eyes but she held her tongue, waiting for Ned to break the silence.

After twenty minutes, Ned released a great breath. "How will you get there?"

"Nym. We've talked it through and she's strong enough to carry us both."

Ned laughed quietly. "You've talked it through with your wolf?"

Arya grinned. "I meant Gendry and me but I know Nymeria can handle it. We will set off in the morning, following close to the King's Road. We'll stop at Greywater Watch, the Manderley's at White Harbour and at Hornwood. Don't worry, father."

"It is hard not to, sweetling. You will be separated from me once more and I think it will be many moons before I can return to Winterfell. I worry about your mother and our home, and of my children, all scattered around the lands. We should talk about this plan of yours more, Arya, before you go."

Arya bit her lip. She loved her father and whilst he was good with a sword, she doubted the subtlety needed would come easily to him. Instead, she changed the conversation. "I got a raven from Bran before we left Moat Cailin. It said that Lysa was a day's ride away from Winterfell."

Ned's shoulders stiffened. "I hope your mother is as cunning as she was. Your aunt Lysa is almost as bad as the snakes in the south. And your cousin Robin..." Ned tutted and shook his head, rubbing at his whiskery chin. "Any other news?"

Catelyn had been sending ravens whenever she could and so Ned already knew of her plans for her sister and the general running of the keep and the smallfolk but he wondered if Bran had included anything mundane.

"Theon has been practising commands with Shaggydog. He can get him to heel now."

"Good," murmured Ned as the hunting party emerged from the darkness with a wriggling sack of fish. Gendry was laughing along at something Howland was saying and he smiled when he caught sight of Arya.

"This Gendry..." Ned said, a hand on Arya's shoulder to keep her from running to greet him. "Is he that important to you?"

Arya's brows creased. "He is my best friend and I would give my life for his," she said strongly and Ned's booming laugh echoed around the swampy forest.

"That is good enough for me," he reassured her. "Go on, go have fun."

Ned remained seated, a hand on Ice's pommel as it lay across the reeds in front of him. He waved away Howland when the man wandered over with a fish for him. He stayed seated throughout the small dinner and through the drinking of mead and a stew one of the bogmen had concocted.

Arya had slipped into the small mud-lined hut behind him after her dinner, pressing a kiss to his cheek without a word. Ned nodded to Nymeria as the wolf followed her and Gendry after them with his head down.

"May the gods watch over them," Ned whispered as he took guard in front of wherever Arya was sleeping like he had been doing since leaving Winterfell. Slowly, sleep took over him but not before he prayed for the rest of his family to the soft sounds of his daughter's snores.

Nymeria had a makeshift leather bag slung over her neck, holding in the provisions the two had deemed necessary. There was a package of dried meat and several layers of leathers and furs, as well as one of Gendry's smithing hammers.

"Are you sure you have enough food?" Ned asked for the third time in as many minutes. He was stood, arms crossed watching as the two children got ready to leave for their journey.

"Yes."

"It'll be cold, Arya. Snow and ice. Are you sure you're prepared?"

Arya groaned, tightening the belt around her hips which kept Needle in place. "We will be fine. This is not my first time journeying with Gendry and this time, there's no bounty on my head and Nymeria is with me. I will send you a raven when we reach Greywater watch. I promise."

Ned clucked his tongue. "I doubt that."

"I will!" Arya argued and then her shoulders dropped.

Ned had a split second to brace himself before Arya was running, launching herself into his arms.

"Oof," he groaned, stumbling back half a step before planting his feet and steadying. "I will miss you dearly," he said into her hair.

Arya made a noise into her father's chest and it took both of them a second to realise that she was crying. Ned gently lowered her so that her feet were touching the ground once more.

"Don't cry, sweetling."

"I'm not," Arya said defensively, ignoring the tears that were evident on her cheeks. "Its rain."

Ned's lips twitched and he hugged her close once more. "What was that little saying you used to have with that teacher?"

"What do we say to the god of death," Arya sniffed, hand resting on Needle's hilt.

"And what do you say?"

"Not today."

Ned looked at her proudly. "Good. Keep saying that."

Arya laughed weakly. "I will. So should you."

"Arya?" Gendry appeared behind the pair, dressed and ready to leave. "Lord Stark."

"Go, have your adventure but return home as soon as it is done. Promise me, the pair of you. Return to Winterfell afterwards or if anything goes wrong," Ned said suddenly, looking at the pair with the same authority he used when giving orders to his men. "Swear it upon the old gods and the new."

"I swear it," Gendry said without hesitation, his back straightening and his chin lifting high.

Arya was slower to respond but when she did, she truthfully said: "I swear it by the old gods and the new we will return to Winterfell."

"Good. Now go before I order you back," Ned sniffed, running a hand over his jaw as the two climbed onto Nymeria's back. She was the size of a mare now and easily took the passengers.

"I love you," Arya said quietly before the disappeared into the treeline.

"Love you too," Ned told the air, turning back to where Howland and the bannermen were waiting for him so they could journey to the Twins. He hated being without one of his wolves but he would do what was needed, for the good of the pack.

Winterfell

Theon had gotten used to Bran's aloof behaviour as the months had slipped by. The young boy no longer begged to play pretend or shadowed his father, instead, he was in the Godswood, seemingly praying or watching the keep with cloudy eyes from atop a wall.

A small part of Theon ached for the young child he'd known and been annoyed by. It seemed to him that within the space of a few months, the child Bran had been had died and had been replaced by a man but he didn't complain. Instead, the two would break their fast together in the dining hall and either Bran would listen as Theon filled the silence or they would sit on either side of Catelyn and keep her company, as they were doing that morning.

The matriarch had Rickon perched on her lap, his curly hair brushing her chin every time she lent over his head to spoon some of her oats into her mouth. The baby was content in putting his hands in each bowl, babbling and forming half-right sentences as Theon chatted mindlessly about the progress those who had joined the banners from Wintertown had made under his guidance.

The large double doors at the front of the hall opened and a Bannerman slipped through with Maester Luwin. The trio at the top table watched as the pair slowly made their way towards them, both with their heads dipped in respect. It was taking some getting used to on Theon's part, being treated almost on par with Bran by those around Winterfell. He was finally starting to feel at home in Winterfell's walls.

"My Lady," Luwin started, inclining his head and then meeting Catelyn's bright eyes. "A party has arrived at the Southern gates. They bear the sigil of the Vale."

Catelyn set her spoon down and turned Rickon around in her lap, using her napkin to clear his sticky hands and face without a word but she smiled down at her son. After a moment of fussing with his hair, Catelyn stood up, settling the toddler on her hip and nodding to the boys at her sides.

"Come. We must greet your aunt and our guests, but tell the wolves to keep out of sight," Catelyn decided, leading the way through the hall with the two boys and the Maester following. Bran whispered something to Summer who slunk off and Shaggydog followed obediently. Slowly, as they walked through the keep towards the gates, more joined the parade. Ser Cassel, the Septa and the kennelmaster, Farlen, had joined them by the time the party had spilt out into the training yard and most of the Keep were waiting.

"Open the gates," Catelyn shouted and slowly, the gates swung open but there was only one man on his horse who came trotting into the training yard, several leagues ahead of the rest of his travelling company. Slowly, knowing that every eye in Winterfell was upon him, Petyr Baelish dismounted from his steed, carelessly tossing the reigns to a stable boy. His eyes never left Catelyn's figure as he righted his cloak and smirked dangerously.

Baelish looked around the yard, eyes scanning and cataloguing every face. He lingered on the child upon Catelyn's hip, and the two who bracketed her but he continued to look over the crowd that had gathered, still smirking and fixing his clothing.

Theon glanced out of the corner of his eye at Catelyn and realised she was looking past Baelish, over his shoulder at the carriage being pulled slowly by obviously exhausted horses. The wheels were dragging through the snow rather than turning over it and Theon wondered how long they'd been on the road without rest.

"Catel-" Baelish began but Cat held up a hand, still waiting for her sister's carriage to come to a stop.

Littlefinger's lips pursed and he looked over his shoulder as Lysa's carriage was pulled into the yard and the door was opened by one of the knights of the Vale. Lysa was dressed in a pale shade of blue, in the same sort of style her sister wore but it was ill-fitting and too loose, swamping her already large figure with too much material. Sweetrobin's clothes were tailored to perfection in contrast but the pale material made his skin seem yellow and sickly.

Catelyn smiled tightly as she watched her sister and nephew carefully pick their way across the snow-covered ground to stand beside Littlefinger, both unsure in their footing. She had had the same trouble when she had arrived in Winterfell just after her marriage but now she couldn't even conjure the feeling of grass beneath her feet. It was snow and ice or nothing.

"Welcome Lysa," Catelyn said, her reserved tone breaking off into a laugh towards the end as Rickon tried to repeat the name, butchering it beyond recognition.

Theon watched with keen interest as Lysa Arryn glared at the infant and clutch her own son closer to her, nails digging into the juncture between his neck and his shoulders.

Catleyn's false smile was replaced with her beaming true one as she shifted her youngest son. "I apologise, he's beginning to babble and it amuses me too much. You must remember when Robin was talking at this age," she said merrily, her smile turning sharp as Lysa glared. Robin hadn't begun to murmur, much less talk until he had been six years old and both sisters knew it.

"We have had a long journey, Cat," Littlefinger said, taking several steps forwards. "Perhaps we could break our fast with you."

"Her name is Lady Stark to you," Theon said before he could think about it and Littlefinger looked at him with intrigue. Cat settled her hand on Theon's shoulder, warning him silently.

Baelish nodded, seemingly ignoring the movement. "You are right, I apologise. Lady Stark," he corrected himself, dipping into a small bow.

"Good morning, Lord Baelish, Lady Arryn," Cat said, her voice carrying easily over the yard. "Our Maester will lead you and your company to the guest's tower and I hope to see you at supper tonight. I am afraid as my husband is not here there is a lot for me to see to before I can play hostess," she said, her tone almost apologetic and Baelish's grin returned, a gleam in his eye that hadn't been there before.

"Come, Lysa. Let's leave the Lady to her duties and settle in after our ride," he said, turning in the snow and gathering Lysa's shoulders into his hands, manipulating her physically into turning and following in the retreating maester. "Until this evening, Lady Stark," he said, leading them away. Catelyn watched closely as Bealish handed some sort of vial to Lysa, who drank it eagerly.

They continued to watch in silence as their guests left. The Knights helped the stable boys and the servants move the carriage, the luggage and the horses further into the keep and Ser Rodrick came to the Stark's side.

"My Lady," he said, waiting.

"I will be in my husband's solar but do not let them anywhere near me until supper, Rodrick. The boys will entertain our guests until then," she told the man who nodded and then left to follow the guests with his orders.

Theon rolled his shoulders back and turned to look at Catelyn. A strange energy had settled over the woman and he couldn't work it out if it was malicious or not. "Lady Stark?"

Cat cupped the boy's cheek, biting the inside of her cheek as she realised Theon was having trouble growing his stubble out into anything substantial. A memory of Robb complaining about the itch of his beard made her breathless for a second. "Robin will need warmer clothes and company, remember," she said after she recovered from the yearning.

Theon nodded, still not fully understanding.

"Bran, keep an eye out and do not disturb me until supper boys," Catelyn demanded before pressing soft kisses onto their foreheads and leaving for the solar without another word.

Theon rubbed at the damp spot on his temple with a confused expression. "Now what?" he wondered out loud. It was obvious to him that there was some greater plan at play and whilst he had been stung to have been left out of whatever it was, Theon trusted the Starks and he knew whatever was going on was bigger than just him so he waited, listening for information and instructions.

"Let's show Robin the Godswood," Bran said, already following in the larger footprints of Littlefinger's that he'd left in the snow. "That concoction has knocked Lysa out and Baelish has already snuck off."

Theon pressed on his fingers until they cracked, not wanting to ask how Bran knew what he did but he followed his brother regardless.

The Godswood had never been loud. Even when Arya and her wolf had been running around, laughing and shouting, the leaves and the trees seemed to absorb every sound, and Theon had never been overly religious but he'd found himself coming to sit between the trees more often than ever before, just taking in the silence.

His childhood in the Iron Islands had favoured the Drowned God and he'd grown up watching Ned pray quietly in front of the weirwood tree and Catelyn call upon her Seven but he'd never truly believed in anything himself with conviction.

Instead of waiting and wishing for fixes to problems, Theon wanted action and immediate response. He'd been having vivid dreams for the better part of a year about dogs hunting him down in the corridors of Winterfell and getting lost in the icy forests beyond the keep. He'd thought about telling Robb before he'd left for the South but every time he'd been about to say something, Theon had felt like a child and bit his tongue.

The only time he had said something about them was when he was alone in the godswood. It was the first time he'd ever been in the woods with someone else.

Bran led the way, settling himself on a fallen tree with ease and Theon briefly wondered how much time the young boy spent out under the leaves. Summer seemed to materialise out of thin air and lay her head in his lap. Theon's mind wandered to Shaggydog and then realised that the great beast was behind him, watching him with soft, gentle eyes. He wondered if he would ever get used to having such a shadow.

Robin trailed behind, slowly huffing and wheezing as he trudged through the soft snow after his cousin. His yellowing skin seemed to become paler and translucent in the light bouncing off of the snow. When he'd seen the two wolves, Theon wondered briefly if the boy would keel over in shock but he just stared at the pair. Theon hadn't seen Robin in person but he'd heard the stories: a sick little lord who was broken and dying.

It was easy to see why his mother kept him so close. Robin sat at the side of the hot spring pool, sweat on his forehead and his sunken eyes wide as he looked around the holy space in wonder.

"Don't ya have a godswood in the Eyrie?" Theon asked.

Robin turned to look at him with a strained look on his face. "A what?"

"A godswood. Its what this place is called," Theon explained slowly.

Robin shook his head. "We don't pray at home."

Theon nodded, both eyebrows raised. "Right."

"I like stories," Robin said, turning to look Theon right in the eye. "Tell me a story."

"Piss off," Theon scoffed, chucking some snow away from him and into the hot water.

"I'm a Lord," Robin's voice took on a whining tone and Theon grit his teeth.

"Fine, I'll give you a story... There are beasts that walk the halls of Winterfell at night. Made out of snow and ice. They wait in the shadows looking for anyone who is out of bed and then they eat them," Theon said, slowly getting more into the storytelling as he watched Robin's lib wobble. Bran had his head cocked slightly, listening to Theon's words. "On some nights, the Warden of the North lets a pack of rabid dogs in. He starves them for seven days and seven nights and when they're almost hungry enough to turn on themselves, he sets them upon people. You better behave whilst you're in Winterfell."

"What do you mean?" Robin stammered. 

Theon got upon from his knees and began to pace around the hot spring pool the trio had come to stop at. "Look at Shaggydog," he instructed, motioning over to the direwolf who was laying down passively. "The dogs that stalk the halls are smaller, sleek and shiny. They move like smoke in the darkness. You can't hear their footsteps, only smell their breath when they're close enough. It smells like rotting meat and blood and only he can control them."

"Theon," Bran warned, sensing the tension in the air as Robin's eyes became wide and his jaw slackened, obviously terrified but Theon continued regardless. He was walking quicker, his spine becoming more rounded as he spoke.

"But the ice creatures, you want to worry 'bout them. They can't die."

"Theon," Bran said with finality. 

Theon looked over at his brother sharply, seeming to snap out of something.

"Where did you hear that story?"

Theon blinked several times and retook a seat in the powdery snow, hugging his knees close to his chest. "Dunno. Maybe it was one of Old Nan's."

"She never told stories like that," Bran countered, calm and steady.

"Well, fuck. I don't know Bran. Maybe it was a dream," Theon said defensively in a rush. "They're just some stupid dreams."

"Dreams have a powerful way of telling us things that we otherwise wouldn't know, Theon. Don't dismiss them as nightmares," Bran said slowly. "Everything had meaning."

"I don't want them to have meaning," Theon replied, his voice small and quiet.

"Then make sure that they never do."

Theon was going to argue back but he couldn't find the words so he simply sat there, listening to Robin regain his arrogance and chat about the Eyrie and King's Landing, mulling over the dark thoughts that haunted him at night.

Chapter Text

Jon lay on his cot, Ghost laying over his legs and torso, keeping him warm but making his legs numb all the same. He couldn't bring himself to move regardless.

A melancholy had choked him after the first few days. It lay thick on his shoulders, wrapped tightly around his neck from sunrise to sunset. After two weeks, Jon was becoming used to the hollow feeling in his chest and the longing he had to see Sansa and be back at Winterfell. Part of him, a darker, more realistic side that had emerged after he'd been stabbed by his brothers and risen from the dead and had remained with him knew that it was unlikely he would see her in person again for years if it all went to hell. And even if he did, he would remind himself almost bitterly, he wouldn't be able to hold her in his arms and kiss her sweet lips. Not like he used to do as her husband. Not anymore.

"Get up," the gruff voice of Tormund broke through Jon's musings but he didn't move. His dark eyes slid over to the Wildman standing in the doorway and he just looked at him.

Tormund's shoulders dropped from their usually aggressive hunch and his body language softened a fraction. "I'll drag you out of that damned bed myself if I have to," Tormund warned, coming closer with each word until he was stood at the foot of the cot, hands on his hips like a mothering nursemaid.

If Jon could have brought himself to he might have laughed.

"Piss off."

"No fuckin' chance."

The two lapsed into a stony silence.

Ghost lifted his head, cocking it to one side as he regarded his master. Whilst the pair had always shared a close bond, Ghost had not left his master's side since their arrival at Castle Black. He'd become Jon's shadow, always under his foot, huge body leaning protectively against his. The direwolf now stood as tall as Jon's breastbone and the pair were given a wide berth in the dining halls and throughout the keep.

"Mormont's talkin' 'bout goin' North," Tormund said, almost as if he was commenting of the blizzard that had engulfed the keep during the night, light and breezy in his delivery.

Jon's eyebrow rose in interest but he did little else.

"Asked if I'd go with 'em."

Jon knew where his friend was going but he didn't want to give in. He'd force Tormund to work for it at the very least.

"Wondered if there were any of the Bannerman and recruits who'd be up to visiting Old Craster."

"Craster?" Jon echoed and Tormund's face split into a wide grin.

He surged forwards, uncaring about the beast Ghost had become, and grabbed Jon by the front of his jerkin, pulling him upwards as though he were a doll. "There we go. No more moping' around like some pansy-arsed piece o' shit," Tormund laughed heartily, dragging Jon to his feet.

"You bastard," Jon replied with a watery grin, trying half-heartedly to prise the other man's fingers away as Ghost got up from the bed to join them. Tormund physically man-handled Jon into dancing around the chamber.

"Off North! Off North, we go! To find some dead man and stuff him in a box!" Tormund sang, looping his arm through Jon's and swinging the pair around.

"Tormund," Jon warned but he had the widest smile on his face since he'd last spoken to Sansa. Almost so wide that it hurt and he was actively participating in the dancing now. Ghost had retreated back to the cot, ensuring that the likelihood of him being stepped on was reduced.

"To kill some bloody demon with your fuckin' sword and then get home!" Tormund continued to croon off-key and loudly. "Get Crow back to his wife! Get the Big Woman into my bed!"

"Ahem," a small cough interrupted the pair and it became obvious that someone had been standing in the doorway for some time.

The two men separated in a rush, Jon almost tripping over his boots in his haste.

Jeor Mormont stood in the doorframe, just as imposing as ever despite his white hair and wrinkled skin. He slowly entered the room, his long black cloak dragging on the stones. He looked around the chamber which Jon, Tormund and the handful of Bannerman were using, eyes lingering on Ghost and the hint of silver wrapped in an old cloak the animal seemed to be guarding beneath the cot.

"Jon," Jeor said, looking at the young man with some indescribable emotion in his eyes.

"Lord Commander," Jon replied, dipping his chin, partly in respect and partly due to embarrassment.

"Giantsbane."

"Old Bear."

The three just looked from one another for a moment or two.

"Can I sit?" Mormont asked, already making his way to Jon's cot and sitting on the edge.

Tormund scratched the side of his face, fingers tangling in his long beard. "I should go..."

"No, stay. I would like to talk to the pair of you privately and it seems so hard to track you down, Snow," Mormont said, watching as Jon shuffled on the balls of his feet.

After his dinner with Aemon the night they'd arrived, Jon had avoided all of the other members of the Night's Watch besides his uncle, feigning tiredness or using his Bannerman as an excuse, or on one memorable occasion, throwing himself into a snowdrift in the yard and forcing Ghost to camouflage him as Thorne had wandered past.

"I woke up one morning, almost two years ago now and the world felt different. My knees no longer ached and I couldn't find my sword anywhere. Thought that perhaps the new recruits, all bloody four of them, had decided to steal it out from under my nose but they did not have it and a search of the keep found nothing. I worried about it for days. It was made of Valyrian steel and my father's-"

Tormund was glaring at Jon from out of the corner of his eye and Jon itched to elbow the man but instead, he was frozen, unable to say anything as a sense of panic swept over him. Mormont was talking about the sword that was hidden just underneath Jon's cot, barely hidden.

"Maester Aemon came to me after a sennight and told me my sword was in good hands. Hands that knew how to fight the blue-eyed corpses that keep appearing just beyond The Wall. The bear that had once adorned it was now a wolf, he told me," Mormont continued, ignoring the obvious way Jon was shifting.

"I- I-," Jon stuttered before he gave up and remained silent.

"Show it to me," Jeor asked quietly in a way that left no room for argument.

Jon looked over at Ghost and watched as the beast's head disappeared under the cot, the cloak in his mouth when he emerged. Mormont watched with hooded eyes and Ghost gave Jon the cloak-wrapped object and as the material fell away, a handsome pommel sculpted into a wolf was revealed, followed by a black leather sheath.

The gasp that Mormont released made Jon flinch. The old man sounded heartbroken and his shoulders shook slightly as he held his hands out for the sword, much like a new mother would for her babe.

"Longclaw," Mormont breathed, gentle running the pad of his thumb over the wolf's snarling snout. "Where did you get this boy?"

Jon swallowed nervously. He'd already told Aemon more than he probably should but he knew that trying to tell Mormont anything other than the truth would sound even worse. He took a deep, steady breath and said: "you gave it to me."

"I did? When?"

"Its a long, strange story," Jon warned, still holding onto Longclaw's sheath as Mormont stroked the pommel.

Jeor nodded, still transfixed by the appearance of his ancestors' sword. "Aemon warned me it would be. I've lived a long life, boy. Seen a lot of horrors."

"The blue-eyed corpses you spoke of, well, I've fought them with this very sword. White-walkers create wights and they're hard to kill. Valyrian steel, dragonglass and fire," Jon explained, taking back the sword gently.

Mormont's wide, almost distrusting eyes looked over at where Tormund was leaning against the hearth, looking solemnly into the everpresent fire.

"When did I give you this sword?" Mormont asked again, his voice returning to its usual timbre.

"I saved your life from a wight but before that, I was your steward. We went past the Wall and-"

"Crow deserves the sword," Tormund said, interrupting Jon's story and pulling the attention to himself. He waited until the other two were looking at him, Jon with anxiety plain across his face and Mormont almost challengingly, before he turned and continued.

"The Night King is weak and doesn't have the army yet. Crow led us beyond the Wall and into a battle. The reason we're breathing once more is that he kept the Red Wolf and the rest of the Starks alive through most of the Long Winter."

Jon almost groaned. "Tormund."

Mormont got to his feet, his wiry white brows drawn together creating deep crevices in his forehead. "Long Winter? Who is the Red Wolf? Tell me everything Snow."

"The Long Winter is on its way but slowly. We've been blessed with a decade long summer but it will pass," Aemon said from the doorway, making the occupants of the room jump. He had been silent and even Ghost had not given the Old Maester's arrival away.

"Aemon..."

"Jeor, Longclaw is in the hands in which it will do the most for humanity. The honour that Jon Snow carries with him will see him through the Long Night once more."

"Once more?"

"I'm not sure explaining it will help. You'll think us mad," Jon tried to argue.

"Fuck sake, Crow, you've risen from the dead! Twice now! And this old Bear is scaring you senseless," Tormund clucked his tongue, exasperated.

Mormont's eyebrows became one solid mass in the middle of his face once more. "Risen from the dead?" he echoed.

"Yes, sir," Jon said, clearing his throat and shifting his weight. There was something about being within the Lord Commander's presence once more that made him feel like a child. He wondered if he would have felt the same unease if Ned had woken up without remembering.

Jeor blinked slowly for a few moments, trying to take in all he'd heard. He made the room wait for him as he ran a hand over his chin and retook his seat on the cot.

"We're going past the Wall when the blizzard clears, to scout some locations and to check on the Wildlings. You and your Bannerman can come if you must," Jeor said finally. "And a handful of new recruits are to arrive by the end of the day. You may want to join us in the dining hall for supper and stop taking your food in here."

Jon nodded and then began to grin, hoping that Sam would still be heading to Castle Black in this life.

"I will."

"Where is that sweet sister of mine," Loras' voice was hardly above a whisper and the greenery surrounding them ensured that the likelihood that they'd be heard was low. The clearing in the centre of one of the smaller hedge mazes was a sanctuary to the siblings.

"No, that's not right. My wicked slip of a sister," he continued, feet treading softly on the turf as he twisted and turned through the final few passageways of the maze. "Venomous," he grinned, hearing his sister exhale from past the hedge.

"I am not venomous," Margaery replied, still a little further into the structure, leading the pair to the centre with practised ease.

"No, perhaps venomous is the wrong word. Infectious," her brother bantered back, finally spilling out from the tall hedges and into the clearing.

Margaery was already sat on the stone bench, her feet tucked under her as she unwound her braids. Loras sat beside her quietly. The two basked in the rising sunlight, simply breathing in the scent of the flowers around them.

Margaery broke first. "What is it, Loras?"

The Knight of Flowers feigned ignorance. "What is what, petal?"

Margaery snorted, rolling her eyes. The pet name would not work on her. "Why are you hunting me down before the sun is even up?"

Loras' shoulders rose. "I just had some questions, no, some thoughts and musings to share with you," he replied smoothly.

One of Margaery's eyebrows rose as she took in her brother's profile, his chin tipped back, throat taut as he soaked in the orange light of the sun.

"Oh really? Would these musings have anything to do with a certain wolf?"

Loras hadn't protested all those months prior when Margaery had declared her correspondence with Sansa Stark, but Margaery knew that he wasn't going to welcome the girl and her family with wide arms instantly. It took him a while to warm up to new people and Margaery kept that at the forefront of her mind.

"She's a clever little thing, beautiful too but I am more interested in the other one," Loras grinned wickedly, all teeth.

Something twinged in Margaery's gut and she frowned. She had no qualms with the way Loras loved but she did not like the thought of her brother and the eldest Stark.

"Ah," Loras murmured, reading her silence with ease. He lent over and pinched his sister's chin, tilting her head so that he could look in her eyes. "Something you would like to share, sister?"

The firey brown eyes of Margaery were matched by the calm teasing nature of Loras'. Margaery slapped his hand away, turning so that he faced her back. If there was anyone who could read her face like a book, it was her brother. "I think he's a brute."

"You hardly know him."

"I know what he looks like," she countered quickly.

"And he looks so strong, so commanding. Powerful." Margaery could hear the grin on her brother's face. Loras was on his feet, stalking around the stone bench and closer to his sister. "I imagine it gets quite cold in the North. I'm sure he's always looking for someone to warm his bed at night."

"You are a bastard," Margaery hissed, getting to her feet and dodging his hands.

"And you like the Wolf."

Margaery glared at him before launching herself, hitting her brother with the heel of her hand. Loras was laughing, his arms encircling her waist and lifting her off of her feet with ease. She was half-way over his shoulders when the pair heard the unmistakable crack of wood breaking.

It was too early in the day for their Grandmother to be after them and the smallfolk who worked within the keep knew that the centre of this particular maze was out of bounds to all except in the direst of circumstances. It was a miracle someone had made it past halfway without some sort of guidance.

Loras dropped Margaery and the pair looked at the entrance, waiting for someone to emerge.

"It's his wolf," Margaery said more to herself than to her brother.

Loras ran a hand through his hair, pulling on the ringlets. "You can sense his wolf now?"

"Shut up. I've just seen it around that's all. No-one but us can make it the centre without help. The beast must have a good sense of smell," she reasoned, returning to the bench after a few more moments without noise.

"So what are you suggesting? That the Starks are sending their wolves after us?"

"No. Lady doesn't leave Sansa's side. It's just the other one I see around the keep."

"Grey Wind," Loras reminded her of the direwolf's name. "Suits it."

Margaery tossed her long hair over her shoulder and restlessly got back to her feet. "Enough talk of Robb Stark and his shadow. I want to go into the town this morning. I think Sansa may enjoy it."

Loras nodded, following his sister as she left the centre of the maze. "Are you doing all of this for something other than friendship? A queen is not needed in the North, may I remind you."

"I am already engaged, may I remind you of that?" She snapped back. "Sorry," she sighed, her face falling. "I have the company of a high-born woman who is not trying to marry me off or trying to iget me to ntroduce them to you for the first time in my adult life. She is no Lannister Lion looking for money, men and support. She is just like me."

"How can you be sure?" Loras asked, unusually taking a practical approach.

"I just do," Margaery sighed. "Maybe she's after an alliance with our houses but she isn't calling for us to bend the knee or marry into the family. I trust in her and the company she keeps. Two Mormont bears travelling this far South and Brienne of Tarth? I doubt someone like Cersei Lannister could convince people of that calibre that she wasn't planning something else."

"Oh," Loras said suddenly, grinning. "Did you hear?"

Loras managed to rival the Master of Whispers with the information and gossip he managed to whittle out of people.

"Hear what?"

"Cersei is the only Lannister in King's Landing right now. The Imp's gone North and the Kingslayer's gone South."

"Does Grandmother know?"

Loras smirked. "Who do you think told me."

Three weeks had slipped past quietly. The change in temperature was gradual but it would come on suddenly. After an hour of riding atop of Nymeria, Arya and Gendry would realize that they were shivering.

Now, even further North than Winterfell, the pair were dressed in thick leather jerkins, fur-lined trousers and heavy cloaks that they'd gratefully accepted from the Manderley's.

The small villages they'd pass through at night so that Nymeria didn't attract attention were emptier than the pair had expected. For a week straight whilst they'd made their final push to Dreadfort, they'd managed to find empty shacks and homes that looked like they'd been abandoned in a hurry. In some, firewood and clothing were still waiting for their owners to return.

As they'd swapped out their cotton underclothes one night in a stone home that felt as though the family were just out for a moment, Gendry had looked around, half-squinting in the candlelight at the life that had seemed to have been discarded.

"What happened here?" he asked, fingers dancing over the dust that had settled over the lone, rickety table. The single chair had already been hacked apart by Arya and used as firewood.

She looked over her shoulder, frowning when she realised he was deep in thought. "What d'ya mean?"

Nymeria was leaning against the wooden door, blocking out the draught but Gendry still shivered all the same. "Arya, the closer we get the Dreadfort, the less life there seems to be in the villages."

She added another hunk of wood to the fire and then sat back. "In the summer months, Winter Town is basically abandoned as everyone migrates south or back to their Lord's keeps."

"But it's getting colder Arya, not warmer. Do the smallfolk from here take refuge in Winter Town?"

She shrugged, tugging on her cloak. "I don't know. Why are you thinking about it so hard?"

Gendry picked up a crudely shaped bowl from the side where the food was prepared. It had been knocked over and whatever had been inside had moulded and rotted away, leaving a thin layer of white fluff on the surface. "They didn't leave willingly Arya. They left in a hurry."

"We don't know why they left," she argued as he dropped the bowl and joined her in front of the fireplace.

"Could be the blue-eyed," Gendry sighed, not wanting to say their names.

"It could just be because we're getting closer to Dreadfort and Roose Bolton is not a nice Lord to live under," she countered, refusing to think about the other options.

"So where are we going to get a face from?"

The wood popped on the fire, sending a small shower of sparks out of the chimney, making the pair jump in fright.

Arya fought to slow her heartbeat. "The next woman we meet."

That had been four days ago and the pair had not crossed paths with another soul since then. They'd stopped beside the bank of the Weeping Waters to let Nymeria hunt for something and to find somewhere she could stay. They were within an hour or two of Dreadfort.

"So..."

Arya was slowly losing her patience as Gendry eluded to the same question he'd been asking since their stay in the stone house and the one that nagged at her, twisting her stomach into uncomfortable knots.

"So," she repeated, mimicking his voice almost nastily.

Gendry ignored her and kicked some snow into the rushing waters, watching it melt as soon as it touched the surface. "We haven't seen a bloody rabbit, let alone a woman. The face, Arya."

It was becoming easier for her to slip into a more feral nature, one that ran with four paws and she closed her eyes, trying to concentrate on whatever intuition had reminded her of her bond with Nymeria.

"Gods above," Gendry sighed, annoyed as she slipped into the trance-like state he was slowly becoming familiar with. Her eyes flickered behind her eyelids as she tried to concentrate. "A face, Arya. We need to find one today," he pestered her again.

She hissed, reaching over to punch him in the upper arm but he easily slapped her fist away, anticipating the movement. "There's a small party ice fishing just round the bend in the riverbank. There's a woman there."

"Call Nymeria back then. We need to get her face," he told her, hand reaching for the hammer that was hanging off of his belt.

A part of Arya wondered if they were always destined to fight and to kill. Was there any life in which she didn't slip into the role of a swordsman with ease. Was there any life in which Gendry didn't have to spill blood for her.

"Nym's too far into the woods for them to notice. She's starving and needs to eat," Arya's voice dropped to a whisper. The pair slowly began making their way into the trees, careful to step on the fresh, soft snow as they came up behind the party.

Two men, one older with a rotund belly and one younger with dark black hair, were stood at the bank, poles in hand. The woman Arya had seen through Nymeria's eyes was barely older than Sansa but she had high cheekbones and a pretty face, although she had her back to them and was facing away from the river. Arya guessed she was supposed to be tending to the small fire which the trio was using to cook some gutted fish over, but the young woman was too busy making a sweet melody on a pipe.

"What are we going to do?" Gendry said in her ear, hardly making a sound.

Arya shivered at the sensation of his warm breath on her neck. "We need her face."

"I can't see any weapons."

Arya bit her lip. It would be easy to force the young maiden to join them if Nymeria was there, or they could pretend to need help but she knew that they'd just be adding unnecessary dramatics to what was obviously going to be murder.

"I'll kill the boy. You kill the man and then make sure she doesn't run," Arya told him, already pulling Needle out of her belt.

"How?"

Arya took a slow step out from behind the tree they were using as cover. "Don't mark her face," was all she said and Gendry's lips thinned but he nodded all the same.

The father and son were sharing good-natured barbs, teasing one another about the others lack of fish caught. The delicate music continued as Arya and Gendry emerged from the woods, neither in the eye line of the maiden.

Arya pushed Needle's tip into the side of the young boy, pulling it out before he could even realise he'd been wounded. A small pool of blood-stained his tunic as Gendry's hammer made contact with the older man's skull, crushing it upon impact. Arya stabbed the boy again.

The boy turned his head, watching in disbelief as his father's body crumpled to the floor, his face unrecognisable. The boy staggered forward, finally registering the small twinge of pain in his side. He placed a hand to the wound as Needle emerged from the centre of his chest and disappeared just as quickly.

The boy tried to open his mouth but blood dripped from his lips. He dropped to his knees, the rod floating down the river as the boy fell face-first into the icy water.

Arya was breathing hard, standing over the two bodies as she watched the boy's blood mingle with the water and get carried downstream. He looked slightly like Jon from behind.

Over her shoulder, Gendry broke the maiden's thigh, shattering the bone with a swing of his hammer and she howled, forcing Arya out of her daze.

"Shut her up!" she hissed, hurriedly wiping the blood off of Needle with the older man's ratty cloak.

Gendry's hammer slammed down on the maiden's hand and he shoved the corner of her own cloak into her mouth, choking her screams as she tried to fight him with her other leg. She kicked out at him in vain as Arya slid Needle easily though her neck and out again, a tiny trickle of blood following.

"Forgive us," Gendry murmured as the maiden's large eyes blinked several more times but her fight gave out. She sagged back into the snow, her gurgling noises muted by the cloak.

Eventually, the light left the girl's eyes and she stopped moving all together but the small river of blood continued to flow and stain her woollen dress.

Arya reached over and pulled the cloak out of her mouth, frowning in mild disgust as a string of saliva continued to connect the two.

"Nymeria," she called out, the Valaryian steel dagger that had been meant to kill her brother in her hand, already slicing through the girl's skin with ease as Gendry averted his eyes. "Come," she said quietly, knowing her wolf would hear her.

Gendry staggered away from the faceless corpse, collapsing near the fire that the maiden had abandoned when she'd heard her father collapse on the riverbank. He was panting, his breath forming thick clouds in front of him as the sweat on his brow began to cool.

The direwolf's muzzle was already covered in a brown ring of drying blood when she emerged from the trees and it took him a few moments to process what was about to happen.

"No," he muttered, shaking his head. "I can't..."

Arya had tears in her eyes when she looked over at him. The bloody face was wrapped up in a piece of cloth, already in her pocket. "I know."

"Arya, I can't-" his voice broke, thick with emotion. He'd become desensitized to killing in his last life but it still took something from him each time. He'd be lying to himself if he said he'd forgotten how much damage his hammer could do but watching on as the old man's skull collapsed had shaken him.

"Take them away, girl. Eat," Arya ordered, tears spilling onto her cheeks as she dropped into Gendry's lap, cold nose buried in his neck. 

Gendry's arms came around her protectively as the direwolf grabbed the maiden by her shoulder, teeth sinking into the flesh and pulling him into the woodlands with ease. She came back after five minutes for the body of the older man and then again for the half-frozen corpse of the boy who had the same colouring as Jon. The small pools of blood and the drag marks in the snow were the only indicators that they'd ever been there in the first place.

"We had to." He would remind himself of that each time he thought about it. They had no other choice.

Arya just sniffed, still seeking a moment within the arms of her friend.

"Arya, for the good of the pack, we had to," Gendry insisted but he was shaking.

"Nymeria was starving," she added quietly.

"Tomorrow, that girl's face will help us. Come on, let's head back to our camp and settle in for the night."

Chapter Text

High Garden

Olenna watched from her terrace as the gates to the keep opened below her, letting the small party back in. Loras led the pack, his sleek horse galloping through the gates thunderously. He accompanied his sister into the town without fail but it was obvious he wasn't as invested in the smallfolk that morning. He seemed to be eager to race back to something, Olenna thought. Behind him, the darker of the two direwolves stalked, golden eyes bright.

She sipped from her tea as her granddaughter and the Stark girl trotted afterwards, both laughing in conversation, their horses practically shoulder to shoulder. Sansa seemed to sense eyes on her and she looked up, catching Olenna's eye. The matriarch inclined her head, inviting the two girls to her solar.

"Solene," Olenna said, still watching as the second wolf appeared with his guards. The three women still seemed uneasy within the heat and Olenna found herself wondering if they would ever relax whilst this far South. The servant she'd called for came forward on quiet feet. "Go down and fetch my granddaughter and Sansa."

"Yes mi'lady," the woman dipped her head and left without question. When she reemerged on the terrace, Margaery was dancing across the sun-soaked stones, her feet bare like usual. She was grinning widely and greeted her grandmother with a kiss to her cheek.

"Sit down before you make me dizzy," Olenna instructed, waving off Margaery's laughter. Sansa was slower to approach and her easy smile from earlier had disappeared. "Sit down, child. Solene, leave us be."

Sansa dropped into the silk cushion lounge besides Margaery, her back straight, head high, unlike the Tyrell who was leaning back, feet dangling off of the bed-like chair, soaking in the afternoon sunshine.

"Did you enjoy your morning down in the town?" Olenna asked, not truly caring about the answer. She kept her eyes on Sansa's, minutely shaking her head when Margaery opened her mouth to speak. The Tyrell took the hint without question and she closed her eyes, settling back into the pillows.

Sansa glanced down at her friend who looked to be sleeping. Slowly, she turned back to Olenna and tried to channel all she'd learnt from her time under Cersei.

"The smallfolk in the South seem to have an easier life than those up North," she commented, aiming for a breezy tone.

Olenna set her cup down, turning her full attention to the wolf. "How so?"

"In the North, the smallfolk have to fight the cold and there's only so much space within Winterfell and the other Northern keeps to house and employ. Does the House of Tyrell represent the norm down in the South?" Sansa asked.

"My granddaughter is a princess of the people," Olenna told her. "I'd assumed that a Lady such as yourself had been taught all there was to know about the other Houses and our histories."

Sansa pinched the back of her hand. She knew more than anyone would have ever had guessed and all she wanted to do was tell the woman in front of her but she bit her tongue. "My upbringing has focused mainly on the North, my lady. It is my home after all."

"Still apart of the Seven Kingdoms though," countered Olenna.

"It was an independent kingdom for thousands of years."

Olenna's faint eyebrows rose. "There was a whisper, when I was a girl, that the Warden of the North, who would have been your great-grandfather, was trying to gather support in reclaiming the North as an independent kingdom once more, but it remained just a whisper. Then your grandfather Rickard became paramount of the North and life continued."

Sansa nodded. She knew her own family's history inside and out.

"Rickard was a fair man, that much I remember. I never met him but I was saddened by his death. Do you know the circumstances about it?"

Sansa's forehead wrinkled slightly as she tried to keep up with wherever Olenna was taking them. "He died at the hands of Aerys Targaryen," she said slowly.

"Burnt alive as your uncle strangled himself to save him from that Mad Old King. They say that his daughter and son are in the Free Cities."

Sansa decided she would try her luck. "They would have legitimate cause to be crowned, would they not? King Robert led a rebellion but the last King to sit on the Throne was a Targaryen."

Olenna pushed a spare cup towards the redhead. "Yes, but the Targaryen Madness, sweet girl. The gods flip a coin when Targaryens are born. If the pair are still alive then one of them will succumb to it."

"And if they didn't? Would having a Baratheon and a Lannister on the Throne be better?"

Olenna filled up the cup, silently rewarding the girl with every question she asked. "There is no Baratheon on the Throne. Its a lion's den."

"So which is better? A lion or a dragon?" Sansa asked, sipping on the fragrant tea. "I have a friend down in the capital. She is a maiden in the court and she sends me letters from time to time. I know that they're grooming Joffrey to become king but..." Sansa bit her lip.

"But what child. You can tell me," Olenna pressed gently.

Sansa averted her eyes and sighed. "I don't think I can. It would be treason." If she doesn't push, Sansa thought to herself.

She needn't have worried as Olenna scoffed. "The only ears listening are mine and nothing will be going back to those lions. Tell me about the boy. He must be looking for a wife, no?"

Sansa couldn't repress the shiver and she fisted her hands, her sharp nails biting into her palms as she tried to steady herself. Be smart. Be Clever. "My friend, she said he's cruel. Nasty. His mother dotes upon him and his father- well, there are rumours. I don't know how true they can be. Oh, but they're wicked, the rumours are, Lady Tyrell," she said in a rush, hoping that her act would hold up.

"Wicked rumours?"

"About the Queen and the Kingslayer," Sansa whispered, leaning towards the woman.

Olenna's eyes widened and she topped Sansa's cup up. "That they lay together?"

"It is only a rumour but they say that all of the Baratheon children look like their mother. If it's true, then the future belongs to a half-mad dragon or a cruel bastard cub," Sansa said in a tone that made it seem she was just working it out for the first time.

"What would the North do?" Olenna asked.

Sansa shrugged. "Perhaps we may look back at our history."

Olenna's head cocked to the side. "Back to Rickard?"

Sansa sipped on her tea. "Perhaps," she began. "But I will be married off. It is my brothers who will decide."

"The world is built upon the decisions of women, Sansa. A man will go to war for a woman, destroy thousands of other men, their cities and their armies, just for the hand of one woman. You have a weapon in your sexuality but also in your subtlety. Why do you think my house is still so strong? My husband?" she laughed loudly, tipping her chin back. "That fool would have run this into the muck. A wise woman leads everything, Sansa. And family is always stronger. Take Cersei. A vile woman, but a clever one, no doubt. She runs the kingdom, no question: a weak-willed husband and a lover in her own twin if we are to believe idle gossip."

Sansa felt her fingers shake. This was more than she'd ever hoped for when talking to the matriarch. "So, what can I do?"

Olenna sat back and looked out over the view and the city sprawling out below them. "My granddaughter is itching to fledge from this nest," she began and Sansa pretended she didn't feel the way Margaery stiffened beside her. "Perhaps she could be fostered within your home for a moon's turn or two. I know it would benefit her greatly to experience another's' way of life."

"Just fostering?" Sansa said with a sense of wonder.

Margaery seemed to be holding her breath and both women ignored it.

"Well, perhaps a man may come into her life who is better suited to her than her betrothed. I have always said marry the better option in life."

Sansa nodded and couldn't help the small smirk. "How fortunate she would be."

"Maybe you should speak to your brother, sweet girl."

Sansa turned her face to the sunshine, closing her eyes and letting her head tip back. "I most certainly will."

As soon as Robb was back in his room, alone, he angrily ripped off his riding cloak and boots, throwing them at the sandstone walls. Huffing, he watched as they fell to a heap on the ground, the soft sound of them making contact with the tiled flooring echoing in his ears.

Grey Wind had slunk off into the maze as soon as they'd reentered the keep, Lady by his side, and Sansa had been spirited away with the Tyrell girl as soon as they'd slid off their horses.

Robb didn't know what emotions he was feeling, much less why he was feeling them in the first place and the confusion gave way to anger which had slowly built up inside of him during the morning within the city.

He'd watched sullenly as she'd slipped into the crowd around a church, pulling gold from her pockets and laughed along with the dirty children. She hadn't been afraid to kneel down and play or talk with them but whilst her pretty silk dress had become ruined with dust and dirt, she'd smiled.

Robb groaned audibly, recalling the way Margaery had pulled his sister and her brother into a rough dance to the sound of a pipe. Sansa, with her bright red hair, had been the focus of most, as she was new and exotic, all pale skin and dark eyes, but Robb hadn't stopped watching the way Margaery had moved.

Soft, graceful sways of her hips and mesmerising arm movements had given way to wild shrieks and laughter as she spun and danced with the urchins who'd gathered around. He didn't know why but there had been one moment he'd become breathless.

As the man playing the pipe picked up his tempo, Loras had swung Sansa around and out of the way, letting Margaery move freely. She'd picked up her skirts, grabbing handfuls of the ruined silk in her fists and shown off her calves and the tops of her knees without care. She'd whipped around, golden hair flying around her face as she smiled so widely, even Robb, ever the sceptic since reawakening, had realised she was genuinely happy, dancing barefoot in the dusty street surrounded by those who she was supposed to reside over.

She may engage with the poor for the good of her reputation and to strengthen her house but he realised in that moment she she was carelessly happy dancing with them.

"Fuck!" he almost shouted to himself in his empty chambers. He felt hot all over. His skin was on fire. He tugged his cotton shirt over his head, just dropping it at his feet and ran a hand down his chest. His heart was hammering just at the memory of her dancing. Just as he began unlacing his trousers, ready to try and tamper down whatever he was feeling, a knock cut his wandering mind short. Robb rolled his shoulders trying to release some of the tension. Reluctantly, he realised he wanted it to be her on the other side of the door, seeking him out.

A second, louder knock made his feet move.

Robb knew he should stop. Put his clothes back on at least before he saw her but his hand was already on the latch and he was pulling the door open before he could even realise what was happening.

Instead of golden features and a soft nose, he was looking into the dark, sharp eyes of Dacey Mormont. The acidic feeling of disappointment felt like ice water over his feverish body.

She let her eyes trail over his body, lingering on his chest and on the obvious bulge in his trousers which was already half unlaced. Dacey must have read something in his face when she reached it as her eyebrows drew together. "Is something wrong?" she asked, almost affronted. "Did I interrupt."

Robb cleared his throat. "No," he said but it came out harsher, more like a growl than he'd have liked.

The Mormont did not seem to agree. She crossed her arms and glared back at him, as though he'd been the one to bother her. "Alright. I just came to check on you. "

"Why?" Robb blurted out. The anger and confusion hadn't left him yet, nor had his body's physical reaction to the memories of the morning. He felt confrontational and uneasy, as though the ball of nerves in his stomach had manifested into restless energy now that he hadn't been able to take care of himself.

"Because you're my..." Dacey stopped short, searching for the right word. Both knew they were almost of equal standing. Almost. Robb was a Lord and Dacey a Lady, but one was to inherit an Island and the other a title and half the country. He would be a King, someday, they both knew it. "You're..." she tried again, failing once more to articulate.

"I'm what to you, Dacey?"

They were standing closer together than they'd ever done previously. Closer than a Lord should to a Lady without a chaperone. Close enough that he could feel her hot breath on his face. They got even closer. Now, almost nose-to-nose, Robb scrutinised the woman standing before him.

She was older than him by five or so years and they stood at the same height but Dacey exuded a sense of strength with her very being. Tall, muscled and fierce, Robb could see that in a classical sense, she was beautiful. Piercing, heavy eyes and a sharp, long nose were the main features of her pale face and in his previous life, before his wedding, before his death, he would have never have looked upon the woman as anything more than a bear and possibly a solider. Dismissing her in the sense of a relationship. She was solid, too hard and too dangerous.

Instead, in this life, he was still pining for something soft, but now, the object of his lust was just as venomous and out of reach as the bear before him, with her grandmother and his sister, already betrothed so he grabbed Dacey by the upper arms and crushed her to him, pressing his lips to hers.

Dacey made a noise in the back of her throat and then she was kissing him back just as fiercely, arms wound around his neck.

Robb walked them backwards, kicking the door closed as his fingers tried to unfasten the ever-present fur around the bear's neck. She batted his hands away and expertly undid it herself, not even entertaining his struggle, letting the pelt fall to the tiles with a soft swish.

"Bed," was all Robb said, eager to expel his energy in a less lonely way.

They tumbled backwards, fighting for dominance in both the kiss and on the mattress. Robb pinned her down and just as quickly, Dacey had lifted her hips sharply, throwing him off balance and sending him sprawling on his back. He chased her lips, hands divulging her of the rest of her clothing with little words exchanged.

In the back of his mind, a small part of Robb was recalling all the previous times he'd been with a woman. The whores at Wintertown had been submissive during his first few happenings, letting him explore the female body when he'd been younger. Then, as he'd grown older and knew more about his own body and those he was with, he'd sometimes lay beneath them and just marvel at their beauty. With his wife, they'd been soft and slow for the most part, whispering sweet nothings into each other's ears or stealing quick encounters between battles and surges in his tent at night.

There was no such thing now. Instead, he was rushing, trying to satisfy himself with little care to his partner and Dacey seemed to be doing the same: both rushing before the other pulled away. They pushed and rutted against one another, focusing on their own pleasure than the others.

Dull bites, sharp nails and quick, self-satisfying movements. It had been quiet, dirty and over before he'd ever truly thought about what they were doing.

Afterwards, he lay on his back, panting and already feeling a pit of nauseous regret forming in the pool of his belly as the sweat cooled on his skin. He let his eyes slide towards his bedmate and saw that she was nibbling on the side of her thumb nervously. He tried to recall another instance in which the bear had been as vulnerable and his made came up empty. She was never anything but sure of herself.

"I'm sorry," he said, his throat dry and scratchy. Robb couldn't elaborate more. Not yet.

Dacey turned her head and looked at him before shaking her own, a small smile playing on her face. "I'm not. We needed that. You needed that," she argued as if she'd anticipated his reaction.

"You're sworn to my house. My guard for this trip. A she-bear of Mormont Island. I shouldn't have taken advantage of you like that. Spoilt you," he argued, sitting up and leaning down, trying to pick up his clothing in the mess around the room. It didn't help that they both wore similar styles throughout the daytime.

Dacey sat up, leaning back on her hands, uncaring about her nakedness. "I wanted that. I mean, I would never have sought you out, I truly did come to tell you about the supper and to see if you needed anything, but I would have fucked the next man who made eyes at me, probably," she shrugged, her usual collectiveness returning. "You are certainly not the man who 'spoilt' me."

Robb looked quizzically at her, one leg in his trousers. "Huh?" All the previous malicious feelings had melted away with his release and he just felt guilty now for having used a woman he'd come to consider a friend, despite her telling him she had been using him in the same way.

Dacey laughed gutturally. "I, for one, have been missing the pleasures of another person. Brienne and my sister have not allowed me much alone time since we left Winterfell where I found that satisfying myself was quite easy. If it hadn't been you, Robb, I would have chased down one of the footmen or some man down in the city."

Robb swallowed and slowly laced up his trousers, going over her words in his head. "Can I tell you something?" he asked after a while, deciding that since they'd seen each other naked, he could bare out his thoughts. Naked was naked, he thought.

"I thought you were worrying about something." Dacey lay back and nodded, her eyes closed. "I am at your beck and call, my lord."

Robb ran a hand over his face, second-guessing himself.

Dacey didn't open her eyes, she just said "You either talk to me, my sister, your sister, an animal or Brienne, Robb. Take your pick."

Robb nodded and set himself on the end of the bed, hands in his lap. "I should be looking for a wife-" he began and Dacey's sudden movements made him stop.

"No. Robb. Don't do this," she insisted quite suddenly and Robb frowned at the panic on her face.

"What? No. Dacey, I think you will make someone very happy one day-"

"Oh, thank the gods!" she sighed to herself, relaxing back and a part of Robb wondered whether to take offence. "I apologise. I am the last person on the face of this earth ready to be married. My mind got carried away. Go on, I'll remain quiet."

He wondered how to phrase it without making it known he had been married before. Dacey was a patient woman but he thought there was only so much she would entertain. "I always thought I would marry a dark-haired healer from the free cities, or somethin'," he mumbled at Dacey's expression of interest. "But now..."

"A flower?"

"With thorns but a flower nonetheless, yes," he sighed, feeling as though there was a massive weight on his shoulders. He felt inferior. He'd had his way with a Lady from a respectable family and now was talking about another in her presence, not five minutes after they'd fucked on his bed.

Dacey mulled something over for a few seconds. "Well, it would bring a strong allegiance between your two houses and having a Southron wife may help if the North is to become independent. Maybe. I dunno," she thought aloud as she rebraided her long, dark hair to make it more presentable. "Have you told your wolf?"

Robb rolled his shoulders and stood up, looking for his shirt. He was scowling as he threw Dacey her clothes with some force. "Get out if you are just going to laugh."

"It was not a jest. I know that there is something more between you and that animal," she argued, getting to her feet and redressing.

Robb glared at her as she slipped on her boots, all his malignant feelings returning to cripple him once more. Guilt. Confusion. Lust. Anger.

"Warging, or some other shit like that. It was a legitimate question, my Lord," she told him, reverting back to his title in a way which made him frustrated. She was fully dressed once more. The only indication of their union was her swollen lips.

"No," he said quietly, his back to her, unable to meet her eye. "I haven't told him."

"Well, then you should. Then tell Sansa. Then ask Olenna for her hand. Love comes once a lifetime," she told him sagely as she unlatched the door.

Robb wanted to scoff and to curse. "Don't lecture me about lifetimes and lost love," he growled but she had already slipped out of his rooms and he was left on his own once more.

Dreadfort

The sun had slipped from the sky and the encroaching darkness of another Northen night almost felt smothering to Gendry as he sat with Arya, both huddled into Nymeria's side for warmth and protection from the wind.

The few shoots and leaves they'd managed to forage from the frozen forest floor had done little to quash his hunger but every time he looked over at his hammer, the weapon he would have used to crack open the ice on the banks of the river to fish, his stomach knotted and he had to take several, steadying deep breaths.

So he sat there, slowly freezing in front of the small fire, half-starving and unable to bring himself to say anything to fill the straining silence that had fallen over the pair. It was a complete flip in attitudes. Gendry had taken to reassuring Arya but now, he could barely meet her eye. Hot shame would build up and threaten to boil over every time he did, his mind casting back to the moment Needle had protruded from the young stranger's chest and the sound his hammer had made in the empty clearing.

"I'm going to tell you a story," Arya said so suddenly that Gendry jumped. She never asked permission. Would have never said 'can I?' She had seen too much in both her lives to waste away precious time seeking approval. Gendry's mouth was dry and his throat scratchy, so he just nodded, although it was in vain as she had already started talking.

"That night I was in Winter Town, I had taken a whore's face and tried to talk to you. We needed to know. I needed to know if you remembered or not," she began, turning her face to try and catch his eye.

"Okay..." Gendry said hoarsely, staring straight ahead into the flames of their campfire. He suddenly remembered his time on Dragonstone and a woman dressed in red.

Arya sighed through her nose. "I took the face and then, once you had told me you remembered, I took it back. The girl's body had already been on her funeral pyre for an hour or two but it was still going. I got Brienne to interrupt the gathering, asking who had died so that I could return the face to her body. It burnt along with the rest of her but no-one knew."

Gendry blinked several times, the muscles in his jaw tensing. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because when I was training in the House of the Many-Faced God, I was told to become 'no-one'. I'd be beaten and still be told I was to become 'no-one'. But I could never understand that. No-one. I am Arya Stark. I've always been Arya Stark. Names are so important and who we are is partly from them. I couldn't just give up my house and my family. I was working so hard to get back to them, to not forget about them."

Gendry shifted his shoulders, trying to find more comfort in the direwolf behind him. He knew his life would have turned out so differently if he had his father's name. He'd be heir to the throne and a price would have been on his head. He had siblings, in name only. He would have been a lord or a Ser, given a scrap of land to look over and lived off of his bastard name if Cersei had allowed it. Instead, he'd fought to survive in the slums of his father's city, crafting weapons and then he'd met Arya and his life had changed again.

Arya pressed on, either missing the fact Gendry was deep in thought or not caring at all.

"Nymeria needed to eat and I know they didn't deserve the ending they got but I think a quick murder is better than being eaten alive," she whispered, her fingers picking at some of her animal's fur.

"Aye," Gendry murmured but the colour had faded from his cheeks.

"Gendry," she said, placing a soft hand on the crook of his elbow. He thought he could feel the warmth of his skin through the thick leather jerkin he was wearing but he knew he was wearing too many layers and her hands were colder than anything. "We'll return the face when we've finished."

Gendry couldn't help but scoff. "A small snack for Nymeria then." The wolf's tail slid off his crisscrossed legs and curled around the other side of her body, leaving him breathless as the cold seeped into his legs.

At the same time, Arya's eyebrows drew together and she withdrew her hand as though she'd been burnt. "No," she said fiercely. "To the earth."

Gendry worried on his lower lip and then glanced over at his friend. She looked tiny, smaller than usual all curled up in the shoulders and front limbs of the massive wolf.

"You know I would do anything for you," Gendry said softly. "I travelled across the cities at the beck and call of some letter, thinking it would all be worth it if I got to see you again. It didn't matter to me if you knew me or not. We would fall back into what we had or we'd build it from scratch."

"How soft," muttered Arya, but Nymeria's tail had returned and he knew he was half-way to being forgiven.

"There is not a lifetime in which I am not by your side, Arya Stark. Tomorrow, I will make sure you get into that castle and out again safely and then when we return to Winterfell, we will train in the keep and I will make you that staff," he told her seriously.

"What did I ever do to deserve you in my life?" Arya mumbled as she turned and lent against him.

"I'll keep reminding you of that question the next time you're in a bad mood with me," he joked, wrapping her up in his arms. They lapsed into silence for a few moments, both just staring into the flames of the fire. "How are you going to do it?"

Arya blinked and then reached over to the leather bag they'd travelled with. Inside, below the bloody cloth that the face was wrapped in, a small glass vial glinted in the firelight.

"And that is?" Gendry asked, purposely not looking at the bloodstains.

"Water hemlock pulp. There was some growing near Moat Cailin and I thought it might work. Slip into their food and they'll be nauseous and die, hopefully," she told him. "If they somehow survive, I can't remember well, but I'm sure my mother told me that water hemlock causes forgetfulness. Memory loss. Shakes. The kind of things that people do not want in their Lord."

Gendry shook his head. "And if they don't eat it?"

"Needle."

"So, simple then. Poison or stabbing," he joked and Arya scoffed, retying the leather cord around the bag and settling back into his side. "How long do you think it will take?"

"We need to find the closest entrance to the kitchen either before they break their fast or at supper. I'll deliver their food and put some of the pulp into the dishes."

Ever the practical one, Gendry continued to question her. "Would you poison every dish if you knew it led to Roose and Ramsey's deaths?"

"I would do anything for my family," Arya replied.

Gendry sighed deeply. "Why couldn't we be the ones sent to High Garden. I would love to be sipping tea in some garden in the sun. No deaths. No bloody Boltons."

"At least we aren't at the Wall. I think I have had enough of that place for all my lifetimes and I have never even seen it. Jon and Sansa's stories about it drain me," Arya said through a yawn.

Gendry hummed in agreement. "I guess that's a small blessing. And there's no-one out for our heads yet."

Arya laughed quietly, already half-asleep. "They will be when most of House Bolton dies."

"It is one of my favourite past times, being on the run with you. You make fearing for my life such fun," Gendry remarked sarcastically into her hair and he was rewarded with a bright, soft smile.

"Go to sleep, Waters."

"As my Lady commands."

Nymeria's cold nose woke Arya up. She jumped, rising and looking around quickly, only calming when she realised that dawn was barely breaking and her wolf was looking at her intently.

Gendry muttered something in his sleep at the disturbance, turning over to bury his face further into the fur of Nymeria's back leg.

The pair had slept intertwined for warmth and as she sat up, rubbing her eyes, Arya shivered at the biting wind. Nymeria's large body had acted like a barrier and a heater, keeping them both warm enough not to complain as she protected herself from the elements with the layer of snow that had fallen.

Arya brushed the powder off of her hood, shaking the snowflakes out of her hair before they melted. "Wake up," she whispered over Gendry's shoulder, gently patting his side.

The boy didn't stir. His eyelids barely flickered and Arya's lips fell into a thin line. He slept like the dead and she'd grown tired over their time away from Winterfell trying to wake him up. It usually took a loud noise or some physical shove.

"Get up!" she hissed louder, shaking him vigorously.

Gendry's reaction was instant. He was pushing, kicking away Arya, Nymeria and all of the snow that had fallen, rushing to get to a fighting stance on his feet.

Arya swore as his elbow connected with her breastbone, sending her to the floor and winding her in one strong blow.

Gendry blinked the sleep out of his eyes, squinting in the darkness as he looked for whatever threat had woken him up.

"I am never travelling with you again," Arya complained, rubbing at her chest. Gendry looked down at her and frowned. "Just once, could you wake up like a normal person?" she asked.

Gendry just grinned sheepishly, sinking down to his knees as Nymeria looked at him with more distaste than he thought an animal could have been able to express. "Sorry," he hesitated, looking out over the landscape and at the bright orange streaking the starry sky, indicating the arrival of the dawn. "Are we moving?"

"When I can breathe again, yes," Arya snipped. She hoped that the violent wake up wasn't going to set the tone for the day. She wanted to be in and out of the keep in as little time as possible.

The pair ambled to their feet, Arya shoving Gendry once more for good measure before they began to slowly trek to a narrower part of the river so that they could cross to the side of the keep. As they walked, Arya pulled out the face, fingering the cloth as Gendry lept over the bank to the other side. His foot slipped in the snow and the tip of his boot got wet.

Nymeria made the jump with ease and she turned her face to the rising sun, gold eyes closing. Gendry looked back and saw Arya on her knees, hands in the freezing water. He was about to shout at her when he realized she was washing the face with graceful fingers.

Arya grit her teeth at how cold the water was, but she needed to cleanse the face and the sandy hair. In the isolation of the dawn, she thanked the girl and the gods, praying under her breath as she washed the blood away. Without looking up at Gendry, knowing his hard expression would make her second guess herself, she gently wiped away the water and slid the face over her own.

It took a second or two for the mask to sit right. The cheekbones were higher than her own and the maiden had larger, puffier lips and ragged hair. After a few unhurried moments, Arya had melted away and the maiden looked up at Gendry.

He stepped back automatically, breath caught in his chest. In the blink of an eye, his best friend had disappeared and a stranger was standing in her place.

Arya's proud, fighting posture had shrunk into hunched shoulders and a dipped chin. Her grey eyes were now, somehow, a muddy brown and Gendry's mind began to hurt as he wondered how she managed to change herself so drastically in a heartbeat. A small part of him wanted to know exactly what it felt like, stepping into the skin of another person, but his more rational side realised that he wouldn't be able to look at her the same way if he knew.

"Arya?" he asked the strange face in front of him. He swallowed thickly. "Do you want a hand?"

"Mariya," she told him. Arya's rough voice was soft and feminine. "Don't mention my name, you great idiot." She ignored his outstretched hand and took a running jump, landing gracefully in a crouch on the other side of the bank.

Gendry's fingers curled into a fist and he dropped his arm. "Right. Mariya," he echoed.

Arya looked through Mariya's eyes and Gendry flinched. "Calm down. It's still me," she said, although she couldn't hear her own voice. "Come on. We need to get in before they break their fast."

Gendry watched her trudge on through the snow, dazed. "I know that," he croaked, rushing to catch up. "It's just taking some getting used to."

"Well, get used to it quickly or else we're going to be spotted. You're acting like you're on the end of a sword," she taunted, poking him in the side with a smirk.

"You're wearing someone else's bloody face. I think I have a right to be uncomfortable," he argued and she shrugged, her natural mannerisms bleeding through the disguise and Gendry repressed a shiver.

By the time they'd reached the walls of the keep, the sun was beginning to rise.

Unlike Winterfell which had people coming and going all the time, meaning that the gates were always manned, Dreadfort wasn't guarded during the early morning hours. The gate was around eight feet tall and had been roughly made out of thick tree trunks. The bark was still on them and any branches had been stripped away crudely.

Nymeria settled herself in against the wall as Arya sized up the gate. The falling snow helped the wolf camouflage herself and soon she'd melted into the shadows. All Gendry could confidently make out was her watching eyes.

"Good girl," Arya praised. Then she began to clamber up the wooden gate, using the splits and natural bumps as footholds and grips. Gendry followed, hauling himself up and over with ease.

On the other side, Gendry looked around, expecting a layout similar to Winterfell's.

Piles of snow covered the yard and there was little activity. He could smell the dogs in the kennels across the way and hear some movement from the nearest building but there was no-one out. He looked across at Arya and followed her lead.

They pressed themselves against the wall of the tower where the cooks were preparing the food. Arya looked around the corner and held her breath.

"Do not move from here. If something does wrong, open the gate and let Nym in but do not go head-on into a fight," she warned him.

"What is it?" Gendry pressed, itching to look around the corner and see whatever had steeled Arya.

Arya's voice was barely audible as she replied. "Ramsay's letting his hounds out of the kennel. They're frothing at the mouth."

Gendry's jaw tensed as he pushed himself closer to the wall, blocking Arya from view. If the bastard was to stumble upon them, he'd see Gendry before he'd see her.

Despite his best efforts to shield her, Arya was small and had managed to slip under his arm, peeking around the corner to track the man.

"He's taking them down those steps," she whispered and Gendry yanked her back.

"You know what's down there don't you," he rasped, his hand resting on his hammer.

Arya nodded. The dungeons of Winterfell were rarely used but she knew the stories. Dreadfort's were usually overflowing.

After a few quiet moments, a scream echoed around the empty keep and Arya cringed, shrinking back at the sound. It was guttural and then another shout made her jump. More than one person was screaming, pleading for mercy and for their life but Ramsay had returned from the steps, a manic smile on his face.

Arya had a tear in the corner of her eye and she roughly wiped it away. Gendry looked pale but he stepped back as Ramsay entered what the assumed was the Great Hall.

"Go," he told her, voice thick and deep. She looked up and realised he was staring at the open doorway that led down to the dungeons.

Arya set a hand on his chest, nails digging into the leather jerkin to try and recapture his attention.

"Don't do anything stupid," she warned, her own travelled voice breaking through her disguise and he looked down at her sharply. "There is two of us and an entire House and army here. Do not get yourself killed."

She watched as his eyes darkened and his stance became broad, frightening.

"Gendry, listen to me," she demanded. "That bastard was eaten by his own hounds last time. This time, it'll be poison but he will die today. You will not, do you understand me?"

Gendry sighed deeply, his aggressive stance softening. He looked down at her, his fingers twitching at his side but he didn't want to touch the maiden's face. "If you were you, I would kiss you right now."

Arya couldn't help the smirk on her face. "Just watch my back and stay alive, you stupid boy."

The kitchens of Dreadfort were smaller than Winterfell's but understaffed and she easily made her way to the collection of food that was waiting to be carried through to those in the hall. There were only half a dozen people in the kitchens and each was busy trying to fulfil three people's tasks so no-one paid her much mind.

"You, girl," the cook shouted, calling her over and Arya obediently looked at her. "Take these through to the master," the cook ordered.

Without a word and not trusting her voice, Arya nodded and began to load the bowls and plates onto a small cart that was used to carry the food, much like ones used by servants in Winterfell. As she placed each platter or bowl down, Arya covertly dropped a few blobs of the poisonous plant into each. With a wooden spoon she'd snatched from the counter, she stirred the foods, making sure the white pulp was fully mixed in.

Dreadfort was noticeably smaller than the home she'd grown up in and by the time the sole cook had finished the last batch of porridge, Arya had managed to lace each bowl.

The dried fruits in syrup. The meat. The pitchers of wine and mead. Everything was fatal.

"Girl," the cook called out and Arya saddled up to his side, looking down at the last remaining bowl. "This is Master Ramsay's. Do not give it to anyone else, you understand," the cook said and Arya nodded, taking the bowl and setting it on top of the cart. The cook had turned his back and was clattering about, trying to clean up. Arya pulled the stopped out of the bottle once more and dropped the rest of the poison into the porridge. She stirred it and then pushed the cart out.

The Hall of Dreadfort was dark and smelt musty. The Bolton banners were hanging around the room, tattered or old. Nothing looked new. A fire was roaring and Arya realised it was the first time she'd felt warm for moons.

There were animal skins on the floor and leathery old skins on the walls and hanging from the rafters. She swallowed when she realised they had once been people.

At the top table, Roose Bolton was sat, eyeing her. Ramsay was sat beside him, looking half-mad. The rest of the hall's occupants were two dozen or so soldiers or men who had gathered to break their fast. Arya glanced at them all in turn. None of the faces were familiar to her and all looked as though they were hungry for something other than the food she set out on the tables before them. Without the manners or respect those in Winterfell possessed, the lesser men began eating before their master, shovelling the food down their gullets like they'd been starved.

She set down the pewter jugs of mead and wine and then the platters of food on the top table, careful to not make eye contact with either Bolton as they began to help themselves to the food and alcohol. Arya could feel their leering stare on her skin. She distributed the rest and retreated back to the cart, slowly pushing it back towards the passageway that led to the kitchens.

Arya stopped short and locked the door, latching it closed. She turned on her heel and watched, smirking as someone began to cough.

"Why is it so easy to poison men?" she said to herself, not bothering to lower her voice. The greedy ones who had already downed a goblet of the tainted alcohol were clutching at their necks, purple and coughing. Some glanced her way with accusatory looks but the whites of their eyes were red and they looked terrified rather than intimidating.

Ramsay was still shovelling the porridge into his mouth, not looking up or taking a breath between mouthfuls. He either didn't care that those before him were choking to death or he didn't notice. Arya idly wondering if he was rushing through his food, eager to get back to his dogs and the prisoners.

Roose, on the other hand, was looking around, alarmed as his men began to slump in their dishes. He looked down at his half-drunk goblet and set it down roughly, the liquid sloshing over his hand.

Arya smiled at that. Any contact with the plant resulted in some sort of pain. She watched in unbridled delight as Roose began to scratch at the back of his wine-stained hand.

Someone tried to get up but Arya was stood before him, Needle already between his ribs.

"Winter is here," she called out, her calm, measure voice echoing in the room. She ignored the groans of those dying slowly and kept her eyes locked on the two men who were trying to rise from the top table.

"W-who," Roose began, sounding half-drowned as he slumped back into his chair. The skin on the bag of his hand was flaming red and his digits had begun to swell.

Arya watched as the final soldier fell face-first into his plate and then turned back to the two men she was there for. She had purposely put a lower dose in the food she placed on the top table, hoping to prolong their suffering.

Ramsay was gagging, hacking every so often as he tried to take deeper breaths. His pale skin was becoming redder by the second and Arya savoured the moment.

"You will never hurt my sister again. You will never live in my home. You will never torture another soul. Winter has come for House Bolton and I want you to know my name before you die," she said confidently as Roose scrambled with drunken movements for his sword.

Arya was quicker.

She slotted a finger under her chin and peeled off the face, stepped forward as herself, sure and true. She felt dangerous and powerful, lording over these two men as they died slowly by her hand

"Lyanna," rasped Roose, a look of horror on his face. Arya likened it so seeing a ghost. She had made peace with being mistaken for her aunt at first glance by strangers.

"Close," she taunted, coming closer to the top table. She stuffed the face into her jacket and pulled Needle from her belt. "Her niece. My name is Arya Stark. Winter has come for House Bolton," she repeated, remembering the way the words had sounded the first time she'd spoken them in similar circumstances.

A wet sound broke through her memories and she quickly hurried around the table to stand behind Roose. She tipped his forehead back and rest Needle against his gulping neck. It wasn't as sharp on the sides as her dagger but she didn't want to change her weapon.

"Your true-born son will rule over this house now," she said before slitting his throat.

Instead of doing the same to Ramsay, she pulled his chair back.

He tried to hit at her but the poison was making him sluggish and clumsy. He tried to summon his hounds but his tongue was swelling and the whistle wasn't crisp.

"They're dead," Arya told him as she came to stand between him and the table. Truthfully, she didn't know what Gendry was doing and she didn't want to think about it too much. She just wished he was still against the wall, keeping watch and not doing something stupid or heroic. "They turned on themselves like they always would. You cannot tame a beast like that. Wolves only answer to their own kind," she continued.

Arya slowly pushed Needle into his side, deep enough to hurt but not a fatal wound.

Ramsay tried to say something but it wasn't audible. His tongue was now protruding out between his purple lips.

Arya calmly pushed the tip of her sword into one of his thighs, and then through his shoulder. Every time he tried to fight back, she would jiggle the blade before withdrawing it.

"You will never lay your eyes on my sister," she said as she stabbed his torso.

Suddenly, Needle was in his knee, expertly placed between the bone and the muscle. "You will never set foot into my home."

Blood was pooling on the floor around his chair but she kept going. He was still looking at her as if taunting her.

"I am going to feed your body to your own dogs."

Water was leaking from his eyes and he was blue.

Arya continued to puncture him like some sort of perverse, human pin cushion. She kept going, over and over again until his head slumped forward and his chest stopped rising. She began slashing as his skin, wanting to see his insides on the floor, just to make sure he was dead.

After five frenzied minutes, the mutilated body was unrecognisable. He had no facial features left and was covered in his own drying blood. She hoped he'd suffered and hurt as much as Sansa had.

The rattle of the door hand made her freeze. She looked around, realising that she didn't have time to put the stolen face back on so she hid behind one of the banners as the door opened.

Gendry's eyes widened as he took in the scene. "Oh my god," he mumbled to himself as he walked further into the hall. He couldn't see Arya but it had been longer than he felt comfortable with and the servants who had been in the kitchens had scattered to other areas of the keep. He'd managed to raid the pantry of the kitchens for dried foods and his pockets were overflowing.

"Arya," he hissed, stepping over a man who'd been stabbed. Her head appeared from behind a dark banner and he scanned her, trying to see if she was hurt or in trouble.

"Come on. We need to leave before the common folk come to clear everything away," she told him, wiping Needle on the banner, leaving it bloody. She wanted to drag Ramsay's body out into the middle of the keep, putting her destruction on display but they didn't have time. She'd taken too long in killing the Boltons and they needed to put as much distance between themselves and the keep.

Gendry agreed and they left the hall, slinking through the shadows of the empty yard to the gate. Neither spoke as they climbed up and over, landing in the snow on the other side with little sound. Nymeria sprung to her feet and allowed them to climb on. She took off at a run and the two passengers gripped her fur and huddled low.

Gendry was behind Arya, his chest pressed against her back as the direwolf put distance between them and Dreadfort.

"What's going to happen now?" he asked, eyes on the distant keep. He wondered if someone had stumbled across the cooling bodies or the unlocked cells down in the dungeon had caused panic.

"Domeric will be called to fulfil his duty as Lord of the keep once the bodies are discovered. They might think the injuries on Ramsay are from an escaped prisoner or a rogue servant but I put the poison jar in his coat," she replied.

"And the face?"

"When we stop, later this evening, I'll bury it," Arya decided.

Gendry nodded. The morning sun had finally cleared the horizon and it warmed his face. He felt lighter in his very bones as the direwolf lept over the river and continued on through the forest she'd stalked the night before.

"Come on girl," Arya murmured encouragingly. "Let's go home."

Chapter Text

"I hate you," Jon grumbled, throwing a dark glare towards Tormund as he drained the last of the ale from the jug into his already half-full goblet. The wildman just grinned, showing off the half-chewed meat in his teeth and he continued to stuff his face on the limited spread before them.

"I'm being serious," Jon added, now looking at his friend in mild disgust. He quickly lent across the table and swiped the last few chicken legs up, ensuring he would have at least something to eat once he stopped sulking. "I really hate you."

"Yes, I know," Tormund replied, lips pulled back into a wide smile. "But you are also a sad cunt who misses the Red Wolf's embrace. Are you not happy to be going back to the caves? If I remember rightly, they were a magical experience for you last time," he added, chuckling.

Jon narrowed his eyes and tried to kick the man under the table but either Tormund had anticipated it and moved out of the way, or Jon's legs were too short.

"You are a bastard."

Tormund's chuckle turned into a deep, shoulder-shaking laugh. "No, Crow. You are the bastard."

Jon rolled his eyes as the doors to the hall opened. A stiff wind blew the occupants through the doors and it took three men to close them fully afterwards.

"The storms not settlin'," Jon murmured, eyes scanning the new faces. He sipped on his warmed ale. Ghost made a noise and he looked down to where the direwolf was lounging. He was the size of a horse now but somehow managed to lay over the flagstone floors with ease. Men carefully stepped over his long legs as they made their way to their seats to eat. His head was level with the tabletop.

"What does that mutt want?" Tormund asked, ale dribbling down his beard.

Jon gave him a scathing look. "I don't speak wolf."

"Bullshit."

"Fine," Jon relented, figuring it was too early in the morning to be falling out with his friend. They ended most days wanting to run each other through with a sword anyway. "What's wrong, boy?" Jon felt slightly self-conscious talking to his animal in public. He chatted away to the beast when they were alone but it felt strange and he noticed eyes flicking to them as Ghost raised his head.

Jon shifted on the bench so that he was facing the animal. As the pair made eye contact, Jon's vision blurred and he rubbed at his eyes. He could see a castle and snow all around but he didn't recognise the surroundings.

"What?" he mumbled, looking back into Ghost's red eyes.

The visions came in flashes and whilst he could still see the red irises of his companion, he could also see his hand using Needle to stab a man. Jon blinked when he realised the man was Ramsay Bolton and the vision seemed to fade. Like staring into a fire for too long, it remained behind his eyelids for a few lingering moments.

"Holy shit," Jon said under his breath. "Was that real? Bolton's dead?"

Tormund punched him hard on the upper arm, hardly having to lean over the table. "Are you losing your mind?" he asked genuinely.

Jon rubbed at the area and ran his tongue over his teeth, calming himself. He was another comment away from launching himself over the table and throttling the man. They were good friends but being in the wildman's presence for days on end and having only his company was getting to Jon.

Jon looked between Ghost and Tormund a few times. "No. I'm not. I think we were warging."

"Wow," a stunned voice made the two men freeze and turn around slowly. Behind them, Jeor stood with an unimpressed expression upon his face as the new recruits stood behind him, peeking around his to look at Jon and the direwolf.

"Snow. Gianstbane. These are the new recruits. Will you join us in the training yard tomorrow after breaking your fasts?" he said in a tone that implied there was no other choice.

"A warger?" one of the recruits mumbled excitedly to the other as Jeor stormed off to the senior table.

"Is that something we learn here?"

"What the fuck is that?" another asked, scrambling back through the small group as Ghost lifted his head and pinned the thin boy with a flat stare.

"A direwolf," someone said before Jon could. "They're exceptionally intelligent creatures, they're all but extinct."

Tormund quickly gulped down his ale, giving him something to do other than laugh at the way Jon looked. The young man looked starstruck as Samwell Tarly blushed at all the attention.

"How do you know that?" one of the other recruits asked.

Sam looked vaguely ill. "I, uh, I read."

Jon still looked as though he'd seen a ghost or Sansa walk through the doors. He barely blinked as Sam began to ramble about how his mother had fought for him to be educated before coming to the Wall.

"Big boy," Tormund said eventually, using his spoon to point at Sam. "Sit."

Sam's eyes widened but he sat down on the bench nonetheless. Another recruit, the small skinny one who'd been afraid of Ghost tried to follow suit but Tormund pinned him with a glare and said: "fuck off before I eat you."

That seemed to snap Jon out of his stupor. "For fuck's sake," he sighed, running a hand over his face. "Next time, you're going with Robb."

"Next time I might request your wife's company or my big woman's," Tormund snapped back.

Sam looked at Jon inquisitive. "You're married?"

"Yes. No." Jon said and then he began to rip into the cooling chicken thigh on his plate so that he'd have at least something to do other than lie.

Sam nodded, but it was half-hearted as if he wasn't fully convinced. "You look very familiar. What was your name again?"

"Snow," was all Jon said, although unlike Tormund, he'd managed to swallow his mouthful before then.

Tormund tutted and turned his attention to the new face. "What brings you to this dump?"

Sam opened and closed his mouth several times. "I, uh," he began, never forming a full sentence.

"Spit it out!" Tormund cried, a small piece of saliva flying out and hitting Jon on the cheek.

"Oh, uh, well. I dunno, really," Samwell began as Jon slowly wiped the spit from his face, all the while glaring at his friend who pointedly avoided his eye. "I, uh, it sounds stupid, really, but, I, uh, felt like I needed to be here. I came earlier than I planned, really."

"Why?" Tormund pressed on as Jon began to think of all the ways he could kill the redhead with just his spoon.

"I guess it was like a calling. Knew I was needed here. Well, not as a member of the Night's Watch but...," Sam replied, settled enough to begin helping himself to some vegetables. "You both look very familiar. Are you sure you've never been to Horn Hill?"

Tormund's brows furrowed. "Where?"

"Horn Hill. My father's land. Down in the Reach," Sam began but Tormund cut him off.

"South. Then no."

Sam's face fell slightly before he turned to Jon. "Have you been South? I swear you both look very familiar to me."

Jon swallowed nervously. "I've never been to Horn Hill," he said honestly. He picked up his ale and took several large gulps.

Sam nodded thoughtfully and then shrugged. "Well, maybe it was a past life then, ay," he grinned, a board smile on his face.

The two men beside him choked a little on their ale.

"Past life?"

Sam nodded as finished his mouthful, only slightly alarmed at the reactions. "It's just something my mother used to say when I was a child. I've always been more of a reader, you know, preferring books and tutors over swords and soldiers.

"I can tell," Tormund said, eyeing Sam's rotund belly.

Samwell's cheeks darkened but he continued as though he hadn't been interrupted. "She said I must have done my fair share of killing in a past life to warrant no desire to kill in this one. It's a trait most Tarly's have that I don't, it seems."

Jon cleared his throat. "Your mother's a wise woman. You have the air of a scholar. Maybe even a Grand Maester."

Sam shook his head. "You're saying that because I'm fat."

"No!" Jon said emphatically. "King Robert's fat and he led a rebellion. I'm being serious, you seem like you would advise a king one day. What are you doing at the Wall and not at the Citadel?"

Sam made a noise in the back of his throat. "I know I am supposed to be studying in the Citadel. I can feel it in my bones. I've read through my family's entire collection and the Tyrells at Highgarden send us books every few months since my father is loyal to them, but I also knew I was supposed to come here too. I had a wetnurse as a child who was from up here, up North," he corrected himself and when neither man made a move to stop him, Sam continued. "She was a follower of the old gods, not the Seven. She used to tell me stories of the Children of the Forest and of these monsters that couldn't die."

"Made out of ice and snow," Jon guessed and Sam nodded.

"Bright blue eyes, she used to say. I think that's why I decided to come to the Wall first, but hey, who believes in magic," he grinned.

"I do," the two men said seriously.

Samwell's eyebrows lifted. "Oh, well, I think I'm supposed to meet someone."

Tormund grinned widely. "Ah! Well, you've met him now," he said, gesturing to Jon and the two men on the other side of the table shook their heads in disagreement.

"No, not him, not you," Sam said politely.

"Not me. Gilly," Jon said at the same time.

"Gilly?" Sam echoed, mulling the name over in his mind and it either didn't set any alarm bells ringing or Samwell had learnt to mask his emotions. "Maybe. Do you know them?"

Jon could easily recall the family Samwell Tarly had made in his last life. He could remember how happy the man had been to claim Little Sam as his own and once Jon and Sansa had been crowned, the small family had moved into Winterfell and soaked the walls in love. The constant laughter and smiles of the trio had been a balm to Jon when he'd felt at a loss during the war with the dead.

"Not yet, I don't," Jon replied, a little subdued. In the back of his mind, he was wondering if his best friend would ever get to that level of unconditional love again with a woman he'd yet to meet.

"Snow!" Jeor's booming voice cut off any other attempts at conversation. "The storm's over. Get ready to leave as soon as the sun rises tomorrow morning."

Jon stood in his furs, his teeth chattering slightly as the party waited for the gates to be lifted. They were in the tunnel below the Wall, freezing half to death. The only one who seemed able to conjure a remotely positive emotion was Tormund as he bounced from foot to foot.

"Will you stop it," Benjen hissed, using his flaming torch to swat at the Wildling.

In retaliation, Tormund began to sing, loudly and off-key.

"He's a very stubborn man," replied an amused Jon as he lent against Ghost.

"Shut it. We're on a mission, not some fucking holiday," Jeor snapped, his heavy cloak making him seem taller and wider than he was.

Tormund held up his palms, grinning wickedly.

An hour later, Jon, Benjen, Jeor, Tormund, Sam and a dozen or so Stark soldiers were coming up to a Wildling settlement. The rest of the Night Watch and the recruits were checking in on Craster and the two groups had parted ways some time ago. Jon had sent Ghost ahead to scout out the camp and he eventually returned, looking indifferent.

Jon's stomach knotted itself as they came over the small snowdrift and into the outskirts of the village. He knew it was likely he'd cross Ygritte's path but he couldn't bring himself to really dwell on the idea. She held too many painful memories in the first life and now, she just looked too much like his wife to be anything other than triggering.

Samwell seemed to pick up on Jon's negative emotions and he settled a hand on his shoulder. "Are you okay?"

Jon couldn't be bothered to hide from his friend anymore. When he looked at him, all Jon could see was his good friend and Sam seemed to be very good at rolling with the punches he was throwing as he never seemed to react badly anything Jon had said in the twenty-four hours they'd been together. "No. Ygritte probably lives here."

"And that's a problem because...?"

"She looks just like Sansa."

"Sansa Stark?" Samwell asked. Jon hadn't given his full name and even then, most couldn't really recall Ned Stark's bastard's name without some prompting unless they were from Winterfell or the North. "From House Stark?"

"Aye, that would be the one, yes," Jon replied, frowning.

Sam realized he would have to pry the information out of his newfound friend. "And you... like Sansa Stark?"

Jon winced. "It's complicated."

Tormund grabbed Jon roughly, throwing an arm over his shoulder. "Well, if he doesn't remember you, then maybe she won't."

Sam's brows furrowed. "I thought you said we hadn't met," he said the same time a flaming arrow came soaring across the white sky and landing in the snow just shy of Jon's feet.

Tormund shrugged. "Maybe she does," he laughed as another came straight for his head. He easily dodged it and then began walking towards the settlement, elbowing Jeor and Benjen out of the way as several more flame-tipped arrows were released.

"That's a waste of some fucking good arrows," he cried out and a woman with red hair emerged from behind one of the animal skin tents, the bow in her hand.

"You're dead," she said, her accent making the words seem thick and heavy. The threat and her shock at seeing him were both obvious.

Tormund began patting himself down and then held a finger under his chin. "Nope. Still breathing. Still pissing. Still fucking. All the requirements for bein' alive," he replied. "Put the bow down before I gut you."

Jon and Sam watched as Tormund slipped into the largest hut with Ygritte pressing an arrow to his side although he didn't seem too bothered. Benjen and Jeor had also left, going through the camp to talk to wildlings and conduct business for the Night's Watch.

"Why are you here?" Samwell said suddenly, breaking the silence.

"We're going to capture a wight and take it south," Jon told him. "We need to bait one out and capture it. It'll be hard but not as hard as last time," he said gruffly, but he had to raise he voice a little as the wind picked up and howled loudly.

"Who are you?" Sam asked, awed.

"Jon Snow."

"Crow?" Sam shouted, mishearing.

Jon just shrugged and turned to watch Tormund emerge with several wildlings, all carrying weapons. As they got closer, Jon realised Tormund was grinning ear-to-ear. "Let's go get a fucking wight," he said, more to himself than to the rest of the party.

Catelyn steeled herself. She had always known Petyr Baelish was a dangerous man but she had learnt over their childhood how to tame him. It had been years since she'd last seen him and he'd gotten her husband killed, kidnapped her daughter and tried to pit her against her sister. She feared her knife had become dull.

"My Lady," the man said as he appeared around one of the corners of the keep. His eyebrows rose as though he hadn't been expecting her but there was something in his eyes that made Catelyn bristle. He'd planned it. She knew he'd been following her but she'd never caught sight of him. It said something that he'd allowed himself to be seen.

Catelyn inclined her head. She was alone. "Lord Baelish," she replied. "Are you settling into the North well? Do they not miss you in Kings' Landing?"

Petyr usually cut around in well-fitted linens and silks in the Capital. He'd donned a tailored fur cloak, reminiscent of the style Ned had worn as a young man. In the back of her mind, she wondered how long he'd been planning to venture to Winterfell if he'd managed to have a wardrobe made for the trip.

Baelish turned his head to look out over the keep. There were foot soldiers training and somewhere within the activity, Theon was ordering them around. "I always had trouble letting myself believe you were settled in the snow. You were always so sure down in the Riverlands. I remember the summers we would spend as children. Is this not too cold? Too icy?"

Catelyn didn't respond.

"How long will your husband be away for?"

"Not long now."

The silence stretched on.

Baelish continued. "Where's the rest of your brood? I have yet to meet any of them but your son."

"You have met three of my sons, Lord Baelish," she said. Baelish raised an eyebrow, eyes sliding over to her. Catelyn fisted her hands, her long nails digging uncomfortably into her palms but she held his eye, cursing the slip of her tongue.

"The Greyjoy boy?" he asked, almost scowling. It took him a few seconds to school his features into a more neutral expression but she had seen it regardless and it made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. "I didn't realise you took in strays now, Catelyn. Ah," he grinned meanly, "but I forgot about Ned's bastard. I guess you were forced to adapt to taking in strays."

Over his shoulder, Catelyn's eye was caught by some movement and Summer looked back at her. "It was a struggle. Is," she corrected herself, settling a hand on the crook of his arm. Baelish looked down at it and then into her eyes. Catelyn kept her composure, forcing herself to smile back at him. "It is so nice to have a friend within these walls, finally."

Baelish's lips pressed together into a weak excuse for a smile. He set his gloved hand on top of hers and patted it a few times. He smiled down at her but it never met his eyes. "You won't be alone now, Cat."

She didn't know if she could say anything without her feelings betraying her so she remained silent. Just like the women he was used to.

If Petyr Baelish though that Catelyn Tully Stark was an unhappy wife then she would be that for him. Play the abandoned woman trapped far away from home. He would never see how sharp her teeth had become until she'd already bitten into his jugular, she decided. 

"Come, Petyr," she murmured, tugging him away from his inspection of those below in the training yard. "Tell me about your life down in the Capital. I miss the sun and the fun of the courts," she said, leading him to the lesser-used Maester's solar, far away from Ned's. She would get him talking about himself, those down South, even the weather if she must, but he refused to let Littlefinger dwell upon her family. The way he'd reacted to her declaration of love towards Theon had made her stomach knot and Catelyn silently vowed to protect him if it meant playing a part until her husband returned and the threat was neutralised. 

For the good of the pack, she thought as Baelish began telling her about the Lannisters and the Baratheons without actually telling her anything. 

Chapter Text

Brienne laid a hand on the pommel of her sword. She missed Oathkeeper but knowing that she was safe with Ned and whole lessened the blow somewhat. It was their final morning in High Garden before they set off just after midday and so the entire party had been invited to an early breakfast which had been laid out in the same courtyard they'd feasted in during their arrival. Beside her, as they walked, Robb was brooding and it was beginning to grate on her nerves. The Mormont sisters had taken one look at him scowling and then promptly ignored him, forgoing trying to tempt him into a conversation.

"Robb?" Brienne asked eventually. Sansa and Margaery were up ahead, already laughing about something. "You haven't blinked since you opened the door to her."

Robb ran his tongue over his teeth and cut Brienne with a glare. She snorted, immune to the frosty look and they both continued walking in silence until they'd caught up with the two young women.

Margaery grinned cheekily over her shoulder. "Could you both go and get my brother and my betrothed," she said and Robb's hands became fists by his sides. "They should be in Loras' rooms just around this corner. Sansa and I are going to keep Grandmother company and if no one gets them, they'll miss the food."

Brienne nodded, resorting to tugging Robb away by the scruff of his shirt. "What the hell's happened to you? Did your brain fall out of your ears in the night?" she hissed as they wandered closer to Loras' rooms.

Robb huffed and smoothed down his shirt. "I'm angry."

"Yes," Brienne said, deadpan, "Shockingly, I had picked up on that. Why?"

"I don't know."

Brienne looked at him sceptically but she dropped the questioning as they arrive outside Loras' chambers. She'd gathered quite quickly on their trip South that Robb could brood and hold a grudge like no one else she'd met.

She knocked quickly and when she heard a noise she assumed meant 'to enter', she undid the latch and the two strode into the room, only to freeze as they took in the sight before them.

Loras had his head thrown back as Renly lent over him, biting at his shoulder. They were naked and sweaty, pink and moaning, not even registering the intrusion until Brienne made a noise out of embarrassment and she turned around, the end of her sword clanging against the door frame.

"Gods," Renly cried, scrambling back and trying to cover himself up with the silk sheets they'd thrown to the floor.

Loras looked over, his eyes wide and he seemed to become stone, barely breathing as Renly swore.

"My Lords," Robb said, tilting his head in greeting. "We were sent to gather you both for breakfast by your sister, Lord Tyrell."

No one moved.

"My sister sent you?" Loras asked eventually, voice hoarse.

"Yes. She seems to have decided that we should know about you two," Robb replied. "Or maybe, about her own relationship."

"Renly, for god's sakes!" Loras hissed, finally snapping into someone less frightened and more annoyed. "Stop fucking pacing."

Renly looked over, eyes wide and jaw slack. "Are you joking me? A Lord of the North has just seen us fucking and you're telling me not to fucking pace?" he hissed.

"We already knew," Brienne said over her shoulder, eyes still closed.

"Fuck," Renly cried, fingers digging into his eyes as Loras got up off of the bed and began to redress. Robb averted his eyes but didn't turn around. "If they knew then who else does?"

"My sister and that's probably it," Robb answered. "She has become Margaery's closest confidant it seems but Brienne here is observant." Brienne glared at him but Robb shrugged. "Does it really matter?"

"I'm not sure if it's normal up in the North to fuck another man or what but down here, it's not considered to be polite," Loras said, sliding his shirt over his chest. "Especially if one of the men is engaged to the other's sister."

"At least you aren't brothers," Robb mumbled.

"Is that supposed to be a joke?" Renly growled, finally redressing.

"The Queen has three children with her twin brother. Two men being in love is nothing compared to that," Robb replied flippantly.

Renly dropped his overcoat in shock. "What did you say?"

Brienne took a steadying breath and counted in her head to stop her from reaching over and throttling the young wolf. It was one thing to reveal that they knew about the relationship the two men shared, it was another to tell the brother of the king that his nephews and niece were actually the product of incest.

-----------------------

Olenna ran her finger over the letter in front of her. The wax seal was still secure but she didn't recognise the emblem pressed into it, nor the penmanship. The raven had dropped in on her plate as soon as she's sat down, as though it had just been waiting for someone, anyone, to arrive at the high table so that it could deliver the letter and fly off.

Red Wolf, it said on the front.

Olenna allowed one of the servants to pour her a cup of cooling mint tea but she didn't touch the food, politely not breaking her fast until someone else joined her on the balcony courtyard. She watched as her granddaughter walked arm-in-arm with the Stark girl, both chattering away about something or other. It took only a few moments for the Mormont sisters to appear behind them.

"Where is the rest of our guests, my dear?" she asked Margaery, slipping the letter into her voluminous sleeves whilst the four girls took their seats.

Margaery took the silver teapot and began to pour out a glass for herself and Sansa. "Oh, I sent them to wake Loras."

"And Renly?"

"I presume he spent the night there so him too."

Olenna clicked her tongue but before she could scold her granddaughter, there was a commotion coming from the keep. Renly was storming towards the table, Loras and the warrior woman following behind, trying to calm him as Robb brought up the rear, indifferent.

"What have you done?" Olenna hissed, clapping and dismissing the servants from around the courtyard. The scurried off obediently and the last one closed the large doors to the balcony, giving them privacy.

Margaery's lower lip dropped and she tilted her head. "Nothing, Grandmother," she said innocently.

"Don't give me that," Olenna replied, rising to her feet, annoyed. "Renly, sit down. Now!"

Renly had no choice but to follow the order and he threw himself into the seat beside Margaery, seething. Loras slipped in beside Sansa, calm and collected, a complete opposite to Brienne who was worrying her nailbeds into red wounds.

"What happened?" Sansa whispered into Loras' ear as Robb took the final seat.

"Your brother has some very interesting information," Loras simply said, helping himself to the fruits in front of him as though nothing was wrong. "I love him," Loras said quietly.

Sansa's nose scrunched. "My brother?"

"No," Loras snapped, as though Robb was the last man he could have those feelings about. "Renly. I love him."

Sansa set a hand on Loras' elbow, getting his full attention. "You can never control who you fall in love with. I hope you are happy."

Loras' eyes narrowed as he looked at her as though it was the first time. "Who are you people?" he asked, setting his hand over hers and squeezing it. He was grinning broadly.

Sansa smiled conspiratorially. "Children of the First men and wolf-blooded."

Olenna's loud voice brought the pair out of the whispered conversation. "What the hell has happened to you? A Lord does not go stomping around a castle, not his own and certainly not one in which he is a guest in," the Tyrell matriarch demanded, holding Renly's eye.

He cleared his throat several times. His face was red and a vein on his forehead was bulging. "I apologise, Lady Tyrell, I was just given some news that didn't sit right with me."

"I am not getting any younger, boy," she warned, patience wearing thin when he didn't elaborate.

"About my brother and his wife."

"And the Kingslayer, I'm assuming," Olenna sighed, retaking her seat. Robb lent over and whispered the news to Dacey who passed it along to her sister. The two bears were trying to quietly scrape their chairs back, to get to their feet, ready to leave and give the family privacy.

Renly looked hurt, his thick brows drawing together tightly. "Is it common knowledge? Is my House being taken for fools?"

Olenna made a noise in the back of her throat as she helped herself to some of the fruit before her. "So dramatic. There is no wonder you've captured my wayward grandson's heart."

At this point, both Renly and Loras looked slightly choked and they avoided each other's eye. The Starks and the Mormonts looked between each other and it wasn't until Sansa shook her head that the two Bears retook their seats. If the Tyrell matriarch had wanted the conversation to be private, she wouldn't have let them hear any of it in the first place.

"I am a wise woman with eyes. You may have swanned over here looking for allegiance with Margaery but we all knew that was upon order of someone else. I confess," Olenna said, sipping on her tea. "I welcomed the thought of a marriage between you. What power you would have brought to both Houses but..."

"Grandmama," Loras said quietly, referring back to the pet name he'd had for the woman since he'd been a child. It had been years since he'd used it and it made Olenna's eyes soften. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, eyes on his half-full plate.

"Yes, well, if the gods have deemed this your fatal love affair then who am I to intervene," she muttered, taking a hefty swig. "I am cancelling your engagement to my granddaughter," she continued, turning to look at Renly who was now pale and slumped in his seat. "You will have to endure with my grandson as your squire for the time being. He is a good knight. Go, break your fast somewhere else this morning," she dismissed the two men with a flick of her hand and the two were up on their feet instantly.

Loras blinked over his shoulder, looking back at his grandmother and sister as Margaery blinked in surprise. She turned in her chair, looking at her grandmother who remained silent until the doors had reopened and the shut once more.

"But I thought you said I needed to be married before my next nameday," Margaery said, confusion obvious on her face. She knew she was a pawn still being placed on the board by her grandmother but she had assumed she knew her next few moves. Without Renly as her husband, all she thought had been planned had to be scrapped.

"And you will be," was all Olenna said before she held up a hand and silenced any further comments. Robb glanced Margaery's way and saw her eyes flicker to his for a split second. He turned his head to look at Dacey and saw that she was grinning at him, smirking over the rim of her glass. "Red Wolf," Olenna said and Sansa instinctively turned her head. 

"Yes," she answered before biting her lip. Brienne began to look ill and Alysane refilled her goblet, encouraging the older woman to drain in, which she did, the tea dribbling down her chin in her haste.

"I thought so," Olenna murmured to Sansa before pulling the letter out of her sleeves and handing it over. "This arrived this morning for you." Sansa's fingers grasped it but Olenna didn't let go, she simply held on. "But first, tell me the truth, child, about the Lions in the Capital."

It took two weeks for Arya and Gendry to finally reach Winterfell.

In that time, a raven had found them, informing them of Domeric Bolton's rise to the head of his family's seat after the unexpected and tragic death of his father at the hands of his bastard brother. Catelyn, in her neat script, had also told them that there was a whisper going around that a wolf, of all things, had told Domeric the news and he'd strode into Dreadfort swearing allegiance to House Stark and to the North before throwing the cooling bodies out into the snow and opening the fort up for the few smallfolk of the surrounding area.

Seeing the towering keep had made Arya sniffle and bury her nose into the thick fur of Nymeria's neck as she'd padded across the snow with ease. Gendry rubbed Arya's shoulder blades and waved to the guard at the gate, knowing how overwhelming it must feel to her. The last time Arya had left Winterfell with her father, she hadn't returned for years.

The gate rose slowly and Nymeria slunk underneath, stopping in the courtyard and letting Gendry slide off her back. Arya remained, her face and fingers still buried in the pelt as she breathed through the urge to cry.

"Sister," Bran's voice made Arya turn her head. He was looking at her with the cool eyes he'd had since he'd woken up. "We have visitors."

For a moment, Arya's heart stuttered. She panicked, thinking they'd been gone for too long and somehow missed news of Jon Arryn's death and the King's arrival at Winterfell. She scrambled to slide off Nymeria and Gendry caught her elbow, helping her down from the height. Nymeria stood as tall as a grown man now and Arya barely came up to her shoulder.

"Where?" she asked, rushing to her brother's side. "Who?"

"My my," a smooth voice cut in and Arya bristled. She slowly turned on her heel and watched at Littlefinger admired Nymeria. He lifted his gloved hand as though he was going to stroke her muzzle but Nymeria growled, baring her teeth and making the man scatter backwards.

"Nymeria," Arya said, barely raising her voice but the direwolf complied regardless. She sat on her haunches and turned to her mistress, letting the girl stroke her snout. "She is wary of strangers," she told Baelish. "All wolves are."

His eyes narrowed slightly and his chin dipped as though Arya were a complex puzzle rather than a slip of a girl. "You look just like your aunt," he murmured. "A beautiful woman."

"A wolf-blooded woman," Arya replied, not bothering to watch Baelish's brows rise as she turned and led her wolf into the castle. As soon as she was in the safety of the stone corridors, Arya broke out into a run and sprinted through the maze-like hallways until she was stood, panting, in front of her father's solar.

The door opened before she could knock and her mother ushered her inside. Nymeria set herself down in the corridor in front of the door and kept watch as the mother and daughter embraced.

"Are you alright?" Catelyn asked, revelling in the fact that Arya had wrapped her arms around her. She had never been the most tactile child and just feeling her daughter initiate the hug had made her heart swell. She pulled back and tucked some of the loose dark hair out of her slate-grey eyes. She looked so much like her father.

Arya sighed and lent back into her mother. "They're dead. Roose and Ramsay Bolton and their Bannerman."

"Good," Cat murmured, fingers stroking the crown of Arya's head. She remained quiet, sensing Arya had more to say.

"I killed a girl. And her family, for her face," she said after a while. Arya had expected her mother to stiffen and push her away, as had been her reaction when she'd first woken up, but Catelyn remained soft, arms wrapped around her daughter. "I tortured Ramsay. Made it slow," Arya added.

Catelyn frowned. She realised that Arya was looking for acceptance or a scolding. "That monster did unspeakable things to Theon and Sansa. The Bolton's are a stain of the North with their barbaric practices. They did not deserve a quiet death and it's taken this separation for me to realise that, Arya. There is no such thing as a truly good person. If someone is wholly good then is that not just as bad, as inhuman, as being wholly bad? Is it not human nature to be both good and evil? I hate the thought of you, of any of the people I love, doing bad things but there is a greater good at stake."

Arya shifted the weight on her feet but kept her face pressed into her mother's side. She had never felt more like the child she supposedly was when she'd seen Winterfell again after months of being away.

Cat continued. "Bran told me about it all. He can see each and every one of you and each night, I would tuck him into his furs and he would tell me about what you had all been doing. The night after you'd been to Dreadfort, I was sick with worry but I know that there is more to this than just us. Jon's gone beyond The Wall. Your father is alone with the Frey's. Robb's heart is having trouble and Sansa is confiding in a woman that I don't fully trust but do you know what I do trust? Hmm?" she asked, placing her fingers under Arya's chin and tilting it upwards.

Catelyn had a soft smile on her face as Arya sniffed and pulled back. "What do you trust?" she asked, going along with whatever her mother was doing.

"I trust you, sweetheart. I trust every single one of you and I know you are all making tough choices for the good of the pack, of our family."

"I'm scared, it's all so new now," Arya whispered, her voice catching on some of the words. "Littlefinger is here."

Catelyn nodded her jaw tense. "He is."

"And what is happening?"

"Leave him to me, just keep him away from Theon and wait for your siblings' arrival. Bran said that Robb and Sansa left High Garden three mornings ago so they'll be home before the end of the moon's cycle. Go say hello to the rest of your brothers, Arya. Train with Needle if you must but do not let Littlefinger see you doing so."

Arya's eyebrows drew together but she nodded. "Gendry wants to look at the Weirwood tree. I think I'll take Bran and Theon over as well." She turned and when her fingers were on the latch, Cat said her name slowly.

"Arya-" she waited until her daughter looked back at her. "It will happen within the week. Jon Arryn. I'm sure of it."

Arya swallowed thickly. "I have to visit the Godswood."

Margaery watched from her mare as the two Starks laughed easily from the middle of the procession. Her legs were burning, not used to riding a horse for so long over such great distances.

It had been decided that the party would ride hard to the Twins, stopping for as little breaks and rests as possible. It was starting to take its toll, three days in. She was tired and hungry, missing the easy warmth of her home. It had been exhilarating riding on the back of Lady, hugging Sansa close as the two shared the ride on top of the direwolf for an afternoon after Margaery's horse had tired too easily.

She could appreciate how different a direwolf moved compared to a horse. Sitting on their shoulders meant more movement and Sansa had shown Margaery how to roll her hips with each stop. When the wolf had begun taking great rolling steps, she'd squealed and gripped the fur tightly.

Margaery's stomach flipped as she recalled the moment. The two wolves, barely out of puppyhood, had begun to chase and nip at each other, either trusting that their riders could weather the change in pace or uncaring. Sansa had cheered Lady on as she ran after Greywind and Robb had laughed loudly, declaring war on his little sister.

Seeing him straddled atop his beast, Margaery could understand why bards and musicians wrote great works about kings and queens. He had looked so powerful, rightfully throned on a wolf's back.

Now, he just looked like a boy again, leaning over to push his sister's arm as she snickered at something he said.

"My lady," Dacey said, leading her horse closer to Margaery's with ease. "How are you finding the ride?"

Dacey was older than Margaery and dark as she was fair but there was something in her eyes that made the Tyrell trust her despite all her political upbringing telling her not to.

"I find that riding a horse had lost its appeal after riding a direwolf, Lady Dacey," she replied honestly, eyes drawn back to the pair.

Dacey's lips quirked into a smile. "I find that riding a wolf puts others to shame. It's a hard adjustment period, that's for sure. A wolf knows exactly what it wants and in the moment is unafraid of consequences. It's freeing."

Margaery's eyes slid to the Bear. She was grinning now, teasing her. "Excuse me?"

Dacey shrugged as best she could in her furs and leather armour. She looked between the girl on her horse and the boy on his wolf. "Maybe we're talking about different wolves and different types of riding. Apologies."

"What do you mean?" Margaery said before she could think about it. There was an acidic taste in her mouth and it leaked into her tone.

"Not everything is so structured in the North," Dacey began. "Not as rigorously enforced. At least on Bear Island, it's not. It's a miracle if you make it through the supposed summers and everyone knows that winter is on its way. You have to experience life before you die. The wolves of Winterfell have a long leash these days. You've never left High Garden without a chaperone before, have you?" she asked.

"No. But I still have a chaperone here," Margaery reminded her. Brienne had sworn her protection to Margaery, promising Olenna she'd watch over her like she did Sansa before they'd left.

"Well, he doesn't," was all the Bear said, as though it explained everything.

Margaery nodded and decided to change the subject. "Have you met all of the Starks, Lady Mormont?"

Dacey tossed a loose strand of hair over her shoulder and grinned, her sharp-looking teeth shining in the midday sun. "If you think those two are dangerous then you've miscalculated," she joked, flicking her chin in the direction of the two on the direwolves. 

"How so?" 

"Arya is the best swordsman I think I will ever live to see. She's silent on her feet and small, so she appears out of nowhere. And Bran. He walks slowly, assessing everything."

Margaery laughed. "How does that make him dangerous?" 

Dacey shrugged. "I dunno. Its a feeling. Like he can see into your very soul. He knows everything too."

"Are they close? The siblings?"

"Why? Worried you won't get approval?" Dacey asked, watching as Margaery's face twisted into a frown.

"No. I just- It was only a question."

Ned gently lowered himself into the wooden chair, his shoulder blades pushing uncomfortably into the high back and the uneven seat making his spine curve slightly. In his mind, he knew the chair had been carved deliberately to make its occupant uncomfortable. They had one somewhere in Winterfell. It was only ever brought into his solar when he was meeting with someone he knew wouldn't take the conversation well. It was designed to make the occupant want to get up as soon as possible and he took selfish pride in being deemed necessary for the chair.

"Lord Stark," Walder began, his scraggly beard brushing against the tabletop as he hunched over in his own seat.

"Walder," Ned replied lightly. "Is your family well?"

Around the table, nearly twenty of Frey's many sons were sat, all fatter than the next. None of them looked eager or excited to be in the dark solar and a shy girl stood in the corner, shaking.

"Why yes, my wife and I are expecting a son. Come forward, wife," Frey leered, saying the title like a slur and holding out an age-spotted hand for the girl Ned had mistaken for a maid to take. She barely looked older than Sansa and the swell of her stomach indicated she was close to giving birth. Frey ran a hand over the bump, groping her breasts harshly as well.

Ned balled his fist, hiding the reaction under the table. He wanted nothing more than to plunge Ice through the man's neck but Walder Frey's death was not to be by his hand, that he'd planned for. 

"What do I owe the pleasure of having the Lord of the North at my humble keep?" Frey asked, roughly pushing the young girl away and she scampered out of the room without a word. "Looking to pass through?"

"I am here on behalf of the Crannogmen and one of my most loyal lords," Ned said, motioning to Reed who stood to his right. "I understand that loyalty is not your strongest attribute but it is one that reaps rewards."

"My Lord," Frey began, narrowing his eyes. Even he knew that Ned outranked him and dared not to speak out of turn. "I do not understand."

"Well, perhaps in your old age you are becoming senile, Walder," Ned said easily and some of the sons made a noise. "The price of the crossing it too high and too many are dying. As Warden of the North, I am ordering you to lower it."

"You cannot order me around in my own keep. We are not in the North, may I remind you," Walder snapped back.

Ned nodded, steepling his fingers under his chin as he leant forward on the chair. "I understand, Walder, but when the King travels through to my keep, I will be sure to send a Raven warning him of the thievery he will encounter here. The King, did you know, does not like thieves. He is a dear friend to me, you see Walder," Ned began, pining the old man with a stare. "He was supposed to be my brother and then a Targaryen prince stole his bride away. You remember the war Robert led, don't you? I remember you swore your allegiance to my wife's late father and then refused to stand by his side until you were sure you would survive."

Some of the sons around the table squirmed and some looked towards their patriarch with harsh eyes. It seemed to Ned that the entire story of the war had been glossed over. 

"I-" Walder began but Ned held up a hand.

"I sometimes wonder what a 90-year-old man is still doing at the seat of his House? Child brides and bastards," Ned sighed, clucking his tongue like a gossiping wetnurse. Then he began to chuckle, patting Howland on the arm. "I mean, who is your heir? So many sons, grandsons, bastards. Who will take over when you die, Walder?"

The question settled over the room and everyone turned to look at Old Walder. His eyes were wide and his mouth slightly slack, as though he'd never even considered he'd need an heir. In the silence of the room, Ned could hear him gulp.

"I asked a question, Lord Frey," Ned prompted and Walder swallowed noisily again.

"My son, of course, my lord," he replied, gesturing vaguely in multiple directions.

Ned scratched his chin. "Which son? I would love to meet the next heir of the Twins whilst I am still here. Save me a trip back when they succeed you."

Walder's fingers were pressed to the tabletop so harshly, his fingertips were white. "I mean..." he began, trailing off.

"He's right. Who will be your heir, father?" one of the sons asked.

Stevron Frey sat up in his chair. "It's me, he appointed me his heir when I turned thirty."

"No," another, slightly older Frey argued, roughly tugging on Stevron's sleeve. "I've been his heir for fifty years, you shits weren't even born."

Ned sat back in the chair, ignoring its sharp corners as he watched the room dissolve into chaos. The younger sons and grandsons were claiming they'd been appointed the heir whilst their older counterparts argued against them. Walder sat, trying to appease them all.

"Well," Ned said in a conversational tone. "You can't all be the heir. There can only be one." The Frey brothers looked between each other. "And I suppose you have just as many daughters who haven't been married off. They too, technically, have a right to lead this house."

When he retired to the guest tower that night, Ned wrote a letter to his wife, detailing how shameful it was that three of Walder's sons had been found floating in the riverbed that afternoon. He finished by suspecting that the House of Frey was experiencing some inner turmoil and in all the confusion of who was to inherit the title, it seemed as though Frey's newest wife had disappeared. 

The Twins loomed ahead of the party and when the Stark Banner was raised, the drawbridge was lowered and they passed over the rushing water and into the keep with ease. Robb stayed mounted on Greywind as he watched the rest of his party amble in. The darkness of the night sky made the temperature drop and in his furs, he hardly seemed to get any warmer.

"We rise again at dawn. Swap out your horses, get some food and sleep," he ordered the riders, dismissing them as they sleepily tugged their horses to the stables.

"Robb," Sansa gasped from beside him, sliding off Lady with ease. She had been dozing lightly throughout the past hour, determined to make it to the crossing. "Look." Robb was already watching the Mormonts help Margaery off of her horse and into the food hall when he heard Sansa squeal with excitement. He turned his head and saw his father swinging Sansa around.

"Father," he said, shocked. He'd been killed in these walls in his last life but here he was again, now watching his father and his sister embrace in the yard. Slowly, he dismounted and joined them, like he was in a daze. One foot in front of the other until he collapsed into his father's chest.

Ned's laugh rumbled under Robb's cheek. "Almost too tall now. You've both grown so much," he grinned, hugging them close. "How was the South?"

"Hot," Sansa replied easily, her tiredness gone, sensing that Robb wasn't going to carry the conversation. "How is Arya? Where is she?"

"Did your mother not write to you?" Ned asked, pushing them both away so he could look into their eyes by the light of the closest firepit. "She's back at Winterfell. The title of Lord Bolton has changed hands."

Sansa stiffened under her father's palm. "How?"

"I did not ask but they're both fine, already causing havoc around the keep, rest assured. When will you set off again?" he asked, leading the pair to the food hall to catch the last of the night's food.

"At dawn," Robb said, forcing himself not to search the room.

Ned nodded, settling into one of the benches and putting together a plate. "I see." He didn't try to argue but it was clear he was saddened at the news.

"How long will you be here for, father?" Sansa asked, ignoring the way Robb hunched himself down over his plate and trying to make her father smile again.

Ned took a hearty swig of his drink. "There seems to be some unrest here," he said with a coy grin but it left as soon as it arrived. "I received a raven from your mother two days ago. Bran advised her that I should stay put for another few days."

Sansa gnawed on her lip. "When?"

All three could hear the silent, unspoken question. When will Jon Arryn die?

"Tomorrow." 

Robb dropped his cutlery with a clatter. "We leave immediately then. We'll eat and change the horses and leave."

Sansa made a noise in the back of her throat. "Don't be ridiculous, Robb. We've been riding all day and I, for one, am exhausted. If we set off now we'll just lose riders in the night as they fall asleep and drop off under the hooves of their horse."

"She's right, son," Ned agreed.

"I will not have any Lannister look at you, Sans," Robb said lowly and his sister just rolled her eyes.

Sansa appreciated his brotherly instincts but she knew it was misplaced and pointless. She could look after herself. "They won't. If we leave at dawn that gives us time to sleep and besides, the royal party won't travel through the night. Cersei won't allow it as she is down her brothers."

"Both?" Ned said.

"I had a letter, which said they were both previously engaged. One South and one North."

"To us?"

Sansa shrugged, recalling the delicate handwriting and the words she'd forced herself to memorize before burning the letter before they'd left Highgarden. "One is chasing after some memory, apparently, and the other has the desire to see the Wall."

Robb chewed on his meat, deep in thought. "Do they remember?" he asked after he swallowed.

"I don't know. Not fully at least but there's only so much a man can put in a letter and he hardly said anything. It was hard to decipher who it was from, let alone what he knew or thought he knew," Sansa answered honestly. "But they both left the capital about a week ago, maybe more. I've forgotten how long we've been away, what with half of it being on the road."

Ned dabbed at his chin. "You can stay in my chambers tonight and then I'll see you off in the morning. You can tell me all about your time in the garden city. Does the air really taste like perfume?" he asked as he led them out of the food hall. "And Lady Tyrell, is she as vicious as I remember?"

Robb couldn't help himself. Even though his father was referring to the elder Tyrell, he still looked around as they were led to the guest towers, as if he'd catch a glimpse of her. Sansa was left to answer all of her father's lighthearted questions once more.

Chapter Text

"What the hell is that?" Arya asked, looking down at the thing in Theon's hand with mild disgust.

Theon scoffed and tried to walk around her but she put herself in front of his every step. "It's a stoat. Never seen one?"

Arya rolled her eyes, still wary about the muddy, squawking creature thrashing around in her brother's hands. She wouldn't put it past Theon to throw it at her just to hear her squeal. "I have, you idiot. I meant what are you doing walking around the keep with it? Lonely?" she teased.

"It's for Robin to see," he said, as though that explained everything.

In the days since she'd gotten back to Winterfell, Arya had just watched from the shadows. She'd watched Gendry slip back into the smithery and begin tinkering with the small collection of Dragonglass Catelyn had sent for. She'd watched Bran sitting on top of the walls, legs dangling awkwardly as his height began to change. She'd watched her mother simper and act whenever Littlefinger was at her elbow, as he seemed to spend most of his time talking to her rather than looking.

Arya had watched as Robin had played in the godswood, dipping his cold hands into the hot spring and chattering away as Theon lazily lounged on Shaggydog's side, Rickon bundled up in his furs on a deerskin beside him. From her hiding place, she'd watched Theon send Rickon's nursemaid away and entertain the boy on his own. He'd also been more accommodating to Sweetrobin than she'd ever imagined he could be.

"Why are you happy watching over Robin?" Arya pressed, arms folded.

Her intimidating stance was lost on him. "Why do you care? He has no-one, Arya."

"He has his mother."

A sigh met her answer. "He has no friends. No siblings. No-one except an overbearing mother and a man who wants his title."

"And so you're taking pity on him?"

"No, Arya. I just know that could have been me," he said quietly, looking around for something or somewhere to put the stoat without it running off.

"What do you mean?" she asked, pulling the cloth satchel she'd been using to hide Needle's hilt over her head and handing it to him.

Theon gently placed the stoat inside and shouldered the bag, eyeing it until it stopped wriggling. "I know that fostering doesn't mean being accepted. I was barely older than Rickon is now when I came here. I remember Catelyn and Ned more in my childhood than my own parents. I just-" Theon hesitated.

"You know that they are your parents, right? That you are my brother. You're a Stark, Theon. A wolf," Arya said fiercely and Theon grinned, nodding.

"Easy, Nymeria," he joked, pushing his shoulder into hers as best he could with the height difference. "I know. I'm stuck with you lot. But seriously, Robin needs someone other than his mother whilst he's here. Come fuck around in the godswood with me, before the light leaves the day. We could spar if you wanted," he suggested, leading them back through the halls towards the yard.

Arya nodded and poked at the bag, giggling when it began to move erratically again. The pair bickered good-naturedly as they ran down the stairs to the keep, elbows digging into each others' ribs.

"Arya!" a voice stopped them from running through the yard. Gendry, with a sweaty brow and soot on his chin, was looking at her pointedly and then at Theon with the same frantic look in his eye.

Theon looked down at Arya, an eyebrow raised, teasing her. "Go. Your boy wants you."

Arya was about to reply when she caught sight on something in Gendry's eyes. "Hang on," she said, almost distracted. She tugged Theon with her as she met Gendry half-way across the yard. "What is it?"

"A raven just arrived. The Hand of the King has died. The Royal party left the capital two nights ago and are already halfway to the Twins if Bran is to be believed," Gendry explained, rubbing at his jaw and leaving more soot and dirt. "They'll make it at sunrise tomorrow morning."

"Halfway?" Theon echoed. "What's so urgent that they travelled half the country in a few day?"

"Where is Bran?" Arya asked, looking around. Instead of her brother, she caught Littlefinger's eye. He was stood on the second level, looking out over the keep. Both hands on the icy bannister, gloved and curled into tight fists. It was the same place she could easily remember her father standing, although Ned looked like part of the furniture and Littlefinger stuck out despite how hard he'd tried to dress the part.

"Summer's over there," Theon pointed out, as though Bran and Summer were interchangeable. "Why's the King travelling?"

Arya waved him off, eyes sliding from Littlefinger to the direwolf who was waiting for them. "Come on. Let the stoat go and we'll follow Summer."

Theon huffed as he fished the animal out and dropping it in the muddy snow. He joined Gendry at Arya's side and the trio strode across the yard, following the wolf. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see a shadow following them.

Summer led them silently to Bran's room and Arya unlatched it without ceremony. The two boys wandered in after her, both warier and less settled. Nymeria was laying in front of the fire, snoozing with Shaggydog. As soon as her mistress was inside the room, the wolf stood up, stretching her long body before greeting Arya.

"Guard the hallway. No one is to come past," she told her and Nymeria slipped out of the open door with Shaggydog on her tail. As Theon slowly shut the door, a growl was muffled and then it stopped. Summer pushed passed Theon and lay in front of the door, sealing the entrance shut with her mighty body.

Bran was standing at his window, looking out over the ice whiteness that enveloped the keep. The sun was just beginning to dip over the horizon and the sky was uncharacteristically pink. Catelyn sat embroidering something on a chair near the fire. Even Rickon was in the room, playing noisily with some wooden carvings on the bed.

"What's happening?" Theon asked, sensing the thick energy that everyone else seemed to be caught up in. "This has something to do with Lord Stark being at the Twins, doesn't it?"

Cat nodded, the silver of her needle catching the firelight. "Sansa, Robb, and their party have just arrived. They plan on leaving at dawn. Their paths will not cross with Robert's."

"Are they okay?" Arya asked.

Bran nodded, distracted by the view, and Cat's lips quirked. "They are perfectly fine. They were excellent representatives of our house down in Highgarden. So good in fact, that Old Olenna Tyrell has decided it best if her granddaughter is fostered here in Winterfell for a while. She is to broaden her understanding of the North, apparently," Cat said, a glint in her eyes.

"And Jon? If we're catching up on everyone. How is he?" Arya pressed, uncaring about the news of Margaery Tyrell. She'd never really know her in her last life and she doubted that Sansa would bring her back to Winterfell if she was a threat.

"He's beyond the wall," Bran told them, finally turning away from the sunset.

"Beyond the wall?" echoed Theon, as though Bran had told them Jon had run away and was living as a woman in the free cities.

"Looking to capture a wight," Bran said, almost breezily.

"A wight?"

"A reanimated corpse."

Theon blinked several times. "No. They're stories. They aren't real."

"That's why we need a wight. Most people will not understand things until they experience them for themselves," Bran mused.

Theon took several steps forward, staggering. "And then? When Jon has this reanimated corpse? What is he going to do with it? Why does he need it? Why do we?"

Arya went to lay a hand on Theon's arm but she thought against it. Instead, she set herself on the bed, picking up one of the wooden wolves that had been herself before they'd been Rickon's.

Catelyn set her embroidery down and motioned to the other chair for Theon to take. He did slowly, sinking into the wood as though he'd been stood for a thousand years.

"Theon, when you were a child, I used to tell Robb stories at night and you would listen in. They were stories I'd learnt from my own nursemaid when I was a girl but we were in Riverrun. I always assumed they were just stories and legends the Northerners had made up to scare away those from the south," she began slowly. "About these blue-eyed monsters who can never die. I never saw one but I know they're out there, beyond the Wall."

"And..." Theon said, swallowing thickly. He desperately wanted to tell Cat that he'd been dreaming about them for months but the notion felt childish, just like it had when he'd hinted at it with Bran.

"And they will fight the living. When winter finally arrives, so will they," she explained softly.

Theon scratched at his collarbones nervously. "But winter won't be here for years."

"But it will arrive. We have had this summer for decades. Longer and sweeter than any other the North has known," Cat sighed. "The coming winter will be the hardest."

"If they get one, a wight, I mean," Theon continued, "what are they going to do about it?"

Cat looked at Bran who shook his head. "I don't know. I don't think they know either," Bran answered.

"But more importantly than that, Jon Arryn is dead. A raven arrived with news for Lysa and myself. She's mourning in her rooms this evening," said Cat as she returned to her embroidery. It was a little overcoat for Rickon with a proud wolf on the breast. "The royal party will not be coming to Winterfell this time. They will meet your father at the Twins."

"Is he going to accept?" Gendry said before he could bite his tongue. He never usually spoke when in a room with Cat or Ned, not unless they spoke directly to them. "Is Lord Stark going to accept the Hand of the King?" he clarified when Catelyn's eyes landed on him.

Her face fell from its soft expression and something changed around her eyebrows. It made Gendry roll his shoulders. "I do not know. We will have to see."

A silence fell over the darkening room.

Arya focused her attention on Rickon and his toys. Gendry tried to melt into the growing shadows. Catelyn ran the pad of her thumb over her stitching, something unreadable in her eyes. Bran seemed to be talking to Summer through looks alone and Theon just sat slumped, confused.

Eventually, as the sun disappeared fully and the pink stains on the skyline were blotted out with inky blackness, Cat set her sewing project aside and scooped her youngest child up. Rickon was beginning to waddle around, walking for a while with ease but she still carried him regardless.

"Let's go and have our supper and wait for a raven," she said, leaving no room for arguing. "There is a very smug plan-maker who will have to be entertained for the evening."

Jon lay back in the tent that had been erected for him. It was old and musty, made crudely out of several animal skins sewn together and held up by four precarious branches but it did its job of keeping the snowfall off him.

The day had been spent trekking with some of the wildlings, searching for signs of wight activity despite the wildmen thinking he was half-mad. It was going to take a week or so to find one and even then he wasn't sure how they were going to capture it without a dragon.

Tormund had kept Jon busy, however, talking his ear off about this and that. He hadn't had a chance to think about anything other than putting one foot in front of the other and keeping Ghost in his eye line, let alone the plans for the wight.

Now, the direwolf sat half in the tent and half out. His back legs and tail were being used by Jon as a bed whilst the front half of Ghost lay out in the snow, camouflaged and on guard.

It was in the moments on the cusp of sleep that Jon found it easiest to see through his wolf's eyes. He sighed heavily, shifting to try and find some comfort in the icy ground below him. Ghost turned his great head, his snout and eyes dipping below the rabbits' pelts that acted like the front door.

"Sorry," Jon grumbled, fidgeting again and Ghost swiped his tail over Jon's face, as though it was a warning. "I'll be happy to sleep in my own bed again."

Ghost's chest rumbled against Jon's legs as he vocalised his reply. It sounded like teasing more than anything else. Like a brother poking fun at another. It felt that way to Jon at least.

"Whatever," Jon dismissed, feeling something nagging on his mind. It felt like a headache if anything and so he turned, pressed fully against Ghost for warmth. "Night," he muttered.

As his breathing slowed, Jon closed his eyes and in one moment of consciousness he could feel the ice below him and smell Ghost's fur, and then in the next, he was laying on a stone floor in front of a dying fire.

Jon tried to lift his head and he turned, looking around the dark room. There was a large bed with a snoring man and another, smaller bed with another person. Jon stood up and it took him a moment to realise he wasn't himself, or at least he wasn't in his own body.

He crept forward on four silent paws and through Lady's heightened eyes saw Ned sleeping soundly. Behind him, Robb was sleeping and on the single bed, Sansa lay, her flame-like hair fanning out over her pillow.

Jon was by her side, looking down at her face, drinking in her sight. He'd poured over the pack of letters she'd sent him off with and could recite most of them with ease but seeing Sansa was something else.

He wanted to touch her cheek, stroke back her hair, kiss her lips and see her smile but Lady was still in control for the most part; it seemed Jon was just visiting. A noise from the other side of the room made Lady turn her head, even though Jon willed her not too so that he could still see Sansa.

Robb was leaning on his elbow, rubbing sleep away from his eyes.

"Lady?" he whispered and the sound seemed deafening in the quiet room. He must have seen something in the direwolf because Robb cocked his head and stared harder. "Bran?"

Jon found himself shaking his head in reply. The motion was completed by the wolf.

"Arya?"

Another shake. He wondered if this meant that the rest of his siblings had been visiting one another like he was. If they had been experiencing strange slips into their direwolve's consciousness. He wanted to write to Bran and ask but he'd never managed to before they'd gone beyond the wall.

"Jon?" Robb said finally and then he slowly got out of bed, making sure he didn't wake Ned. "Are you alright?"

Jon would have sworn if he could. He wanted to talk to his brother but he was forced to just look at him through Lady's eyes.

Robb ran his hand down Lady's muzzle and somehow, Jon could feel the ghost of it. "She's alright. She misses you but she's fine. She rides Lady now, instead of a mare. We both do. Well, I ride Greywind," Robb began. "We're at the Twins with Father. We'll leave for Winterfell in the morning. Jon Arryn's dead or as good as," he sighed, still speaking in quiet whispers.

Lady lay down, her head in Robb's lap and Robb continued. "Margaery Tyrell is coming back with us. She's going to be fostered in Winterfell for a while. There's also the possibility of the Kingslayer and the Imp remembering. Sansa's not sure. She doesn't think they do but they're saying Jaime's gone south and Tyrion's on his way north."

Jon filed away the information but didn't move, wishing hard that Lady didn't either.

"I'm scared," Robb said after a few moments. "I know you're not really here but that somehow you are. I slip into Greywind sometimes. It's disorientating the first few times but it feels right. I wonder if we would have been able to do it in our last lives if all of it hadn't gone to shit," he chuckled dryly.

Jon wanted to joke with his brother but whatever connection he had, it disappeared without him realising it and he slept dreamlessly for the rest of the night.

Robb on the other felt Lady stiffen and then relax. He guessed Jon had gone. Been woken up or just slipped off. He sighed and clambered back into his father's bed. The sun would rise soon and they'd be a day closer to home and a day closer to war.

Chapter Text

Sansa sat up suddenly, her chest heaving as she tried to orient herself. Slowly, her whereabouts came flooding back and she realised why she'd woken up in such a state.

"They're here, aren't they," she muttered to Lady who was faithfully watching her. The wolf cocked her head and it was enough of an answer for Sansa to get out of the cot.

With her father and brother gone, she began the slow process of heating up the bathing water someone had already delivered to the room. In the pale morning light, she hummed to herself throughout the task, not caring that she was slightly out of tune.

She stripped out of her nightclothes and sunk into the steaming water, teeth gritted at the initial heat. Sansa tipped her head back and consciously relaxed each of her muscles. She was still getting used to seeing her growing, adolescent body every time she looked down. She was still soft and squishy in some places whereas as Queen, she'd grown tall and toned throughout the winter and the war.

"What is it?" she asked Lady who had turned to face the lone door, ears pricked forward, listening hard. "Who's there, hmm?"

As if on cue, a gentle knock broke through the room's peacefulness and Sansa's muscles tensed.

"It's just me. Margaery," a soft voice said. "I was wondering if I could come in and talk to you?"

Sansa sat up, the water sloshing around her and echoing in the stone room as she tried to appear in any way decent whilst in the bath. "Come in if you are alone," she called out, fingers running through her long hair to use it as a curtain, shielding her from view.

The latch lifted and from around the door, a golden head popped through. Margaery's eyebrows raised when she realised the state she'd caught Sansa in and she slipped into the chamber without opening the door any wider than her hand.

Margaery kept her eyes on Sansa's green ones, never straying lower, and she dipped her head in greeting. "I am so sorry to have bothered you," she began but Sansa waved her off, water trickling back down her slender arm and into the steaming bath.

"Sit down. It's fine. What do you want to discuss?" the redhead said, pushing through her self-consciousness and laying back as though she were fully dressed.

"There's no need to be some formal about it. You're naked for gods' sake," the other girl laughed, setting herself down on Sansa's unmade bedding. Margaery's soft smile slowly began to wane and she gnawed on the side of her thumb. "It's silly really, but with Loras gone and my Grandmother only contactable through a raven, I was just wondering if you would let me talk about something," she said slowly. "Or rather, someone."

"My brother?" Sansa guessed and her lips quirked at the way Margaery frowned, her eyebrows creasing.

"Yes. Would that be too uncomfortable for you? I do not feel as though I can talk to either of the she-bears about it and Lady Brienne would lend me an ear but she wouldn't be able to help and it's not as if I can bloody well talk to him about it. Sorry," she said in a rush, uncharacteristically flustered before Sansa's eyes. "It's just that I see us as sisters almost."

Sansa laughed. "We can, just don't call him Robb or you will remind me he's my brother."

The blonde nodded and rearranged herself on the cot, crossing one leg over the other. "I know that my main goal in life is to marry..." she began, delicate fingers smoothing out the woollen dress that Sansa had lent her. She hadn't realised just how quickly the weather would change and how obsolete her silken gowns would become. She missed walking barefoot and dancing on hot tiles.

"Do you want to?" Sansa questioned as Margaery trailed off. "Marry, I mean."

Margaery's eyes flickered up. "Of course," she answered almost instinctively. "Don't you?"

"I cannot wait to be married but I know I was put on this earth for other reasons than to warm someone's bed and provide them with children," Sansa told her honestly.

"What else will you do?"

Sansa, more comfortable than before, went back to slowly scrubbing her body with a handful of herbs. "Winterfell needs someone after my parents are gone and there is always politics but it is the people of the North who need me the most before any husband might need me."

"You speak so surely of who you are and who you will become, Sansa," Margaery said, eyes sliding down to her hands. "Your family are so..."

"So?" Sansa prompted once silence had fallen.

"Steady."

Something felt unsaid, left hanging in the air between the two girls. Sansa weighed it all up in her head. Margaery had been somewhat of an ally to her in their past life. She and her grandmother had brought the horrible death of Joffrey around far sooner than Sansa had ever allowed herself to think was possible and she was thankful for that but here, in this new, fresh life, Margaery was on a completely different trajectory.

Sansa realised quite suddenly that Margaery was no longer predictable. She had never set foot in the North before and now she was on her way to being fostered in Winterfell. She would never marry her brother's lover. She probably wouldn't poison Joffrey at his own wedding party as the wedding would no longer go ahead.

Instead, a world of possibilities lay ahead of her. She could do any number of things, both in favour and detrimental to the Starks and Sansa would have the foresight to know.

"I think that if you want to spend more time with Robb, proving that he does too, then you should. Life is too short to be miserable in a match. I know I would much prefer finding someone to marry whom I truly loved than having someone chosen for me because it's advantageous," Sansa said, tipping her chin back and sinking further into the cooling water to wet her red hair.

Margaery watched as the shiny red darkened to a bloodstain and floated on the water. "I supposed," she murmured, eyes slightly unfocused as she thought about something in great depth. "How long is the ride to Winterfell now?"

"Three or so days I'd imagine but we need to leave as soon as the horses are saddled up. There are some people arriving who I do not want to cross paths with," Sansa replied, wringing her long hair out.

Robert's stallion threw its head for a second time, jerking and trotting to the side. The king pulled on the leather reins but the stallion stamped its hoof into the muddy floor in retaliation.

"Be careful, my lord," one of the kingsguard said from atop his own well-behaving horse.

Robert huffed out of his nose, his large cheeks ruddy, and kicked the horse hard in the side. It reared and made a screeching noise, unbalancing the king.

"Open these fucking gates," he roared to the closest man, his mood souring. Robert could hear the hiss of his wife from the carriage behind him and the inkling of pain at the base of his skull quickly bloomed into a full-fledged headache. He hated travelling outside of the Capital.

The man he'd shouted at hurried off between the horses of the royal party, scampering until he'd reached the gates of the Twins up ahead. The king watched as the man spoke hurriedly to someone behind the door and then the wooden structures swung open, revealing the very man Robert was on his way North to see.

Without waiting, Robert kicked his stallion again, his knees digging into the saddle as the horse bolted forward. He swore to himself he'd have it killed and made into a stew once he'd found a suitable replacement.

Inside the keep, Robert could spy the infamous bridge and an entire village set up at the base of it. He sniffed and dismounted his horse, landing heavily on the muddy grass. He'd been in the capital for so long he'd forgotten the feeling of it under his boots. He realised he didn't care much for it and longed for the sun-soaked tiles in his solar.

"Eddard," he said gruffly, tossing the reins of the damned horse to the nearest person. "What are you doing so far south?" It came across more like a demand than a question.

Ned, to his credit, just smiled and opened his arms, the easy grin on his face making him look younger than he was. "Look at you. All dressed up for a war," he commented, rapping his knuckles on Robert's pristine golden breastplate that hadn't seen a day of war or anything of the sort since its creation.

"You didn't answer your king," Robert replied as the rest of the party finally ambled through the gates and they closed once more. The south had never felt further away from Robert. The carriage his family were in was rolled to a stop a few feet from the pair of old friends.

Ned laughed heartily and wrapped Robert up once more in his arms. "Come now. We haven't seen each other in years. Can't we reconnect as friends first and then King and subject later? Besides, as Warden of the North, I could ask you the same, my lord."

The curtain in the carriage was pulled back suddenly and the pinched face of the Queen came into view, her eyebrows drawn sharply over her piercing eyes. "Robert," was all she said but her tone was enough and the skin on the back of Ned's neck prickled uncomfortably.

"Is there somewhere we can sit down? The solar of the lord here, perhaps," Robert said, hands resting on his rotund belly.

Ned smiled and his eyes crinkled. "I'm sure one of the Freys would be more than happy to accommodate the king and his family." His loud voice travelled around the village in which all of the Frey offspring lived. Since the rustle throughout the family over succession had occurred, the Freys were jumping over themselves to answer to Ned's every beck and call, as though he had a hand in who would become Lord or Lady due to his status as Warden.

"This way, my lord," a thin man said, gesturing to the main keep. Robert trudged after him, knowing that Ned was following wordlessly. They walked through the village and into the keep in silence as the Frey women swarmed Cersei and the children, settling them in. Robert heard his name being called but he didn't turn his head.

Instead, he glanced at his friend. Ned was always the taller of the two and held his head high but there was something different about the man. Robert thought perhaps he'd taken on a mistress or something of the sorts to be so far down south and looking at ease but as soon as the notion took him, he dismissed it. It was sickening how much Ned cared for his wife.

"How's your lady wife doing? Has she accompanied you?" Robert asked as they followed the thin Frey man up a stone staircase to the solar.

Ned smiled and it was so full of love and happiness that Robert averted his eyes. "Catelyn is entertaining her sister at Winterfell. I travelled south to check on the progress being made at Moat Cailin. I was called further south to settle a dispute between Old Walder Frey and some other northerners. I will be heading home in two days' time."

Robert made a noise in the back of his throat and sat heavily on the chair behind the wooden desk. Ned remained standing, choosing to look out over the village through the window. They remained silent until Robert poured them both a goblet of wine.

"Take it."

Ned obliged, lifting it in toast and the two clinked the silver together, draining their glasses.

"Jon Arryn is dead."

Ned felt his stomach drop. "What a loss for the capital. He was a good man to both of us. Cat must be consoling Lysa, the poor woman," he said, settling the goblet down on the table and crossing to the fireplace.

"It was very sudden," Robert mumbled in agreement. "There is a bloody rumour going around, nothing but bullshit but they say it was no accident."

Ned's eyebrows rose. He couldn't remember if that he been true the first time around. "Oh," he said to fill the space. "Assassination?"

"Arryn was a good man but a better Hand. They say he stumbled across something he shouldn't have. You know how corrupt those down there are. It was probably poison, the daft old twat," Robert concluded, pouring another drink with a sadness in his eyes. "Oh Ned," he said more to himself and he began to laugh tiredly. "I have been thinking for days now on how to ask you and telling you the last man in the job was killed had crossed my mind like a bad move."

Ned nodded in agreement. "Are you asking me to be Hand of the King?"

Robert reached into his breastplate and pulled out a silk parcel. He ripped off the material and the golden pin shone in the light. "Take it."

Ned turned to his friend. "I'm not a politician, Robert. I cannot accept. There are a hundred other men who should take it."

Robert frowned, his hand offering the pin dropped onto the desktop. "So you're refusing?"

Ned took a deep breath. "Tywin Lannister should take it. He can continue the peace and prosperity that you have forged since the war. He knows the capital and should be supportive of you since you are family-"

"No!"

"Robert, I cannot abandon the North. I am the Warden. It is my duty to be here," Ned said softly.

"I don't trust anyone but you," Robert said, his voice suddenly more wary and tired than it had been. He seemed to sink into the chair, the only thing keeping him somewhat upright was his breastplate. "Stannis sent me a raven a few moons ago. He believes he had the right to the throne. There are Targaryens out there, across the Narrow Sea who probably think they have the same fucking right," he ranted.

Ned wanted to tell him there was a Targaryen out there who did think she deserved the throne, as did several other people and a creature made of ice and magic but it wouldn't go down well, he decided. Instead, he took a seat and looked at his friend.

"Robert, I, Eddard Stark, Warden of Winterfell and the North, refuse to accept the position of Hand of the King," he said in a voice he reserved for giving orders in his keep. "Tywin, Robert. Give it to him. There are people out there who will want to sit on the Iron Throne and there are people out there, like the Lannisters, who want to make sure you are the one who remains there."

"Fuckin' Lannisters," Robert cussed, laughing to himself almost sadly. By now, he'd downed the rest of the jug and his eyes weren't as focused as they had been when the meeting had started. "She sent the Imp to the wall for some unknown reason. Said he'd fucked his way through all the whores who would have him in the south and so left to find more. She threw a feast to celebrate his leaving and then a day later the Kingslayer left for Tarth or where ever the fuck he's gone and she's distraught; won't leave her chambers. Won't see the children. Won't let me step foot in her rooms."

Ned wanted to tell his oldest friend what his wife and children had told him but he remained quiet. "The Imp is heading for the wall?"

"Supposedly, but, ha, who knows," Robert said drunkenly. "Maybe she finally had him killed."

Ned frowned, mulling over his thoughts for a minute or two before he was interrupted.

"Don't you have a daughter?" the King slurred.

Ned felt furious all of a sudden, his blood rushing in his ears. "I have two but they aren't to be wed to southron men. Besides, they are both betrothed already and too young," he said so suddenly and fiercely that Robert blinked a few times.

"But we could join our houses," Robert argued, the words sounding fluffy and thick on his drunken tongue.

"Perhaps your daughter," Ned suggested without commitment and it was Robert's turn to frown.

"I'll see you at supper, Ned," the King said in dismissal and Ned stood, tipping his head and leaving the brooding, drunk King alone in the foreign solar.

Chapter Text

Out on the balcony walkway, Gendry still hadn't gotten used to feeling snow again. He'd woken up one morning in a cot he'd struggled to recognise, sweltering in the heat of the South and the furnace beside him. It had taken him several days to calm down enough and think straight. He'd half-convinced himself that it had all been some elaborate dream- Arya, the war, dragons.

"Are you alright?" a soft voice broke his reminiscing. Gendry blinked and stumbled back from the snow-covered wall, head spinning around quickly to see Lysa Arryn looking at him intently.

"Uh," he stumbled, looking around to see if they were alone. "I'm fine, yeah." After a few moments of painful silence, he rushed to ask how she was herself, as though saying it in a garbled rush still classed as having manners.

Lysa's lips quirked but they were chapped and thin from the cold. "I don't think I suit the snow," she replied, coming closer to him and all Gendry could think about was that she'd recently murdered her husband and the deep purple shadows under her eyes.

"Your sister has always seemed at home in the North." As soon as the words had left him he sighed internally at how rude he sounded. "I don't mean to compare you-"

Lysa waved a gloved hand in dismissal. "Yes you do, everyone does. Well, almost everyone," she told him and Gendry looked around again, feeling trapped within the conversation. "How long have you been fostered here at Winterfell? It is peculiar that I didn't know my sister kept such a brood around her."

Gendry grinned broadly. "Oh, I'm not being fostered, just the smithy's apprentice." He worked side-by-side with Mikken rather than as his student but no one really paid the smithy much mind.

"My sister surely thinks of you as another son, though, to allow you to stay within the main keep with the family," Lysa argued and Gendry couldn't help but shrug. He was comfortable as he was and had learnt over time that arguing with women, especially Northern women, seemed to reduce his quality of life so he'd forgone it. Whilst Lysa was as Northern as he was, she had just murdered her husband so Gendry reserved the same caution.

"Perhaps but she's very giving. I suppose it is because I'm close with Arya and all of them really," he offered, feeling as though he was being led into dangerous territory but he couldn't quite pin the final location down.

"A shame, really," another voice joined the conversation and Gendry wanted to kick himself. Littlefinger emerged from some shadowy corner and greeted the pair with a thin smile.

"Such," echoed Lysa as she simpered at the man.

In another life, Gendry might have felt cornered but he knew how Petyr Baelish conducted himself and interacted with others. He always had to be the one in control. He needed to have the power in conversation. It took him a second to recall how Arya had described Sansa's dealings with the man and in that moment, Littlefinger had come to a stop beside him.

"As I was saying, a shame," Littlefinger said in a tone that suggested almost boredom, like he'd stumbled across them rather than laid in wait.

"Yes quite, being a widow in these times is dangerous, especially for someone whose child is too young to rule over their house," Gendry said and the adrenaline in his veins made his fingers shake.

Lysa's cheeks lost what little colour they'd had and her eyes widened, watering slightly in the cold wind. Come to think of it, Gendry thought, every time he'd seen her, Lysa had looked on the verge of tears. Littlefinger's jaw clenched for a second until he'd composed himself.

"Oh, sorry," Gendry couldn't help but grin as he shrugged in his furs, faking innocence. "I don't think I followed the conversation. You said something was a shame so I just assumed it was about Jon Arryn's death. Now that is a real shame."

Littlefinger turned and looked at the young man, although they were nearly the same height. "What did you hear of the passing?" he questioned.

"Dunno," Gendry replied honestly. He'd heard about it through a letter Catelyn had read to them and in his last life, the poisoning had just been mentioned to him years after the fact. "He was old and he died."

"But how?" pressed Lysa, almost too quickly and if he hadn't known the pair had killed Jon Arryn, Gendry might have felt suspicious.

"Who can know. He was old wasn't he but then again," Gendry whistled through his teeth, already backing towards the keep slowly. "-being the Hand of the King comes with some pretty big power and there are loads in the capital who would kill for it."

Lysa nodded vehemently. "The Lannisters," she said fiercely, spitting the name as though it was poison in her mouth.

"They already run the capital. Why would they kill him?" Gendry said before he could stop himself.

Baelish was looking at Gendry as though he was seeing him for the first time. "And you, who do you think did it?"

"I haven't a clue," Gendry said, holding the man's gaze for as long as he dared.

"Peculiar. You look familiar but I can't place it. Where did you say you came from?" Baelish asked suddenly, looking as though he wanted to take Gendry's face in his hands and study his features.

Gendry cleared his throat and felt himself blink a few too many times to seem casual. "Flea Bottom, my lord, but my parents died when I was small."

"How interesting," Baelish muttered, eyes dancing over Gendry's face.

"Excuse me my lord, but I find the matter of me being an orphan hardly of interest or importance. That, if anything, is the shame," Gendry replied with a little heat as he made his escape.

Wintertown was exactly as Margaery had pictured. It was just a colder version of the villages and slums in Highgarden and they'd passed through it with little fanfare other than some of the men in the company disbanding at the lone tavern which seemed to be the hub of the village.

"And there it is," Sansa practically sighed as they finally approached the large gates of Winterfell's walls. "Margaery, this is Winterfell," she announced as they trotted through the gates and into the keep.

There were people everywhere from maids and servants in thick woollen clothes and cloaks, hurrying from one job to another, to bakers and cooks working on roaring fires built into ovens in the castle walls. A stable boy slipped through the gathered welcoming party and took the reigns of Margaery's horse without a word. Sansa dismounted from Lady and the wolf went stalking around the shadows of the keep.

"It's very lively," she remarked with a surprised smile as Sansa came to her side after waving her wolf off.

"What did you expect?" Sansa asked, bemused and enjoying watching someone's first impressions of her home.

Margaery shrugged, the heavy cloak she was wearing hardly moving. "I supposed I didn't think anyone would be out in this weather."

Sansa's laugh echoed around the stone and several people looked over at the two girls with smiles. "This is wonderful weather. The sky is clear, there's no snow in the air. This is practically the best weather we've had for months," she laughed again, leading her friend towards those gathered around.

"You seem to have brought the sunshine with you from the South," Catelyn said, a gentle smile on her face as Margaery dipped her head in greeting. Robb, Brienne and the Bears also joined them and said their 'hellos' before the Bears slid off to reacquaint themselves with their guest quarters and find some food.

"Lady Stark, thank you for allowing me to be fostered here. I understand it is quite a task taking someone into your home and I am very grateful," she said, seeing Sansa in her mother's face.

The redhead's lips quirked and she dipped her head in response. "I seem to have so many children and guests running underfoot nowadays that one more was hardly a stretch. It will be a pleasure to have you here to keep my girls' company and to remind my sons how to be gentlemen. Do you enjoy gardens, my dear?"

Margaery's face brightened. "I do!"

"Well, why don't we all take our luncheon in the glass gardens today? It would be lovely to catch up and hear all about your adventure," Catelyn proposed and as soon as the words had left her lips, several servants were rushing off to set it up.

"Come, I'll show you to your rooms and show you around before then," Sansa said, leading her friend into the keep without another word.

Catelyn thanked Brienne and the others who had accompanied her children and asked them polite questions about the trip and the weather. Brienne answered each and realised that Robb was still standing with Greywind, a hand buried deep in his familiar's fur. She bid her farewell and called for the bannermen to meet with her in another courtyard for some light training.

When they were alone, Robb sent Greywind off in the same direction as his littermate and he approached his mother with a loaded glare.

"My son," Catelyn remarked, tilting her head and accepting a kiss on her cheek. "How you've grown," she noticed, realising that her son now looked like a man and had a good head or so towering over her in height. "Come and walk with me. I have some embroidery to show you."

Robb opened his mouth to argue but Catelyn had already threaded her arm through his and tugged him with more force than he thought she was capable of. They set off, Catelyn chattering about the glass gardens and how Rickon was now walking without help and speaking in nearly recognisable sentences. It was all repeated things that she'd put into the few letters she'd sent whilst he'd been away but he didn't interrupt or question her as her long nails were digging crescents into his forearm, signalling him to be quiet in the only subtle way he'd understand.

They arrived eventually at the nursery rooms and inside the main space, the roaring fire was so inviting that a dozen maids were in there, cleaning already clean surfaces or tending to the baby in an attempt to look occupied.

"My lady," one said, putting down the socks she was darning as others rushed to look busy. "We'll be leaving now," she said but Catelyn shook her head.

"No, no, the temperature's dropping and you are all busy with the baby. I was just here to collect something for Robb," Cat said, gently steering her oldest son into the antechamber that had been Arya's chambers when Bran had been born and he'd taken over the main chamber space. The fire was lit but it wasn't as fueled so instead of lively flames, it was more hot embers and slow heat. The oak door swung shut and he latched it, just in case.

"Do you remember living in these rooms?" Cat asked as she sat herself down on the rocking chair in front of the fire. The other furniture was covered in old, woollen sheets as they were no longer in use.

"No. Jon and I both lived in the bigger rooms, didn't we?" he asked, allowing himself to kneel beside the fireplace. He wondered idly if they always lit the fire or if his mother had planned ahead.

"Yes, you did. I hated it but it was the only way to settle the pair of you and the wetnurse at the time was a very mean woman to me. I put my foot down by the time Sansa and Arya were born but it always nagged at me. My son sharing his cot with the bastard his father had brought home," she said and then she seemed to scold herself internally.

"Mother," Robb began, feeling out of sorts.

"I wanted to talk to you about your trip south. There are ears all over the castle and it's nice to reminisce."

Robb nodded slowly, confused.

The nursery rooms were notorious for carrying noise to the rooms below where the maids and wetnurses lived. There were tunnels in the stone and metal grates to ensure that anyone in the rooms below could hear the baby above crystal clearly. It was how the nurses had known Arya was awake and pestering Bran.

"Highgarden is lovely, is it not? I do miss seeing something that isn't the frozen wasteland over these walls. I miss trees and flowers and the seasons."

"It's very humid," Robb remarked truthfully, seeing through his mother. "It agrees with some more than others."

"And Brienne, was she happy to be closer to her home?"

"She was happy seeing Renly Baratheon again. He vouched for her or something in a tournament when she was younger. It was a happy time. How was everything up here?"

Catelyn crossed the fingers on her right hand, making sure her son saw the action before she answered. "I'm delighted to have so many people here. It's wonderful to have your Aunt staying with us and to have Lord Baelish around whilst your father isn't, is very comforting. What do you think of him? Of Petyr?"

Robb pulled a face and Cat waved him on silently. "He is very influential, I believe."

"Isn't he," Cat replied in a higher, breathier tone than Robb was expecting and she glared at him and he coughed his laugh away. "And the young Lady Tyrell? What do you think of her?"

It was Robb's turn to look embarrassed. "She is ..." he trailed off, unable to find the right words to convey whatever unknown emotion he felt every time he thought about her.

"I agree. Now, tell me about the gardens before luncheon. Does the air really smell like perfume?"

The glass gardens were just as warm and smelt as the Highgarden had so Margaery settled into the luncheon quicker than she might have if it had been in the great stone dining hall Sansa had shown her around an hour earlier. The conversations began as introductory and then organically melted into the teasing banter she'd had with her brother as the siblings got reacquainted.

Arya was just as fun as Margaery had hoped she'd be and the smithy who looked at her as though Arya hung the sun in the sky every morning was handsome and charming but funny in an easy way. Bran was intense for someone so young and never spoke to her directly but he was aloof and polite. Sansa tactfully included Margaery in most of the discussions and conversations with ease, never making her feel like she was being accommodated. Even Theon, the fostered Kraken, was easy to talk to as he entertained the waddling toddler and kept the matriarch company at the other end of the makeshift table that had been erected.

Margaery was squeezed in beside Sansa and Bran, missing her brother fiercely but overall content. They'd shared a warming stew dinner and lemon cakes which had been delicious before servants had cleared the table and the Starks had decided to stay in the gardens for the rest of the afternoon.

Arya, Robb and Theon were arguing over a game of marbles as Sansa walked her friend through the reasonably sized gardens, showing her particular plants or telling her stories of interest.

"And this is the pea garden Jon and I planted last year. We've doubled the frame and make more than enough when we harvest them for the entire keep to have at least one serving," Sansa said, smiling brightly as she stuck her head in between the leaves to check on the flowers.

"Am I ever to meet this mysterious Jon? You talk about him all the time but you haven't introduced him to me. It is scandalous, Sansa? Is he a servant?" she giggled, running her fingers over some of the tangled vines.

Sansa's shoulders dropped. "He's not a servant, no."

Margaery's eyes brightened at the answer, she loved a story. "But it is scandalous then! Where is he?"

"Beyond the Wall," Sansa answered in a small voice, her arms circling her torso like a reflex. "You won't understand it."

"My brother is in love with the man I was supposed to marry and I understood that perfectly well. If it's anything like that then it will hardly phase me, I'm sure," Margaery argued, an eyebrow raised. She wondered if this Jon man had been sent across the wall in punishment.

"He's like Theon."

"Older?"

"Fostered here. We grew up together."

Margaery's face went through a journey as she pieced together all she knew about the Starks from her grandmother, from common knowledge, gossip and from Sansa herself. There was another child, another boy brought up as a brother. A bastard.

"Jon as in Jon Snow. Your father's bastard?" she said in a purposefully level voice. She kept her eyes fixed on the pea plant. She wondered why she'd never pieced it together but then Jon was a perfectly ordinary name and it seemed quite far-fetched.

"He's not my brother and he isn't my father's bastard. I can't explain all of it to you, but he's not my brother," Sansa sounded as though she was fighting with herself not to plead her case.

The two girls descended into silence, one panicking and the other thinking.

"Does anyone else know?"

Sansa tucked a lock of loose hair behind her ear and sighed. "My family do."

"And they're okay with it?"

"There was resistance at first but there were a variety of factors causing them stress, not just Jon and I," Sansa explained. "We know we're both young but he is the man I want to marry. I love him, Margaery. Deeply."

Margaery bit the side of her lip, still deep in thought. After a few more minutes in which she'd inspected every flowering bud on the pea bushes, she cocked her head and grinned. "Well, if the Queen can fuck her twin and have his heirs, then I don't see this as anything much worse."

Sansa's breath stuttered in shock and she blinked. It felt like she'd been plunged into ice-cold water and then set down in front of a roaring fire with a cup of warming soup. The relief she felt at telling someone who wasn't her family felt enormous and she made a noise of excitement in the back of her throat and launched herself at her friend.

The two girls laughed as Sansa jumped up and down, gleefully.

The happy noise caught Robbb's attention from the table and he craned his head trying to see what his sister was so happy about but the garden hid them well. The trio had abandoned their marble game after a tense argument and Theon had been replaced by Bran as they silently sat at the table, thinking of another game to occupy their time.

What had Margaery said? Was it about me? he thought before sucking his teeth in frustration. He turned back around and came face to face with his youngest siblings, both looking at him intently.

"What?" Robb said, confrontationally.

Bran and Arya looked at one another and then back to him.

"She's very pretty," Arya said at the same time Bran said, "You need a wife."

"Both of you shut up," Robb huffed."Think of a game."

"Fine," Arya scoffed, crossing her arms. "Did you hear what the folks down in Wintertown were saying?"

Robb picked at a loose thread on his cuff. He didn't want to entertain Rickon with Theon and his mother and the glass gardens were warm and smelt the same way Margaery did. "No. I haven't." He doubted it would be of any interest to him. Robb wished Jon would return sooner rather than later.

"The Kingslayer has abandoned his post."

Robb frowned. He'd met Jaime Lannister in his last life and doubted that he'd leave his honour. It was why he'd killed the last king in the first place. Sansa had warned him that it might be possible that either of the Lannister men remembered but he doubted they'd leave Cersei. "You're talking bollocks," he told Arya and she shook her head.

"No. It's true, I asked around. He left King's Landing just as you got to Highgarden probably. Tyrion's gone from the Capital too," she told him, foot swinging below the bench as she was still too short to reach the floor.

Robb shrugged, still listening out for the sweet sound of laughter. "Maybe Cersei's thinning out her company."

Bran seemed to decide to put his siblings out of their useless rambling chatter. "Tyrion will arrive in Wintertown tomorrow just after dawn and break his fast with us in the dining hall."

Arya groaned, tipping her head back. "Why is everyone descending here? I hate having to entertain."

"If you think you've been entertaining our guests since they arrived then I have news for you," Robb replied, looking his scruffy younger sister up and down. "Gendry is still considered a guest."

Arya stuck her middle finger up at him and it was Robb's turn to laugh. "But Littlefinger and Lysa and Robin," she countered. The trio and their party had been at Winterfell for nearing two weeks and Arya was sick of having to watch her back and check each shadow and crack for Baelish. Nymeria helped keep him away but she worried over Sansa and her mother.

"I'm sure we will find a way to deal with it soon," Robb assured her, going back to the loose thread like it was the most interesting thing in the world as Margaery emerged from the greenery without Sansa, asking Bran to show her the Godswood.

"I have to visit Mikken with Arya but my brother will take you," Bran said, moving quicker than Robb thought he could. Bran dragged Arya away from the table and deeper into the garden, leaving the pair alone for the first time since they'd left Highgarden.

Margaery's cheeks were a little pink and she turned fully to face Robb. "Well, would you show me to the Godswood? Sansa said it's beautiful and I thought I should introduce myself to more Northern customs, seeing as I will be here for the foreseeable future."

Robb rubbed his damp palms on his trousers and stood up. "Of course," he agreed. "You will need a heavier cloak and warmer boots."

"Oh," Margaery said, looking down at the simple leather boots Sansa had given her. "Let's stop at my chambers on the way then."

"Or I could meet you in the keep," Robb suggested when all he wanted was to follow her to her rooms.

Margaery waved the suggestion off as they began exiting the glass gardens. "Nonsense. I don't fully know how to get back to my rooms from here anyway. Besides, you can help me get dressed and tell me if it's all correct."

Robb's throat went dry and he wondered if he was damned for instantly thinking of peeling the woollen dress off her arms. When Margaery turned to look at him, she had a smirk on her lips and Robb felt himself grin back.

By the late afternoon, the family had departed to engage in their own activities. Arya, Bran and Gendry were making a nuisance of themselves in the smithy, much to Mikken's annoyance. Theon had taken up Dacey Mormont's offer of a horse ride around the land. Rickon was with his maids. Robb had taken Margaery on a full tour of Winterfell and Sansa was left knocking on the door to her father's solar.

Catelyn sat at Ned's wooden chair with ease. She had a magnifying glass in one hand as she read over some papers. Sansa admired how powerful and strong her mother looked sitting in her casual dress, hair pinned back. She wondered if her parents would share the solar when her father returned.

"Mother," Sansa greeted, pushing the heavy door shut and trusting Lady to guard it on the other side. The room was warm and cosy, with the fire providing both light and heat and tapestries softening the decor.

"Darling," Cat replied, letting Sansa sit down as she rolled the scroll back up and used the glass to weigh it down. "I was wondering, how are you settling back in?"

Sansa thought about it for a second. She loathed the fact that Littlefinger was walking around her home again but she'd hardly seen him. "It's nice being home," she said simply. They'd already had the customary chat about her time away from Winterfell and felt little need in repeating herself.

"Your father said he has a final few things to clear up and then he'd leaving the Twins and heading back to Moat Cailin. It'll be another month or so before he's back here."

"Did he turn down the hand of the King?" Sansa asked, cutting straight to the chase.

Cat tilted her head and passed along a set of letters. Sansa read over them breifly. "I think he's trying to be cryptic in his letters but they just seem like a jumbled mess to me. I've tried writing down a key and decoding it that way but I think your father forgot his own code after the second letter. I think he refused but I haven't heard a word about another being given the title."

Sansa hummed. "What are we going to do about our guests in the meantime? I suppose Bran's told you about Tyrion Lannister." She enjoyed how full of life Winterfell seemed to be these days but keeping up the act in her own home was draining.

"Yes, but we need to be smart about all of this, Sansa," Catelyn warned, leaning forward in the chair. This wasn't going to be as easy as having Arya slip into a different face or just banishing them from Winterfell. They had to be clever and solve their problems without raising too much suspicion or interest from other houses.

"What would happen if he were removed from the game now?" Sansa wondered. Would it make it all easier? Fighting the Night King? Gaining Northen Independence? Or would it hinder them? Had Littlefinger laid too many contingency plans? He had backup plans for his backup plans, as she knew.

"He's got a lot of webs and even more strings to pull than we know," Catelyn advised. "He won't be going anytime soon. Lysa would cause a fuss if something happened to him so soon after Jon Arryn. She's smitten and has been since we were little girls."

"Blinded," agreed Sansa. "So..."

Catelyn pursed her lips. "We wait. Gather more information. You're a good conversationalist, darling, and pen-palling is such a becoming hobby of a lady. With the Lannisters split across the country and a new hand of the king, it's about time you expanded your reach, Sansa."

"What if we don't have time?" Sansa worried about Jon beyond the wall, unreachable by ravens as he hunted down inhuman creatures that those below the North had never even heard of. "And Daenerys Targaryen, she's growing in power with every passing month."

Her mother nodded but reached over and patted her hand. "From what Bran has said, it will be a year or two before the Targaryen girl will have amassed enough of a following and grown her dragons enough to be any threat. Who knows," Catelyn added with a slow smile, "maybe in this life she's perfectly sane."

Chapter Text

Tormund watched on from the fire pit he'd been warming his hands over, watching with cool eyes as Ghost slunk off into the bare wooden area behind the camp. The way the wolf moved and the way he looked around at the frost-covered shoots buried between the knots of roots was the only indication Tormund had as to whether he was wolf or man.

Sam, with his jolly round face, interrupted the wildman's studying when he dropped a few half-thawed logs onto the flames, sending hot ash swirling in the bitter wind. The sun was just beginning to rise but from experience, he knew the temperature wouldn't.

"Are you thick?" Tormund grumbled, reaching into the pit and pushing the logs so that they didn't smother and kill the fire. "It needs to breathe, you fat lump."

Sam bristled at the insult, tensing his shoulders for a brief second before letting them drop. "I'm sorry," he apologised automatically and Tormund rolled his eyes, still manoeuvring the frosty logs with his bare hands.

"Stick to your books and stay out of the way. You're more use for your brain than your hands," he replied, straightening up. "You seen Jon?"

"He's still sleeping, I think," Sam told him, lifting the end of his smock to try and capture more warmth from the flames.

Tormund clucked his tongue and went stalking off, straight to the temporary hut he shared with Jon. He went barreling through the small doorway and taking sadistic delight in the way the younger man jumped in his cot. It took a second or two for the humanity to return to his eyes and for Jon to realise he was in his own body, not his familiar's.

"You prick," was all he said as he lay back down, stuffing his cold hands under his cheek and closing his eyes again.

"What are you doin' torturing yourself?" Tormund demanded, roughly shoving Jon's legs so that he could sit down despite his own unmade cot behind him.

Jon's reply was muffled in his arms. "I don't know what you're talking 'bout."

"Being Ghost," Tormund replied, whacking the younger man on the arm, hard.

"Ow," Jon cried, sitting up and rubbing his arm. "What?"

"You're a warger," the wildman replied as though he was explaining the most simple of concepts. "Why are you wasting your time sniffing around in the trees like your wolf?"

"I wasn't. I was with Summer," he sighed, swinging his legs around and sitting up properly. Jon ran a hand through his hair, pulling one of the knots apart. "Bran was talking me through what had happened over the last few days."

"Summer? You mean you can slip into another animal other than Ghost?" Tormund questioned.

"Yeah. It seems we all can. I've saw Sansa and Lady a few nights ago, before they got back to Winterfell. They're all there now. It's just us and Ned."

Tormund gnawed on his dirty fingernail in thought. "Well, it'll be another week at least. This wildling village is another few hours away and from there we'll pick up another few men and supplies before carrying on in two days' time. I suggest we dump Tarly there until we find the wight."

Jon shook his head. "Sam comes with us."

"He's slow and fat."

"He's a friend," Jon countered.

Tormund sucked on his teeth and huffed out of his nose, the wiry hairs protruding from his nostrils fluttering. "I ain't protecting that sack of shit."

"Fine," Jon agreed. "Don't. But he is coming with us."

"Fine. Breakfast," Tormund nodded and changed the subject, leaving Jon to finish waking up alone.

"Don't you think? I'm no expert but that sword would be heavy, even when strapped to his side." One of the Stark soldiers whispered to another over their hot ale. They watched with half-closed eyes as Jon strode out from his hut and towards the other fire and the pot of ale. The wind had picked up since sunrise and Snow's cloak was flapping, revealing Longclaw.

"He walks better with it, like he's grown used to the weight over a lifetime." The other replied simply, nursing the warming brew without another word.

Margaery tugged on layer after layer of skirts and dresses as she got ready for her first proper morning at Winterfell. She had spent the previous afternoon in The Godswood, which had held an energy Margaery couldn't put into words. She wasn't the most religious of women: she thought there might be something there but she doubted they were what she'd been taught they were, but the same sense of innate peace she felt in the arms of her grandmother, walking barefoot in fresh soil and in the walls of any citadel washed over her.

She cringed a little as she recalled the startled noise she'd made when she'd realised it had been so quiet she could hear her own heartbeat in her chest. She'd said so aloud and Robb had nodded.

"I guess I've grown so used to it that it no longer feels magical," he had replied as he'd led her deeper into the woods. The sun couldn't have penetrated through the ruby red leaves but there had still a layer of soft, thick snow beneath their feet, muffling their steps. Even Greywind, with his loud breathing, seemed to move like smoke in the air, embodying his namesake in every manner. She'd half-forgotten the huge beast was even with them.

"Then what does it feel like to you?" she'd questioned as the trunks of the trees became thicker and older.

Margaery remembered how pensive Robb had become for a moment. "Another part of home, I guess. Somewhere I know I can truly relax."

As she exited her chambers and followed a silent maid to the great hall to break her fast, she decided she would seek him out again and ask him to accompany her once more. It felt like she was the only woman in the world when she thought about their afternoon in the woods.

"Mi'lady," the maid said, leading her up a set of stone steps. "This way."

Margaery hesitated for a moment. She had breifly had a tour with Sansa when they had first arrived and she thought she was a floor above the great hall. The confusion must have shown on her face as the maid dipped her head.

"Your company has been requested. Please, follow me," she said, quickly setting off up the stairs. Margaery had no choice but to follow as she was led through the winding corridors to a dark oak door. She didn't let herself hope who had requested her, in case she would be let down. The maid nodded in dismissal and left, leaving her to knock.

Brienne's face appeared in the open crack of the door and she smiled kindly. "Morning," she said, opening the door up fully and letting the heat of the room wash over the girl. "Come in."

Margaery smiled, more confused than before. She liked Brienne, admired her even, but she wasn't enthralled at having to break her fast with the soldier.

The antechamber she walked into was filled with tapestries and fur-covered chairs surrounding a large table set up for two. A multitude of candles lit the space and the roaring fire made her want to peel off her cloak and overcoat.

"This is a lovely room," Margaery said politely, wondering what the knight had done to receive such extravagant rooms from the family.

Brienne grinned, one side crooked. "I'll be sure to pass the praise on to the owner of the room, my lady." She gestured towards one of the two chairs. "Please, sit down. I'll go fetch him."

"Him?" Margaery echoed before she could control herself.

Brienne laughed. "I think you are quite lovely, Lady Tyrell, but I won't be requesting your company for breakfast in the near future."

Margaery felt her cheeks colour and she wished she could blame it on the warm fire. She nodded meekly and sat down, throwing her cloak over the back of the chair. She took a deep, steadying breath as the knight slipped through another internal door and threw her long hair over her shoulder. Faking the confidence she wished she had.

In the back of her mind, she wished for Robb to walk out but another part of her was aware that it could be Lord Stark or Lord Baelish, who she knew was skulking around the keep on Lady Catelyn's good grace. She'd rather fling herself into the fireplace than talk to either man, but for entirely different reasons on each behalf.

"Have you tried mutton stew before?" the cool timbre of Robb's voice broke her musings and she fought her intake of breath.

"No. We usually eat lighter. Fish, grains, poultry." 

Robb sat down on the other chair and Margaery couldn't help but notice that the knight hadn't walked back into the antechamber. "Well, here," he said, ladling her a small bowlful. "We can eat and then I'd like to take you on a tour of the keep."

Margaery picked up a small loaf of freshly baked bread and smiled. "I would like that too."

Sansa watched from her higher vantage point above the keep in the bell tower as her brother walked arm in arm with Margaery, Brienne trailing behind and acting as their guardian. They'd been walking around the keep all morning, arm-in-arm according to Ayra, and it was the first time she'd caught sight of them.

Bran stood beside his sister but his eyes were clouded as he flew through the sky above the nearby woodlands. Sansa was just there to ensure no one came close enough to see his milky eyes. They were looking out of the lone window in the bell tower, hidden by the bells themselves so she doubted they would be disturbed. No one came all the way up anyway. A servant usually rang them from several floors below.

As soon as she had the thought, a noise caught her attention from behind. Lady and Summer were running in the woodland Bran's raven was flying over so she was defenceless. Their presence in the tower had dislodged all the birds who usually roosted in there, so they should have been alone.

Carefully, without disturbing him too much, Sansa pushed Bran into a corner, behind the largest, broken bell, tucking him away from direct view of the door. As soon as she had done, the latch rose and she watched it open.

"Oh," Baelish said with faux surprise that Sansa had learnt to spot. "My Lady. I apologise."

She was about to answer when he walked into the small enclave and towards her. "I don't think we have been introduced."

"No," she said indifferently. She wanted to question what he thought he'd find in the keep's bell tower but she held her tongue. "We have not."

Baelish's eyes and lips quirked. "But I, of course, know of you. You look just like your mother." He looked like he wanted to reach out and stroke her cheek. In her first life, Sansa would have preened at the thought and pestered for more information on her mother as a young girl but now, whilst it wasn't an insult, she knew what they meant for Baelish and how he perceived her.

"And you, just like a spider," she replied and internally winced. The nickname was nothing short of impolite, but she hadn't expected to come across him at all, let alone solo, and so she favoured her wit over her manners.

The flat smile on his face remained as he walked between the bells. There were only half a dozen but he eyed them like grand beasts. "And just as quick as she was as a girl. You have such beauty already. I have no doubt your father is looking for an advantageous match for you. I'm sure it is most exciting. The idea of being a nobleman's wife. You could become a Lady."

"I will marry a good man, who is brave and strong," she told him, parroting the words her father had said. "I doubt I will find that in a man from the South." She wanted nothing more than tell him she was already betrothed but she knew that would cause more trouble than it would be worth.

Baelish's eyebrows drew closer together. "A northern man?"

"For a Northen Lady," Sansa snipped. She was becoming overly aware of Bran's hidden form. They were high enough that if he fell, she doubted he would survive like his fall in his first life and she didn't put it past Baelish to try to push him.

"Perhaps a Kraken then?" 

"I doubt Yara Greyjoy will agree to be my wife, my lord," she said, preoccupied on thinking of how to get him to leave, either with her or on his own. She would rather be alone with him than let him see Bran warging.

He tutted, coming closer to her, almost circling but Sansa moved on her toes, keeping him in her eye line. "But there is a fine Kraken right here in Winterfell. A Northern man by all accounts."

"A brother to me," Sansa countered, hoping those words wouldn't come back to bite her when her relationship with Jon was revealed.

"When was the last time Yara saw her brother do you think?" Baelish asked as though the question had just occurred to him. Sansa knew he'd probably been thinking it since first setting eyes on Theon.

Sansa remained quiet.

Baelish had his hands clasped behind his back. "I wonder if he can even sail? What Kraken is good landlocked?"

Sansa heard Bran make a soft noise in the back of his throat which usually indicated he was going to return to his own body shortly. The thought made her panic. "There is more to a Kraken than the sea, my lord."

As soon as she'd finished speaking, the bell signalling the start of supper rung out, making the pair jump at how loud it was. They swung suddenly and the pair stepped back, covering their ears.

"Come. I'll take you to supper," he shouted once the bells had stopped actively moving. The sound was still echoing around the stones, making Sansa's teeth rattle.

"I don't need an escort within my own home, especially not from you," Sansa bit back, turning to leave.

Baelish reached out, lithe fingers gripping her delicate wrist with too much force and the thump of her pulse was strong under his thumb. He expected her to struggle, to pull her wrist back or to make a shocked noise but instead, Sansa just looked back at him, an eyebrow raised in defiance.

Baelish opened his mouth, his dry lips parting reluctantly as he struggled to say something. Sansa watched the expressions change on his face as he looked at her.

Instead of seeing the spitting image of a young Catelyn Tully, the woman he loved, he saw Sansa for who she was. He understood now why she'd been sheltered away from him. It wasn't that she was just a pretty young chit of a girl that her mother didn't want to marry off yet: Sansa Stark had been kept away from him because of the power she eluded. Petyr doubted anyone knew what a leader she would probably be, even if it was whispering into the ear of her future husband.

"My Lady," he said, dipping his head and sliding his hand down to grip her fingers to kiss the leather of his own gloved thumb.

A younger version of Sansa, the one who was meeting him for the first time in any life, would have stumbled at how quickly the man had gone from nasty to pliable. But she knew better now: even better than Baelish did. This was not a man who did anything unless it benefited him at some point. He didn't bow his head or smile and whisper agreeable things to someone unless he knew they would butter someone up.

"Supper, Lord Baelish. The cooks hate when we are late," she bit her tongue painfully as she slipped her hand into the crook of his waiting elbow. If her mother could put on a show and play her part for the good of the pack, so could she. Petyr Baelish was a threat, but for now, she quietly reminded herself as he led her to the door and down the winding steps, he was more useful as an ally. She would do what it took.

Chapter Text

Somehow, Robb had managed to persuade Brienne to give up her chaperone duty and they were without a shadow for the first time since arriving at Winterfell as they walked through the grounds. Margaery had come to realize that the longer she spent out in the cold, the slower she moved. She trudged after Robb and his beast, carefully setting her boots down in the fresh snow, taking a strange child-like delight in the sight of her footprints mingled with his and the paws of Greywind.

The walk to the Godswood was quiet and Robb seemed to retreat into himself as they finally crossed the border and became enveloped in blood-red leaves. The temperature dropped several degrees as the thick canopy created cool patches of shade and the steam rising from the hot spring in front of them looked inviting.

Margaery didn't want to break the silence first. She wondered if he prayed at all and as she finally came to a stop by his side after dawdling behind him, she glanced at his face to find his eyes closed, chin tilted back slightly to elongate his stubbled neck.

She blinked and turned her head, staring into the carved eyes of some deity about a foot above the ground on the largest part of the tree. The white, frost-wrapped trunk was a stark contrast to the trickling tree sap which looked like dripping blood.

"What do your places look like down South?" Robb asked quietly, eyes still closed. It was the first thing he'd said to her since he'd confirmed that her fur cloak and deer-skin boots were sufficient in her chambers.

Margaery shivered in her thick cloak as she set herself down carefully on a pile of rotting leaves that was free from snow on the bank of the spring. "Sun-soaked stone and dancing. There was always someone playing some kind of instrument and you never felt alone in your worship."

Greywind settled in beside Margaery and she wondered when she'd become used to the direwolf's presence. If he'd let her, she would probably recline back into his fur, as she'd once seen Robb do on their trip to Winterfell.

"Do you think they listen to you with that many people talking to them at once?"

"Do you think they listen to you all alone out here?"

The pair said nothing, choosing not to answer each other's questions and the silence crept on. It wasn't uncomfortable, just quiet.

Greywind stretched out, feline-like and lay down, resting his head on his front paws. The movement triggered Robb and he came around the pool, coming to a stop beside Margaery. She looked up from her seating position and he mentally steeled himself.

"I swim."

Margaery decided not to question him. She just continued to look up at him, gaze unwavering until he spoke again.

"To connect with the gods... to feel alive... I swim in the springs," he clarified, gesturing to the water lamely. His confidence seemed to be eeking out of him with every passing second.

"Well, go on then. Who am I to deny you your right to pray," Margaery said, crossing her legs at the ankles and leaning back on her hands. "It looks inviting to say the least," she added as an afterthought.

The tips of Robb's ears were turning pink and she doubted it was due to the cold wind that was beginning to pick up. She watched his chest puff as he took a deep, steadying breath and then felt her jaw drop marginally as he began unlacing his shirt and shucking off her cloak.

Robb grit his teeth as every inch of skin was exposed to the cold. He dropped his cloak, tunic, and undershirt in a heap by Margaery but he kept his eyes forward, reaching down to unlace his trousers and toe off his boots. Without pausing to give his mind the chance to buckle at the fact he was naked, he stepped slowly into the hot spring, feet finding the natural slope. He continued on until he was submerged to his neck and then he turned, treading water, to face the company on the bank.

Greywind's yellow eyes were scanning the woodland and Margaery's were wide.

"It's hot. Almost too hot but I hold my head under the water until my lungs burn and then I swim until I begin to sweat. I feel most connected with my gods when I can feel the blood rushing in my veins and hear it in my ears. That's how I pray," he said, liking the way the wind stung at his wet shoulders every time they emerged from the water as he kicked.

"Naked?" Margaery teased, leaning forward to dip her finger into the rippling water. A few fallen leaves were being stirred up in the commotion and she picked one up, letting it drip.

"My mother hates us traipsing around the keep in wet clothes. Improper, she would say," he replied easily, tipping his head back and wetting his head.

Margaery had her entire hand in the water now, fingers wiggling carefreely as she dragged the leaf back and forth under the water. "Is this sacred water?"

"Nah," Robb shrugged but he ended up sinking to his eyebrows. When he broke free and shook the water from his eyes, he could hear her gentle laughter.

"So anyone could swim in it?" she asked, rising to her knees.

Robb nodded, not trusting his voice. It only occurred to him as Margaery dropped her cloak and used it as a blanket to sit and pull off her borrowed boots, that they were alone in the godswood, without a chaperone, and they were undressing in front of each other. He presumed it would be the least of his upcoming worries but it felt nice to have a normal preoccupation such as debauchery.

He promptly forgot about his worries as Margaery shimmied out of her woollen dress and skirts, leaving her in a thin cotton shift. It was ill-fitting but semi-sheer and the dark silhouette of her slim waist dipped into her hips and it didn't take a lot of his imagination to imagine what was below the material.

Margaery stepped slowly into the water, lifting her shift with each descent into the water. Like most southron women, her legs were hairless from some treatment Robb didn't know enough about and her thighs, from the few centimeters he was allowed to see at a time, looked strong. By the time she was up to her upper thighs, Robb plunged himself under the water, eyes tightly closed until he could no longer stay submerged. It was part punishment and part gentlemanly intent. Margaery had taken her entire slip off and was arms-length away from him, naked and swimming with her long golden hair acting like a modesty shield.

"It's so warm!" she grinned to him, laying back so that her torso was floating just under the surface of the water. "I would only ever bathe in hot springs If it were possible," she remarked.

Instead of answering, Robb swam towards her, finding he was tall enough to touch the marshy bottom and stand easily. He walked the final few steps and stopped, the feverish skin of his chest brushing against her arm. It felt electric and he thought how fucking stupid, I was murdered but this feels life-changing.

Margaery's heart lept and she calmly righted herself, still too short to comfortably stand. She was on her tiptoes and still the water was lapping at her lips and in her ears. She huffed, already tired from the constant movement, and without letting herself think too much, she wrapped an arm around Robb's neck, using his body to keep her afloat.

He automatically put one hand on her waist and brazenly slid his free arm around her back, fingers splayed wide across her spine, settling between her shoulder blades and dragging her closer.

They were chest to chest, still not looking into the eyes of each other. Margaery wrapped a leg loosely around his knee and hipbone. Robb's index finger entwined in the hair at the nape of her neck. Without fanfare or pretense, Margaery tipped her chin and pressed her lips to his, savoring in the way his entire body went tense and he froze before he relaxed and kissed her back.

Greywind silently slunk off towards the entrance of the woods and watched on as the gates to the keep opened. He stood guard in the opening of the cobbled wall, ensuring his master privacy, and growled at the servants running around to accommodate for the new guest who was causing havoc it seemed at how many people were rushing around.

After several minutes, Greywind watched as Sansa and Catelyn emerged from the keep to greet the sudden guest and smooth the feathers of the servants who began fetching the man's luggage and leading his horse away to the stables. Lady flanked Sansa and the pair stopped further back, close to the smithy as Catelyn led the guest into the dining hall. Sansa seemed to be looking for someone and when she caught sight of Greywind, she pressed her lips into a thin line. Greywind turned on his tail and retreated back into the woods, still far away enough from the pool that he wouldn't disturb. Lady joined him after a few minutes and the two guarded the woods like silent statues.

Sansa ducked into the smithy with a smirk as she saw Gendry nodding along to the sound of Arya chattering mindlessly between every stroke of his hammer on the dented chest plate before him. She seemed animated, lunging and twisting on her toes with a half-finished sword in her hand.

"Sister," Sansa said as soon as she was close enough. "I have been looking for you all over."

"Well, if this is the last place you thought to look then that is a sign of your declining intelligence," Arya countered, dropping the sword on a pile of others that needed the care of Gendry. "What do you want?"

"Can't one just seek the company of her own sister?" Sansa asked, noticing how Gendry straightened his posture and looked at the chest plate with intensity as she got closer to the pair.

"No. You can't. What do you want?" Arya pressed, crossing her arms over her chest with an unimpressed look on her face. There was soot on her cheek and the hair around her forehead was sticking to the hot skin as she pranced around in front of the furnace.

"I need you to keep mother busy," Sansa told her sister, and the way Gendry's hammer faltered didn't go amiss.

"Why?" Arya pressed.

"She will only worry and I don't want her to," Sansa said by way of explanation.

Arya's frown deepened. "What are you going to do?" she said accusingly. Her hands were on her hips now and Gendry had shrunk into himself.

"Nothing. Don't worry about it. Just keep mother occupied over supper tonight. Maybe point her attention to Robb. He seems to be becoming quite enamored quite quickly," she said as she turned and left. Lady was still in the woods so Sansa left to seek out another port of business.

Robb dipped his head and licked the droplets off Margaery's shoulder. They were leaning on the bank, muddy forearms and satisfied smiles.

"That was sacred," he whispered.

"Hmm," Margaery hummed, her head cradled in her arms as she looked up at him. His hair was starting to dry and the curls caressed his temples. He looked godly to her. "That was sinful," she purred and the pair laughed quietly together as the sun began to set slowly into the horizon.

Chapter Text

Ayra groaned as she shouldered her way into the dining hall that night. She had forced herself to go running through the woodlands with Nymeria and despite being quick on her feet, she'd tried to race the direwolf and tripped on a hidden tree root. Her palms were scuffed and still hurt as she pulled her chair out. Nymeria had looked as close to smug as a wolf could as she ran circles around her mistress.

"Arya," Catelyn sighed, sipping on some hot cider as her daughter helped herself to some bread. "You are bleeding."

Arya winced as she rubbed her hands together to try and wipe away some of the dried blood. She spat on her palms and heard those around her make a noise of protest. "I'm not bleeding now." She rubbed her hands together and then dried them on her tunic.

"Excellent," Cat murmured, one corner of her mouth quirked upwards as she set her goblet down. "I'm sure our guest is overjoyed at watching you act like a feral child. How proud I am that your reputation will live on through his recounts of this night."

Arya frowned and looked up sharply. She hadn't realized anyone new had been at the table but she remembered the commotion that afternoon when someone had turned up; it had slipped her mind as the day had passed.

Looking at her with his unwavering gaze, Tyrion raised his goblet in greeting and Arya's mind froze. There was no longer a scar marring his face and the fact that he looked so young shocked her. His presence alone shocked her.

"Arya, I assume. You look like your Aunt Lyanna reborn," he remarked, setting the goblet down, fingers lingering on the silver stem.

Arya straightened in her chair and was relieved from saying anything as Robb pulled the chair out beside her and dropped into it noisily. Margaery wasn't far behind him and sat on the other side of the table with a coy smile on her face. Robb raised both eyebrows a few times in reply.

"We have a-" Catelyn began but she was cut off by the double doors slamming open, startling everyone in the large room, and Theon came thundering down the aisle, looking over his shoulder with Sweetrobin chasing him. He had a toothy smile on his red face until he slowed and huffed for breath. Bran followed behind them, arms behind his back and Summer on his heel. He was grinning widely, stalking closer to the recovering Robin. The family at the top of the hall watched as Bran brought his hands in front of him and calmly dropped a large spider onto his cousin's shoulder. The arachnid was about the size of Robin's palm and he screamed, running towards Theon and colliding with his midriff as the older boy was laughing too much.

Theon swore and bat the spider away with a shriek. It landed on the nearby table and a bannerman stood up in fright, upending his bowl of stew into the lap of the stable maid he was seated beside. She shouted out and whacked him hard on the upper arm, to which she received a round of cheers and jeers. A toast went around the hall in her honour as she upended the rest of the stew onto the bannerman's jacket.

Catelyn shook her head and stood up with an unimpressed look on her face. "Ahem," was all she said and the trio of boys looked up at her with guilty expressions, as did the revellers gathering for their supper. Even Bran, who embodied the Three-Eyed Raven most days rather than his eleven-year-old self, blushed under his mother's glare. "We have a guest," Catelyn repeated herself, gesturing to Tyrion. "Come and sit down."

"Yes mother," Theon and Bran said in unison and Sweetrobin apologized, stuttering over his words. The noise level in the hall slowly began to rise as the people of the keep began talking and chatting as the boys took their seats.

"You are lucky Lysa had to skip supper to sleep and that your father is not here," Cat said as she retook her seat at the head of the family table. "I apologize for my rude sons and nephew, my lord," she added, refilling Tyrion's goblet with more steaming cider.

He chucked and raised it to the boys in question, two of whom looked uneasy as they took their seats. Tyrion couldn't tell if it was from his arrival or their mother's withering stare that was still pinned on them. "I am used to a higher caliber of deplorable children, my lady. Your brood is practically saints in my eyes," he joked, noticing how Arya's knuckles turned white as she fisted her knife briefly.

Catelyn, ever the diplomat, brushed over his joke. "How are your family? I have read my husband's letters about his encounter with the King at the Twins but it is always nice to ask someone who has actually been living in the Capital. I am sorry to hear about the Hand's death. It has taken a toll on my sister, I regret," she said, carving into a rabbit's leg as the rest of the table began to eat.

Tyrion chewed on his mouthful thoughtfully. "He was a competent hand and will, no doubt, be hard to replace. Forgive me for idly gossiping but I heard that Eddard turned the position down." No one missed the fact that Tyrion had elected to ignore the questions about the Lannisters.

Cat nodded. "He felt he had a duty to the North and that should be his focus. I know the King will find a suitable replacement. How long are you planning on staying in the North, my lord?"

Several eyes were on the lord now. "I can see you are already hosting so many," his eyes flickered to from Theon to Sweetrobin to Margaery. "I don't mean to impose but I have always dreamt about seeing The Wall in person so I suppose I am asking to bother you until I can find a guide to take me."

Cat dabbed at the corner of her mouth with some cloth. "I'm sure I could find someone willing. My son is there currently visiting his uncle so perhaps something could be arranged in the coming weeks."

Robb glanced at Arya and mouthed 'Sansa'. His sister shrugged and turned in her chair, looking at the closed double doors. Sansa wasn't one to skip spending mealtimes with her family.

Sansa took several deep breaths, trying to quell the feeling of nausea in her stomach as she let Baelish lead her through the corridors towards the dining hall.

Her fingers were curled in on themselves and she kept reminding herself she was touching his woolen overcoat, not his skin as the hand covering hers was encased in soft, black leather. All the new clothes had been bought for the trip to North, tailored to perfection and embroidered for one purpose only: to make him seem more important and imposing than he really was. He was dressed in the same manner Sansa expected from a King or a well-funded Lord, not a cog within the Capital.

"Your mother is a saint for opening her home to so many," Petyr said idly as they passed the halfway point in their walk. Sansa couldn't help but count her steps to keep her mind from racing. She wondered if she would simply drop dead if she had to talk or interact with Cersei or Joffrey from the way her body felt so anxious and prickly being near Baelish.

"I do admire her so. She has set such a good example for me," Sansa said meekly.

"With her husband's bastard and the Greyjoy boy. Truly a wonderful woman," Baelish agreed, patting Sansa's hand as they began to descend some stairs. She blinked, staring down at her smothered hand. She could barely see her pale skin or flex her fingers: she was encased in Littlefinger's hand.

A cool wind was picking up and rushing through as one of the wooden doors to the yard was banging noisily, left open by someone. Sansa's skirts swished against her ankles and she shivered impulsively. She realized that Baelish was still chatting to her about something but she couldn't hear him. All she could hear and feel was a biting wind. She was freezing and her heart was beating faster than it was supposed to.

"Lady. Nymeria. Summer," Sansa called out suddenly, ripping her hand from Baelish's crooked elbow. The older man stopped and turned to look at her, with the same piercing look he gave to someone who was puzzling him or not behaving like he'd predicted but Sansa couldn't dwell on it too long. She was having trouble breathing.

Lady came striding around the corner, having kept her mistress in sight but out of Baelish's field of vision. Nymeria and Summer arrived just a moment later, slowing from their run. She knew she could call upon them to answer her and alert one of her siblings.

"Sansa?" Baelish pressed, reaching out to take her elbow again but Sansa stepped back, skin on fire. She almost tripped on something but couldn't bring herself to look down at her feet. Her vision was swimming and her head spun.

"Nym!" Arya's voice echoed off the stone as she came thundering around the corner, chasing after her dire wolf. "What the fuck," she huffed to the wolf before she realized she wasn't alone in the corridor. "Sansa?" she said, worried at the sight of her sister.

"Lord Baelish, I apologize but I suddenly feel very unwell. I was helping Maester Luwin nurse some of the villagers yesterday and I worry I might be coming down with the same illness," Sansa said in a rush, turning on her heel and almost fleeing with Lady supporting her as soon as she'd finished talking.

Baelish's lips tightened and he stepped away from where they'd been walking. He flexed the hand he'd used to cover Sansa's and the leather made an unsettling noise in the quiet hall. Arya wondered if he would burn the glove to ensure whatever 'illness' Sansa had wouldn't contaminate him.

"Fuck," Arya whispered under her breath as she realized she was now alone with Littlefinger. She nudged Nymaeria who knelt down and Arya threw her leg over the wolf's shoulders. Nymeria stood tall when her mistress had settled. "You know where the dining hall is I presume?" Ayra said with her chin held high.

Baelish raised one eyebrow slightly at the sight of Arya atop the wolf. "I do."

"Good," Arya said bluntly. "I'm sure you can see yourself there with Summer's help. We have a Lannister guest so I wouldn't keep him waiting any longer, my lord," she said, his title dripping off her tongue with a little too much sarcasm. "Go on, Summer, see that our guest makes it to his supper," she ordered and the wolf dipped his head, herding Littlefinger towards the hall.

Baelish had no choice but to walk, marched by the softly growling wolf as Arya watched on. When they had left the corridor and were on their way, Arya lent to the left, and Nymeria went thundering down the hallway to where ever Lady and Sansa had fled to.

Arya found them in Sansa's room, curled up on the bed. Sansa was breathing fast and crying into Lady's fur. She rushed over and stopped by her sister's side, unsure how to proceed.

"Sans?" Arya said carefully.

Sansa turned suddenly and wrapped her sister up in her arms, crying wetly into Arya's shoulder. The brunette stiffened and awkwardly patted Sansa's back as she tried to turn her ear away from the loud crying.

"What's wrong? Did he do something?" Arya pressed, looking at Nymeria as though the wolf would be able to help.

It took Sansa several minutes to calm down enough to talk. She had ruddy cheeks and a running nose as she flopped bonelessly onto the furs on her bed. She felt empty.

"I don't know what happened. I just suddenly felt so sick and then I was really cold and then my body felt like it was on fire and I just..." Sansa trailed off, uncaring as Lady licked the salty tears off her cheeks. "I thought I was dying for a moment. I couldn't breathe enough."

Arya made a quiet noise in the back of her throat and began pushing and shoving Sansa into bed. She jumped up and tucked herself by her sister's side once Sansa was under the blankets.

"I have that too sometimes. Maester Luwin said that breathing through the attacks is the only way to help in the moment. He's begun growing Saint John's wort in the glass gardens. The powder helps calm people, he said."

Sansa just sniffed.

"It happens randomly. When I'm water-dancing with Needle and I think about all of the times I've used it to kill someone or when I'm just messing around in the yard or the smithy with Gendry and I remember he died for me. Memories and dreams feel too real and I think I'm back there and then I can't breathe," Arya said, staring off into the fire at the other end of the room.

Sansa snaked her hand out from under her and squeezed her sister's fingers. "I'm worried about Jon."

"So am I."

"And father. He needs to convince Robert to appoint Tywin but he has never been very political. All of these plans we've created are so fragile. They depend on one person saying one thing to someone at the right time and soon, if Jon and Tormund succeed, we will have a white walker to think about too."

"And the Targaryen. And her dragons. And Littlefinger. And Cersei," Arya added, listing them off on her fingers. "It almost feels futile."

"No. We can do it. We will," Sansa argued, yawning. She felt exhausted and shaky still.

"Go to sleep. It's past supper now anyway," Arya said, kicking off her boots and pushing them out of the bed. "I'm tired so shut up and go to sleep."

With her sister by her side, Sansa lay back under the furs and closed her red, tired eyes, not bothering to argue.

It was still early in the evening considering and so when she opened her eyes again, she wasn't surprised to be in the body of a dire wolf. Ghost was slightly smaller than Lady, due to being the runt but he still felt strong and powerful as Sansa's consciousness got to grips with four legs.

There was a faint rush of noise and then a roar that made her jump. She turned her cheek, Ghost's body following the command, and would have held up her hand to block the last rays of the late sunset if she had hands and not paws. Instead, Ghost just squinted and adjusted his head. There was snow and ice for as far as she could see and it was colder than Winterfell was.

"DIE YOU BASTARD!" someone gruffly shouted over her shoulder and Sansa whipped her head around. Ghost barred his teeth in defense, ready to attack if necessary.

Sansa watched through Ghost's eyes, dumbfounded at the sight of a wilding village fight what looked like members of the Night's Watch.

A man Sansa didn't recognize, dressed in the unmistaken uniform of the Watch cried out with exhaustion as his sword slashed over the unprotected belly of the wildling he was fighting. The wildman's innards began to spill from the wound and Sansa looked away quickly.

Ghost stepped around the slain body of a Watchman and Sansa recognized a familiar voice, shouting just ahead. Tormund was kicking at the torso of a whimpering man laying in a reddish pile of snow ten feet in front of her and she found herself calling his name without much forethought. He was fighting his own people.

"Tormund!" It came out as a yelp from Ghost's mouth.

There was no response or even recognition. None of those within hearing range turned or acknowledged her so Sansa took a careful step forward. There were more wildings than men of the Night's Watch but it seemed an even fight. She didn't know what they were fighting about or why but Sansa scanned those engaged in combat for one face in particular.

They all gave Ghost a wide berth so she slipped between the fight with ease. Occasionally on the prowl of the action, Ghost would lunge and bite a wilding and Sansa could taste the metallic tinge of blood faintly on her tongue. Sansa couldn't recall the moment of impact, only the lunge, and the drawback so she assumed she left the direwolf's mind briefly.

Several feet away, a redheaded woman was stood, a bow in her arms as she took aim on a black-cloaked body between her feet.

"You should have never come 'ere," she growled in a thick accent. She reached back and pulled a roughly carved arrow from her quiver. It was the final one and she easily set the arrow on the bow.

Sansa looked down at the man between the wild woman's feet and gasped. She surged forward, taking control of Ghost and launching herself at the woman just before she could let the arrow fly into Jon's closed eyes. Sansa snapped Ghost's razor-sharp teeth into the meaty flesh of the woman's upper arm. The bone snapped between Ghost's jaw and when Sansa pulled back, Ghost's white muzzle was dripping with hot, scarlet blood.

The wild woman screamed and fell silent as she passed out in the snow. Several people close to them stopped to see what had happened and the Watch took the momentary distraction to dispatch several more wildings and regroup.

Sansa looked down at Jon's face. His hair was curling around his shoulders and his beard had filled out almost fully. He looked like the man he had been when he had died. He had a split lip and a bleeding temple but no obvious injuries.

"Wake up," Sansa said, more to herself than to him. Ghost whined and nudged Jon's cold cheek for her. "Get up. Open your eyes. Come home to me, Jon."

Jon groggily woke and a sensible part of Sansa knew it was probably timing more than her wishing but she still cried out in relief.

"Sansa?" Jon mumbled. "Ghost?" he said, realizing that the being looking down on him was not a regal-looking redhead but a white, blood-soaked wolf. "Where's Ygritte?" Jon sat up on his elbow, eyes unfocused and blinking as he battled with a wave of dizziness. He remembered being hit over the head by the blunt end of an axe as Ygritte tried to kill him.

Jon pushed Ghost's face away and sat up, thankful that the revolting wildlings had either surrendered or were dead or wounded. A few meters away, someone was hastily wrapping some cloth around Ygritte's left shoulder that was bleeding profusely from what Jon suspected was a bitemark.

"That's the last fucking time Tormund acts as the voice for us," Jon said to Ghost who was looking at him with such concern that Jon ran a hand over his face and body, trying to account for anything missing. "What? I'm fine. Just dizzy. Don't let me sleep for a while."

Ghost's expression could have been described as incredulous if he hadn't been an animal so Jon looked at his familiar again. "Rob?" No response. "Bran?" Still nothing. "Sansa?" Jon said after a moment. Ghost's head nodded and Jon's chest fluttered.

Tormund was making his way over to Jon, a bloody sword still being swung around menacingly, as though it hadn't inflicted enough damage yet. "You're visiting me?" Jon asked Sansa and Ghost nodded his head. His wet, sticky nose prodded Jon's arm.

"We've been staying at this wilding camp for a few days. Today we tried to set off to the last sighting of a white walker but it turned ugly. They thought we were going to kill them all by bringing one back and setting it loose upon them," Jon explained as Tormund came to a stop behind him. "Crastor was killed this afternoon by Benjen."

"You finally gone crazy then, Crow? Or is it another one of you looneys?" he asked, gesturing to Ghost who didn't take his eyes of Jon's face. Tormund had come to recognise when the wolf wasn't himself.

"It's Sansa."

"Oh," Tormund said, eyebrows in his hairline. "We're going to make our way to the ridge where they spotted the wight soon. Those who are injured are staying in the hut and two are going to stay and guard it until we get back," explained Tormund, quickly. "You not dying, right?"

"No. Just dizzy."

Tormund huffed. "Good. Cause there's only three of us going. Me, you and that fat oaf somehow."

"Sam? Who's letting that happen?" Jon demanded, running a hand through Ghost's fur. He was rewarded with a lick to the cheek.

"Dunno. He didn't fight so he's fine. Everyone else has just fought so they aren't," Tormund shrugged as though he agreed with the logic. "Hurry up or just bring her along."

Jon swore under his breath and turned back to Ghost. His heart sank when he realized that Sansa had slipped off and he hoped wherever she was, she was alright. He slowly got to his feet and then clambered onto Ghost's back. "Well come on then. I'm not spending another day this side of the wall if I have to so let's go get a fucking wight."

Chapter Text

Petyr Baelish liked to watch. He observed. He had always done so. As a child fostered in Riverrun, he'd watched the children at his foster keep with keen eyes: Edmure, so self-assured with his casual cruelty. Lysa, infatuated with him and predictably jealous of Petyr's true desire, the beautiful Catelyn.

He'd watched her grow from a willowy child into a self-assured young woman and he would have done anything to be her husband. He almost died for her but other plans had been made. Shortly after being almost killed by Brandon Stark, Petyr had laid in the back of a carriage, bleeding from a poorly sewn-up wound that had reopened due to the uneven cantering of the horses. He realised then that he had to manipulate the world or else it would manipulate him. He'd begun to think ahead, lay little webs, and set little things in motion.

It had been easy to get into Jon Arryn's court. One raven to Lysa with some words of false affection and he was settled in a small house in Gulltown, easily doubling the revenue with some well-placed men and plans that were morally grey. Then a sudden stroke of luck: the post of Master of the Coin for the newly appointed king.

He'd made a name for himself and a life that could provide but he'd always had contingency plans. The brothels, Lysa's loyal affection, his little spies, and banking on Catelyn Stark's blind faith in him. He'd continued to write to her as they both aged. Slipped in enough about his accomplishments to amuse but not to brag. She always wrote to him in a timely fashion, long letters that were finished with heartfelt wishes to see him in Winterfell.

But then they'd slowed. One missed raven turned into several and over the course of a year, Catelyn hadn't returned one letter personally, just sent a generic note of acknowledgement written by one of her handmaids.

Then Lysa agreed to his most ambitious of plans. Jon Arryn was poisoned and the blame, albeit quietly, fell onto the Lannisters. He'd accompanied Lysa north to Winterfell to 'assist her in her mourning' and to see Catelyn with his own eyes. He'd gathered word that Eddard had been in Moat Cailin for some moons and he doubted he would return whilst Petyr was trespassing on Ned's keep.

Catelyn had greeted them with open arms but the welcome didn't surprise him. She'd always been a gracious woman and running a keep the size of Winterfell would never have daunted Catelyn Stark. The fact there were so many fostered children running about piqued his interest but instead of questioning them, he threw out his nets.

A raven to a woman he knew in Iron Islands. A raven to High Garden. A raven to Castle Black.

He stood in shadows and cracks in the foundations, listening and watching. There were flowers and sea creatures and bears and a knight roaming around, all comfortable and welcome. Even the dense Lysa had commented on it a few days into their stay.

The eldest Stark, the boy who tauntingly looked like Ned, was chasing the skirt of Margaery Tyrell and seemed to be successful. He was tall and strapping, self-assured and confident in the manner in which he spoke but always polite. He was no doubt being groomed to take over the Warden's role. Baelish kept that in mind with every encounter.

In contrast to her brother, the savagery in which Arya conducted herself made Petyr reel. He stayed away from her, unnerved at how she scampered around the keep with her beastly wolf and a sword. She would grow into a fierce warrior, he had no doubt and so he had decided within a few minutes of meeting her that he wouldn't give her a chance to wield that damned sword in his direction. He left her well alone and focused on the smithy who was obviously infatuated with her.

Gendry looked like a shade of a man Petyr thought he knew but despite his letters to the capital, nothing had materialised that would aid him. He blinked several times every time the boy was before him. He looked like someone, that much Petyr knew and he vowed to find out who.

Bran also haunted him. He didn't look like his father but instead like his mother. He could see Catelyn's soft cheekbones and cool eyes in the boy's face but there was a weight to them that Petyr couldn't explain. Bran looked at him as though he could see through his soul and on more than one occasion, Petyr had spotted several cloudy-eyed ravens watching him as he wandered through the keep. He didn't know why he associated them with the boy but they made the skin on the back of his neck prickle.

Theon presented a problem. A Kraken who was so obviously a Wolf. He had sent letters and things were slowly trickling into place once he settled on a course of action but how deep did the boy's loyalty go? Test him beforehand and possibly show his cards or blindly trust his gut?

None of those made as much of an impact on him as the prize within Winterfell's walls. Sansa Stark was ethereal and beautiful at only fifteen. She carried herself like a queen and naturally seemed to draw people to her. She was everything she was supposed to be and more. She was ripe for plucking and Baelish was glad Catelyn had slipped through his fingers and produced an even greater wife for him.

She had the beauty, the youth, and the grace. She even showed some potential to be his equal, not just some simpering woman whose job was to birth heirs. Sansa had been kept away and flanked by direwolves at every moment it seemed. He'd seen her climb the bell tower and took the opportunity to corner her. Instead of an insipid child, Sansa had been impolite and almost vicious with him.

It excited him.

Following her sudden illness before supper, Petyr stepped out from the shadows. He let her see him. He would take her under his wing and nurture her blossoming power. She would turn to him when she had problems or issues. She would look to him for guidance. If he couldn't have Catelyn, he would have Sansa, Baelish decided.

Sansa woke the following morning with pounding head and chattering teeth. Arya remained in the bed, snoring unashamedly. Nymeria barely stirred from the foot of the bed.

Sansa slipped out from under the furs and into a cloak, wrapping it tightly around her to try and chase the chill away. Winterfell wasn't any colder than it usually was. The fires were stoked and maids were bustling through the walkways with buckets of hot coal to put in metal baskets that were dotted around to heat the corridors.

Sansa had no doubt the chill had come from her visit beyond the wall. She walked purposefully to the glass garden, hoping the ambient heat would warm her through.

Bran was sitting with Catelyn, her gentle hands untangling his long hair and smoothing it back. It was a motherly act Sansa hadn't witnessed for some time, possibly since their last incarnation and it made her chest twinge.

"Mother," she said as soon as she was close enough.

Catelyn smiled softly and she gently shushed her daughter, nodding towards Bran's closed eyes. "He's checking in," she explained and Sansa nodded. She sat carefully on a patch of unsown earth, uncaring of the dirt on her hems.

"You never made it to supper," Cat said, never looking up from Bran's hair.

"I slipped into Ghost. There was a skirmish with one of the last Wilding posts and, I'm not sure what happened. I was walking with- I was walking to supper and then every other blink I was there. I couldn't..." she trailed off, keeping her fingers busy with braiding and re-braiding the same strands of hair.

"Hmm," Catelyn made a noise of suprise "You missed the welcoming feast for Tyrion."

"What?" she excalimed, fingers stumbling over the braid and the hair fell loose. "When did he arrive?"

"Shortly after noon. You were in the bell tower I believe. Robb was in the Godswood. Arya, in the smithy. Theon, with Dacey Mormont," Catelyn listed and Sansa felt the corner of her lip turn up. Her mother had eyes everywhere. "He is staying with us until the next shipment is due to the Wall. Apparently he has burning desire to see the Wall in person but he has yet to raise my suspicion. You, however, my little Red Wolf, have occupied my thoughts greatly," Catelyn said coyly, finally turning to look at her daughter.

"You do not need to worry about me, mother," Sansa sighed.

"It is a mother's burden to worry about her children. Are you sure of yourself?"

Sansa sighed and ran through everything she knew about Petyr Baelish. He was egotistical, narcasistic and paranoid. He saw potential to be molded and shaped to his will in everyone. Sansa knew first hand how subtle his actions were. "He will no doubt be one of the more challanging faces but right now he is more beneficial as a friend rather than as a foe. He despises the Lannisters and all he wants is power. That we can use."

"Yes but he is smart. If he begins to suspect anything, he will try and take us down. He will ask for your hand soon, I am sure of it. He needs to be apart of what is happening. If House Stark suddenly becomes even more influencial over the North's rulings then we will never be rid of him," Catelyn argued.

"Arya wants to slit his throat," Sansa added.

"Favourable but unwise," countered Catelyn with a smile. It occured to her that eightmeen moons ago, the thought would have repulsed her but now, she sat straighter thinking about Arya in such a manner.

"They found one," Bran said suddenly, eyes snapping open and head whipping around so quickly that both women shrieked.

"Oh Gods!" Sansa panted, clutching her chest and Catelyn scolded Bran.

"One what?"

"A wight. Five miles north of the wilding village. It's alone."

Sansa and Catelyn exchanged a heavy look. "Who is 'they' exactly?"

"Jon, Tormund and Samwell Tarly."

"Who?" Catelyn questioned, eyebrows furrowed.

"May the gods be with them," prayed Sansa.

"The warmth of a big woman," Tormund said, bringing Jon back to reality. They'd trekked through the night, set up a quick camp and then set off again as soon as the sun had risen. Tormund, in his infinite wisdom had decided to pass the time and keep the tieredness at bay by listing everything he missed from below the wall.

They were in the right area, a wight had been spotted in the vicinity just a week prior.

"Mead! I miss honey mead and getting so drunk I wished I were dead!" he added as an after thought.

Samwell was red-cheeked as they climbed over the last lip of the ridge, his lit torch warming his hands and illuminating his sweaty forehead. "Never had mead," he huffed, out of breath.

Tormund clicked his tongue and swore. "Course you never fuckin' have. Doubt you've had a woman either."

Samwell frowned. "I didn't take the vows, not yet," he trailed off, quiet and embarrassed. Jon knew what that implied. He had no vow of celibacy to fall back on and make excuses for.

Jon took a long, steadying breath, hoping the topic was finished and dropped but Tormund began to laugh deeply, bending over and clutching his belly as the laughter rattled through him. Samwell rolled his eyes and continued to plow on through the snow. The swirling snowflakes made visibility hard and within several feet, Sam was hard to spot. They had been walking up and down frozen rivers and into valleys made by the water that had since frozen over. He was half-wheezing as he climbed up the next hill towards such a dip in the landscape.

"Fucks sake," Jon hissed, punching the wild man on the arm but with the amount of furs they were both wearing it didn't make much of an impact. "He is my friend."

"He is pathetic."

"He is the smartest man I know. Its because of him we know all we do about the whitewalkers. He was the one who found their weaknesses. He told me about my family. He is my friend."

Sam reappeared in front of them suddenly, his flaming torch flickering wildly in the wind. "Who are you? Why do you speak of such things without fear? These whitewalkers, I mean."

"You said it on the first night we met," Jon said, hoping the subject would be dropped quickly. They had agreed as a pack not to tell people about their reincarnation and despite how important Sam had been to Jon, they were now different people. Shades of the men they had been.

"Magic?"

"Perhaps. Sometimes. On one instance in particular," Jon agreed, shaking his head and running a gloved hand through his hair. He hissed in frustration when his fingers got caught in a knot. "Sam, I can't tell you. I would if I could, believe me, I would tell you everything but I can't."

Sam nodded, deep in thought. "Because its magic."

Tormund ran his tongue over his teeth. "Can I say?"

"No," they both said and then the two men looked at one another.

"You'll fuck it all up," Jon explained.

Samwell looked sheepish. "I don't really trust you," he added.

"But you trust Crow and his giant fucking wolf?" Tormund exclaimed.

"Yes. I feel like I've known you forever," he told Jon earnestly. "You said, back at Castle Black, that I was waiting to meet someone called Gilly and that I would aid a king and work in the Citadel," he began. Jon nodded warily. "You know that its going to happen or is that supposed to happen?"

"I don't know if I should say? What if I tell you all these circumstances and then none of it happens because you knew already?"

"I have followed you a week beyond the Wall and into a wildling camp. From there I've gone into the unknown with you, searching for a creature only heard of in folk tales thats supposedly undead and you want my assistance in capturing said creature. You know all these strange things about me and those around us. You're carrying an ancient family sword that isn't your own."

"Okay," Jon said slowly.

"You also said you were but you weren't married. Have you been married before?" Sam asked as the winds picked up slightly.

"Is this really necessary. We're so fucking close to the wight," Tormund complained, stamping his feet and compacting the snow around them.

"Shut up, Tormund. Yes, I have been married before."

"And it ended in..."

"Death."

"Hers?"

"Mine."

Sam closed his mouth and contemplated for a moment.

"You've died before?"

"Twice."

A nod. "You knew me. Before. We knew one another?"

Jon remained silent but something in his face must have given him away as Sam nodded understandingly.

"And this white walker. This wight. You've fought one of these before right?"

"Too many," Tormund scoffed.

"But you know how to fight one, right?" Sam pressed.

"It was later and they were stronger but yes, we fought many and capture one to take to the capital. They need the proof or else we will never be united against them," Jon informed him. He reached around and into his satchel, rummaging until he'd found two daggers topped with dark glass. "Valyrian steel, fire and dragonglass. Those are the only things that will kill them."

"How can you be sure?" Sam asked as Jon handed one of the daggers to Tormund.

Jon smiled broadly but it didn't reach his eyes. "Because you told me so."

Tormund saved Sam from replying but shushing the pair. He was watching Ghost and held up his fist. Sam spun around and gripped the torch with two hands, a worried look overtaking him.

Ghost's ears were flat against his skull and his teeth were bared as he looked into the small ditch below them. In the natural end where water had once flowed from above, a hunched figure was slowly moving from side to side. It's grey hands were hitting the ice walls, nails scratching into the snow. It seemed to be looking for a way out of the little valley.

"Is that what I think it is?" Sam whispered so quietly that Jon almost didn't catch it. He didn't know how strong the wight below them was and didn't want to risk it hearing them so he just nodded.

Wrapped around Tormund was several loops of chain made from Valyrian steel. Gendry had fashioned it for them before they'd left Winterfell and Tormund had taken to wearing it like a belt. Finally, thought Jon, relieved it would be put to its intented use.

They breifly discussed how they would go about catching a wight without a dragon but in the heat of the moment, Jon forgot everything they'd planned. He pointed harshly to Sam and then to the ground and the man needed no further instruction. He dropped to his knees and then curled up in a ball, the torch melting the snow where he'd dropped it but thankfully not extinguishing fully.

Tormund crept slowly to Ghost's side, peering down at the inhuman creature with morbid fascination. It seemed to have been a wildling in life but its furs were covered in ice and frost and had fused with its grey skin in some places. It's lips and nose had cracked and broken away and hunks of skin were missing. Tormund realised he could see the creature's arm bones and he wondered what power drove the monsters to move, let alone fight.

"No weapon," Jon hissed into the shell of Tormund's ear.

They seemed to have stumbled upon the most unequipped wight beyond the wall. No weapon, trapped in a ditch and alone. The gods were smiling down on them.

"Do not kill it unless it kills one of us. We need it alive to show to the other houses," Jon warned, ignoring the way Tomrund rolled his eyes dramatically.

"Yes, yes, I fuckin' know," the wildman hissed through his teeth, body stilling as the wight's head lolled on its neck to scan the little ditch.

Jon slowly crept onto his toes. He unbuckled his sword belt, gently setting Longclaw down into the snow and patting the dagger in his boot for reassurance. "On my count, into the ditch and incapacitate it," he ordered. "Ghost, guard Samwell."

"How the fuck do you expect me to do that without killin' it?" Tormund demanded as the giant beast lay itself protectively around Sam.

"I don't know. Just keep its arms busy," Jon snapped, eyes never leaving the wight. "Ready?"

Tormund ran a finger of the loops of the chain once more, centering himself. "One, two-"

"Three," Jon finished before springing into action.

The pair jumped the five or so feet into the ditch and the wight made a horrible high-pitched screetch, its semi-connected jaw hanging slack and lopsided. The monster was slow, one skeletal foot dragging in the fresh powder. It reached out, swiping at Jon, who was closest. He yanked his dagger free and slashed at the arm, connecting with the exposed bone. The noise was like a dull scrape and it made him wince. The wight retracted its arm, an echo of its former humanity and Jon continued to attack and press it closer to Tormund until the pair of them had it trapped between them. Tormund threw the chain over the wights shoulder from behind and it buckled under the weight. The two men easily wrapped the chain around its arms and what remained of the creature's thighs but its skewed jaw continued to snap at them.

With sweat on his brow from ploughing through the snow, Jon pushed his hair out of his eyes and searched through his pockets for any loose material. Eventually, he gently untied the ribbon keeping Sansa's letters bound neatly and gave it to Tormund. He replaced the precious papers and watched in quiet amusement as Tormund hooked the ribbon under the wight's flapping chin and tied a floppy bow at the crown of its skull.

"That won't hold for long," Jon commented, resheathing his blade and looking up at the lip of the ditch, just liked the wight had been. "How the hell do we get it out?"

"Tarly!" Tormund hollered. "You got rope?"

Samwell and Ghost appeared above them, a coil of rope in Sam's hand. After several failed attempts of Samwell pulling by himself, Ghost had hoisted Jon out of the ditch and then the wight.

Sam paled and took several steps back. "What's to stop it from breaking free of the chains?"

Tormund had a leg over the ditch, swearing about the snow collecting in his beard as Ghost had let go of the rope quicker than he had for his master. "Cut its fucking arms off? Split it into several pieces and sew it back together when we get to Winterfell?"

"Be serious," Samwell countered warily.

"I am. Those chains are the only thing keeping it contained and they were made by a child." Samwell looked like he was going to be sick.

"Gendry is a very acomplished blacksmith. I'd argue the best in all of Westeros," Jon frowned, hauling the groaning wight onto Ghost's shoulders, making sure it was face up and in no danger of biting the wolf.

"I need a mead," was all Tormund said in responce, brushing the snow from his beard. "Its a three day walk back and we've got the worst travelling companion known to man."

"It's won't break free of the chains," Jon assured them as they wandered back through the gathering winds to their original trail, the firelight of the torch flickering in Sam's hand.

"Oh, yeah, we've also got a fucking wight now," Tormund added and Samwell frowned as he fell in step behind Ghost.

"Tormund..." Jon said.

"What?"

"Shut the fuck up."

Chapter Text

Ned rolled his head, grinning to himself when he heard the satisfying click of bones. 

Moat Cailin had come far in the three moons he'd been stationed there. Three of the four towers were now complete and housing families, soldiers, artisans and others from the surrounidng towns and villages. When the word had spread that the Warden of the North was rebuidling the stronghouse, they'd flocked to the region.

The bannermen's ranks had swelled and Ned had even managed to convince two healers to stay and make Cailin their base. Children were being educated in the Children's Tower, much to Ned's amsuement and he'd watched one morning as a crannogman taught the children to weave fishing nets.

Ned couldn't believe how much progress had been made on a cause he and a hundred Wardens before him had deemed a lost one. In his previous life, he'd sent a hundred bow men to fortify the Moat but that was as far as he'd ever gone to boost the North's protection.

Howland appeared at Ned's elbow, a three-pointed spear in his hand which he leant on heavily.

"All is well?" he enquired, his eyes scanning the busy surroundings of cranngomen and Stark bannermen going about their business, intermingling with those who now called the Moat their home.

"I was getting lost in memories and what-ifs," Ned said good naturedly, turnign to his friend with a smile. "Foolish, I know."

Howland shook his head. "Nonsence. I find myself lost thinking about the past all of the time. For example, what would have happened if Lyanna had never chased those bastards away? We would never have crossed paths."

Ned titled his head. Before, in his previous life before it had all gone to shit, he'd met Howland Reed by accident. Lyanna had stumbled upon crannogman being attacked and set about with a tourney sword. 

The ghost of his sister wrapped a heavy arm around his shoulders and Ned sagged under the weight of the memories. "I miss her. She was the best of us."

Howland nodded but gave no reply.

"When do you plan to return North?" Howland said after a moment of so of quiet grief.

"As soon as the stonemasons have decided how much stone is needed for the final tower. I trust leaving Moat Cailin in your capable hands now that the Frey's have been quelled."

Howland blinked. "Pardon?"

"Well, who did you think was going to run this place when I was back at Winterfell?"

"Do you think the other Lords of the North will be pleased with this decision?"

"They have to be. I have already sent word tenday ago with the ravens and none have marched down here to demand a change of heart. I trust you and the rest of the North trusts you. You can help teach the next generation," Ned said, turning and clapping his friend on the shoulder.

"Was this one of the Red Wolf's little plans?"

Ned's thick eyebrows rose in suprise. "Who?"

Howland scoffed. "Do not try to fool me, my Lord. My Jojen saw something. He dreamt of a Red wolf talking to me. I take it to assume that whoever they are is the one pulling the strings."

Ned sighed. "I take it you are also blessed with someone closer to the children of the forest than to us?"

Howland dipped his chin. "Aye."

"My Bran is... different."

"It is as you said, a blessing," Howland said simply, linking his fingerd around the spear's handle. "Come, join us frogging this morning. As you said, your time here is limited now."

Ned nodded once. "Of course. You will have to be patient with me. I am not as stealthy as I once was."

Howland's dark eyes shone. "I don't believe that for one moment," he said as he allowed Ned to lead them back through the Moat.

Tyrion set himself down at the table closest to the Stark's table. He glanced around, taking catalgoue of how many others had decided to break their fast so early after dawn. He'd already seen the Lady of the Keep wandering with one of her sons at her elbow but he'd kept out of her way.

He did not come to Winterfell to get trapped in one-sided conversations with bored high society wives. He'd not heard much about Catelyn Stark beyond the usual empty whispers about her beauty and her supposed happy union.

He knew that the Stark brood was large and the children were loved it seemed but Tyrion couldn't give two shits about them if he was being honest. He did not care for children, not even his own nephews and neice - especially his nephew - and so being around so many strangers unnerved him slightly.

He was so used to the Captial and how that ran that sitting in the Great Hall of Winterfell felt novel and unusual. Tyrion found himself enjoying the bracing cold. He liked seeing the servants rush around in thick furs and he subconsciously rubbing his nose into the collar of his own cloak.

It was one solid skin of a large fox-like creature. He'd paid too much in a market town a days ride into the North but it fit him perfectly.

Tyrion helped himself to a full bowl of warming oats as he watched the others in the room. Sat alone on the oposite side of the hall was a young man, uncaring about being caught staring at the King's brother-in-law.

Tyrion groaned and averted his eyes. The boy had the same curly hair he'd been told ran in the Stark family but he didn't look like Eddard. He was handsome, with dark hair and darker eyes. He sat back, watching Tyrion with an easy look on his face. A movement at the man's elbow made Tryion glance back. A huge black direwolf with mossy green eyes was also looking at him and it made the hair on the back of his neck prickle. 

Danger, his mind screamed. 

Tyrion felt his appetite leave him. He set down his spoon and smoothed the front of his cloak, looking around for the closest exit.

"He won't bite," the boy said, realising that Tyrion was trying to leave. "He's wary around stangers."

"Forgive me, but I am too," Tyrion snipped, sliding off of the bench and retreating back towards the main doors.

The man nodded, pursing his lips in thought. 

"You're fortunate to have made it to Winterfell in time for Arya's nameday," the boy continued, getting up from his table and easily catching up with his long legs. 

Tyrion swore in his mind. He hated being reminded about his stature with such simple cruelty. He couldn't even walk away from this boy with ease.

"It was not my intention," Tyrion said, allowing the boy to open the door and lead them into the drafty halls. "I am awaiting the next supply run to Castle Black."

The boy nodded sagely. "Yes, I had heard."

Tyrion raised and eyebrow and looked closely at the boy. "Oh?"

"My name is Theon Greyjoy, my lord," the boy, Theon, finally said, stopping to introduce himself. "This is Shaggydog," he added, head tilting to the black shadow that had been following them without a sound.

"A Kraken?"

"A ward of Lord and Lady Stark," was all Theon said in reply. "Like I said, good timing on your part to be here for a nameday. They are a true celebration," he smiled. Even his accent and the way he held himself in his furs seemed natural. Tyrion wondered in the boy could even swim, let alone sail.

"For who, did you say?"

As though she had heard her name being whispered about, Arya came barreling down a nearby staircase, her footsteps thundering around the quiet keep. Nymeria following suit. They stopped at the same time with both of their right feet raised ready for the next step. Arya and the wolf tilted their head to the right simultaneously.

Danger, Tyrion thought again at the sight. 

"Theon," Arya said suspiciously, looking between the pair. "Mother is looking for you."

Theon flattened his lips and nodded. "My lord," he said before turning and disappearing down a bend in the corridor.

Tyrion watched him and his direwolf shadow leave before turning back to the young Stark girl but she was nowhere to be seen. 

He turned on the spot to check she hadn't slipped past him and into the Great Hall but the doors were still drawn closed and he hadn't heard her move. Tyrion wrapped his cloak further around his shoulders and decided to head back to his rooms. He would wait for the next Castle Black shipment from inside. He could be quiet. He could be patient. He could hide away.

"I haven't seen Tyrion Lannister for a few days," Sansa commented in the safety of her parents' solar. "I had expected to run into him by now."

Catelyn carefully finshed the last word of her missive and then set the quill down, looking up at her daughter. "Pardon?"

"I haven't seen Tyrion. Has he already gone to Castle Black?"

Catefuly frowned as she carefully fanned the letter. "No. The next shipment isn't until after Arya's nameday. Forget about that, we need to make sure we are on the same page about this."

Sansa turned away from the fireplace and took a seat in front of her mother. 

They had decided, much to Arya's chargrin, that they would celebrate her nameday and open the keep up to those in Wintertown and surrounding holds. It was the least they could do as Protectors of the area. They had been fortunate with their harvest and the stores were over flowing with food and produce.

"Has Lysa told you when she plans on leaving? They have been here for nearly ten days now. It is becoming impolite, even if she is your sister."

"She is grieving," Cat said simply. "Regardless, it will be nice for Sweetrobin to experience a nameday with his cousins, don't you think."

Sansa stayed quiet, mulling it over. 

"How has Lord Baelish been these past few days?"

"He accompanied me to break my fast yesterday but besides that, he has been reading in the library when I have or enquiring about the smithy's production when I visit Arya. He is being very covert with his medelling," she recounted.

"Not put off by Lady?" Cat asked, a coy smile on her face.

Sansa smiled at that. "He does not approach without making a fuss and a lot of noise. She growls the entire time he is near us but I would rather he thought her an nuisance rather than an inconviencience." Sansa shuddered to think the lengths Baelish would go to to dispatch of her direwolf. "And him with you?"

Cat rolled the letter up tightly and pressed a gentle kiss to it. "He is going through partchment and quills quicker than a guest should," she said, irritated. "He asked about Ned's return twice this morning. I worry he is becoming too used to being here. He took the liberty of hiring out a bard for the nameday from the Vale. He arrived with his large entourage just after midday. It was a boon that Petyr agreed to house his gift in his quarters. Have you noticed we are hosting to a lot, as of late."

Sansa smirked. She had heard the noise and chaos of the bard and his instruments being unloaded from his carriage a few hours before. Several lean-looking, ill-dressed acrobats and someone she presumed was a fire-eater from his paraphanlia also trailed behind the loud, boasting bard. Sansa only hoped he was worth the coin Baelish had splashed.

"Arya ripped the dress that one of the handmaiden's made for her," Sansa said.

"Let her. She only needs to smile when necessary and stay for the duration. It is imperative we plant the seeds about Jon Arryn's murder. You and I will be busy hosting but let the others know. Nobody can know it started with us. It has to end here, Sansa, do you understand."

Sansa nodded and turned her eyes down. "We will make sure it's done."

"And then we can send Lysa back to the Vale and it is up to her to decide what to do. We cannot interfer beyond that. Perhaps she talks to our brother, perhaps she goes with the court of public opinion and lashes out at the Lannisters. Regardless," Catelyn said with a wave, "your father will be home soon and Tyrion will leave. The boys beyond the Wall will also be here before we know it."

Sansa heart skipped a beat and then froze. "With a wight."

Catelyn looked gravely at her daughter. "And that is when Petyr Baelish will live up to his name and reputation."