III.

They talked in circles. Jon would accuse their father of hiding the truth to keep Robert Baratheon happy; Ned would plead it was always about keeping Jon safe and honouring Lyanna; then it would be about Ned picking 'safe and surviving wasn't the same as living'; and then it was 'better safe and unhappy than dead'—

But the fourth time they circled around to the same argument, Arya was thoroughly done. What did

it matter, that their father had never told Jon? That was a different time. He had taken the secret to his grave, and Howland Reed could have stirred himself from the Neck at any time to speak to Jon after the fact and didn't (for all the love he so claimed to hold for Jon's mother, her aunt Lyanna, it seemed the men were more interested in their wallowing than their care for Lyanna's wishes, whatever they were).

It was Bran who told Jon, Sansa who told Tyrion, and Tyrion and Varys who nearly upset the entire applecart when Daenerys learned the truth of Jon's parentage and began another Dance of Dragons, despite Jon only borrowing Rhaegal. It wasn't like Jon was going to win, or anything – the throne was never meant for him, despite his giving away of the King of Winter crown and his theoretical place in line for the iron throne. It came down to the fact that Robert Baratheon won through right of conquest, and while Jon could go for the throne, he was more concerned with the Night's King.

Things all worked out, as far as Arya was concerned. They were in the past, people they loved were alive again, and they had a head start on stopping the Night's King and his army of the undead. Should he win, the throne did not matter – there would be nothing to rule over, anyway. Besides –

"It's not like Jon's going to suddenly go around proclaiming he's Rhaegar's son," muttered Arya, arms crossed.

It wasn't quite quiet enough, as Ned swung his head to his youngest daughter. "I beg your pardon?"

Arya sighed, uncrossing her arms. "That's what's you're worried about, isn't it? That Jon, knowing who his parents are, would want to learn more about them or demonstrate that he's more Targaryen than Stark. That he would push for his claim. In doing so, he would risk – well, I suppose, his younger self – but also the entire family, as Robert Baratheon would learn you lied to him about Aunt Lyanna. And then he would come for you, the entire family, the North, and Jon. You are trying to prevent death and destruction – and that's fair. But Jon's not going to do that."

"He's already done so!" argued Ned, his voice colder than she had ever heard it. "Those at the Wall know—"

"Only the Lord Commander, Maester Aemon, uncle Benjen and Ser Alliser know," stressed an exasperated Jon.

"That's far too many--!"

Sansa rolled her eyes from where she sat, daintily, in a chair. She had been brushing Rickon's wild curls back from his forehead, lulling the young teenager who sat on the floor, leaning against her legs, to a doze despite the heated words between Ned and Jon. "I suppose secrets are fine when only yourself and your friend who never leaves his hard-to-find castle know them."

"It certainly helps keep things contained, Sansa," replied Ned stiffly.

"The truth will out," said Bran in his stoic way, staring at their father and unnerving him at once. "You cannot stop it."

"Honestly, it's not that concerning," added Arya, shrugging under the weight of several incredulous looks sent her way. "What? It isn't. If we're talking about keeping secrets and things quiet, perhaps we should speak of Robb and his need to wear his crown of winter everywhere?"

Startled by being called out, Robb flushed as the eyes in the room swung toward him. Sputtering, he tried to speak. "That's not – that is, I wear my crown because – well, I was chosen – it's respectful—"

"Honestly, what's more troubling?" asked Sansa, an amused quirk to her thin lips. "A secret Targaryen prince, or the fact that both Robb and Jon were crowned by the Northern lords as Kings of Winter?"

"After all," added Arya, sharing in Sansa's pointed amusement, "The North swore to Baratheon, did they not? So long as Robb wears that crown, we could secede and become independent once more. They certainly long for it, given how quickly they jumped at the chance of crowning Robb last time, over Stannis or Renly. I'm sure that's much more pressing than a maybe-he-is, maybe- he-is-not doesn't-even-look-like-a-Targaryen."

Ned stared at his children; mouth open in shock. He groaned, buried his face in his hands even as he shook his head back and forth in dismay. "Why have the Gods cursed me so?"

"Cursed you?" repeated an incredulous Arya. "Father, we're here to save you. Honestly, we're the cursed ones, forced to relive this all over again and surrounded by idiots—Hey!"

Robb glared at Arya, and she rubbed at her side where he whacked her. "Watch your tongue, Arya. Don't disrespect our father."

"We're going in circles," sighed Sansa, glancing between a glowering Jon and weary Ned. "Let's adjourn and perhaps cooler heads will prevail on the morrow."

Peering at his grown children, Ned spoke, his voice gravelly, "Your mother has been informed of the situation. She wishes to see you all for the evening meal."

The siblings shared wary looks themselves, none interested in sitting in the Great Hall under the eyes of the Winterfell staff, many of whom they knew to die during Ramsay's taking of the castle.

Sensing their unease, Ned continued, "We can have a private meal, in the family hall."

"That is acceptable," agreed Robb, glancing around as the rest of the Starks nodded their acceptance, in one way or another.

Ned smiled, but it was more of a grimace. "Very good. I'll see you all then."

Sansa and Rickon, who were seated, rose at the command to leave; Jon turned on his heel first to leave the room, with Arya on his heels; Robb turned to Bran and pushed him out – one of the first things they had all done together without arguing with create a movable chair for Bran to be wheeled from one room to another, based on what Arya knew of Doran Martell and Bran adapting the saddle design Tyrion once gave him – until they all left the solar.

Jon and Arya had waited just outside the room. As they all looked at one another, Robb suggested in a low voice, "My room?"

He didn't mean his room – younger Robb was in it – but the room in the guest wing that he was given. While all the Starks had separate rooms, despite their feelings for one another, they often found themselves sneaking into Robb's room by virtue of it being the largest. The morning would find them a puppy pile of tangled limbs and warm bodies as they cuddled and protected each other asleep as much as they were at each other's throats during the day.

Once they were fully ensconced, Robb turned to Arya and scolded her. "You shouldn't speak or

treat father that way."

"And you shouldn't place him on such a high pedestal," she countered, throwing herself on his bed and lounging there, peering at him with dark eyes from the recesses behind the curtains.

"Father was a great man—"

"Who made mistakes, Robb," sighed Sansa, sinking into a chaise kitty corner to the hearth. "He was human. And he made mistakes."

"Father did not—" Robb's face was red.

"Keeping Jon's parentage was a mistake," interrupted Bran baldly, wheeling himself nearer to the window, which overlooked the inner bailey. He pursed his lips at the lack of view to the Godswood.

"He said it was to keep Jon safe—"

Jon snorted, crossing his arms and lounging against the bedroom door, chin nearly touching his chest with how he kept his eyes trained on the floor.

"Ignoring that," stressed Sansa, glaring at both Jon and Robb, when Robb's mouth opened to refute, "Betrothing me to Joffrey; confronting Cersei about the truth about her children; ignoring Barbrey Dustin and Roose Bolton and how deep their hatred runs for Starks; being led by his own hatred for the Lannisters to be susceptible to Lysa's letter that she sent mother... the list can go on."

"You're really not one to speak of trusting Lannisters," Robb pointed out. "Or was it not you who sent me that letter telling me to bend my knee?"

"It was written at sword point," replied Sansa stiffly, narrowing her eyes on her brother. "Do you think I had much choice about what I could or could not write while being their hostage?"

"Although you did tell Cersei about the ship father had for us," Arya said with a tooth-barred grin. Sansa swung her head to her sister, and hissed, "I. Was. A. Child!"

"You were thirteen, you should have known better," spat Robb. "Hells, even Arya at eleven knew better than to trust a Lannister—"

Arya frowned at the implied insult.

Poor Rickon was just staring at them, head swivelling back and forth between each speaker.

"I was their hostage! A prisoner! I watched father's execution!" shrieked Sansa, rising from her chair. "Do you think I don't feel guilt or shame for what my actions caused, or led to? I had to live with that knowledge every single day I was trapped, surrounded by enemies. Stupid, stupid Sansa! Stupid little bird, stupid naïve child." Her hands clenched tight at her sides and her nails pricked her skin. "I have to live with that for the rest of my life, Robb! But I suffered for it – the Gods know I suffered."

Robb scoffed with an eye roll. "Suffered? While I sent men to their deaths in battle, what did you suffer, little sister? A lack of lemon cakes?"

Arya inhaled sharply, sitting up on her elbows to stare at Robb in shock. Bran merely turned to

watch, his face impassive, but it was Jon who shot forward and wrapped a fist around the scarf Robb had taken to wearing around his neck to hide the lurid, bright red scar from his beheading at the Twins.

Jon pulled his fist close to his chest, leaning his face down into Robb's face while his cousin stared at him in shock. "Watch your mouth, Stark, or I shall close it for you should you make light of Sansa's suffering."

"Snow—what—" gasped Robb, grabbing Jon's hand and trying to pull it away.

"Let him go, Jon," said Sansa, tired and defeated. All anger drained from her. "He wouldn't know. There's no way he could have."

Jon held on a moment longer, and then roughly released Robb with a shove. Robb stumbled back, regaining his footing and composure under the guise of rubbing a hand against his neck in a nervous gesture.

With a disgusted snort, Jon stepped back and turned to Sansa's side, stepping forward. His broad shoulders blocked her from Robb's view, and there was something tender – if not contained fury – in him as he raised a shaking hand to touch Sansa's cheek. She turned her head toward Jon, eyes closed and face pinched. They weren't embracing, although Jon's grazing fingertips quickly turned to cup Sansa's cheek tenderly; there was still something intimate and protective in their body language.

"What happened?" breathed Robb, shock coating his words.

"Much," replied Jon for Sansa, sending a challenging look over his shoulder at his cousin.

"What did they do to you, Sansa?" continued Robb, speaking only to his little sister – now, his older sister – and ignoring the glower Jon sent him.

Sansa ignored him, instead presenting her back to Jon and gathered her hair over her shoulder.

"Are you sure?" Jon asked quietly.

Sansa's shoulders slumped. "He needs to see. He needs to understand."

Arya, on the bed, swore and noisily turned over so that she had her back to them. She glared at the far wall, ignoring the rest of her siblings in angry silence.

"See? See what?" asked Rickon, torn between continuing to hover in the corner of the room and inching forward.

Taking Sansa's words as permission, Jon sighed and began to unlace the back of Sansa's dress.

"By the Gods, Jon, that's inappropriate..." began Robb, stepping forward, but the words trailed off as the dress peeled away, revealing white skin, a few freckles, and the top of Sansa's shift... and a mess of silver and pink lines.

"No..." The word ripped from Robb, more a noisy whine than language as he stepped forward, eyes caught on Sansa's back as Jon stepped away and she held her dress to her front, leaving it to split open to the small of her, where the scars grew in number and width.

"If it makes you feel better, brother dear," began Sansa, the tiniest bit scathingly, "Most of these scars came from my second husband. But the ones on my sides? Nearer the bottom? Those are

from the kingsguard."

"I—" croaked Robb, tearing his eyes from the marks to Sansa, who peered over her shoulder at him.

"Every battle you won, they took it out on me," she explained. Her tone implied facts, removed from all emotion. Sansa had time to learn to live with her scars. "Joffrey would have me stripped in front of the court and humiliated." She paused. "Do you know who stopped that? Who cloaked me and protected me?"

"Sansa..." Robb trailed off. Sansa turned to face her brother, still clutching the front of her dress to her, but Jon moved behind and muttered something low that only she heard and helped her dress again by tugging her laces back into place, ignoring Robb and Sansa's discussion.

Rickon, now facing Sansa's back, saw the marks as Jon pulled her dress together. He howled, "San!" and barrelled forward, staring up at her, eyes wide and face pale. "Ramsay—?"

She nodded.

He let out another howl of rage and turned, eyes searching the room and finally resting on an empty pitcher and goblets on a table. He picked them up and hurled them at the far wall, the metal of the goblets denting and the pitcher scattering into hundreds of pieces at his second throw.

Robb seemed the most startled of the group; Arya, Bran, and Jon were entirely indifferent to Rickon's tantrum and Sansa just watched him sadly.

"Tyrion."

Robb turned from Rickon to Sansa. "What?"

"Tyrion stopped Joffrey from beating me," she elaborated. "Tyrion Lannister, Robb. When the smallfolk attacked Joffrey, screaming for food and bread, they also attacked me and pulled me off my horse. I was taken away to be raped. The man who saved me? It was Sandor Clegane. A Lannister man."

Jon finished with Sansa's dress, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder before he moved around from behind to her side. "And for all that he's an arrogant cunt, Jaime Lannister came north on his own without the might of the Lannister army at his back, to help us fight against the Night's King, Robb. He fought for the living when we needed help."

At that, Robb looked skeptical. "Jaime Lannister? The same man who pushed Bran from the tower? Who killed Torrhen Karstark? My men at the Whispering Woods? The sister-fucker?"

"No, the other Jaime Lannister, the Jaime Lannister from Lannisport," snapped Arya from the bed, rolling and sitting up. "Aye, that one, you git."

Robb remained unconvinced. "The only good Lannister is a dead Lannister."

"And I'm sure there are Lannisters out there who think the best kind of Northman is a dead heathen one," replied Jon. "Their names matter not when fighting against the undead."

The Starks fell silent, each lost in their emotions and memories. Finally, Jon roused himself enough to state, "Come, let us ready ourselves for dinner."

Despite the lingering hurts their conversation caused, none of the siblings wished to be too far from

the others; Sansa got dressed with Arya's help behind a privacy screen and the boys dressed and wiped any sweat and grime using hand towels and a basin Rickon had ignored in his anger.

Arya appeared from the screen first, shaking her head and looking amused. "What is it?" asked Robb.

"Mother is going to have pups," she said, glancing at Sansa as she emerged in a northern-style dress.

Confused, Robb frowned; but Jon was the one who sighed and went, "Really, Sansa?" when she brushed by him, toward the door; the entire back of the dress had been removed and the fabric hastily stitched to reveal the entirety of her back and scars.

Sansa shrugged. "I see no point hiding it. I am not ashamed; I survived, and my enemies did not." Jon fought the urge to bury his face in his hands.

"Well," said Robb finally, "Dinner ought to be entertaining at the least."

Catelyn was having trouble keeping to her seat, her eyes fixated on the door to the family's private dining hall. Benjen was sure she would have already gone charging down to the guest wing hours ago, if Ned didn't have such a strong grip on her hand, keeping her in her chair.

"They'll be here soon enough," his brother tried to soothe his wife, although Ned was pale.

From what Benjen understood, the private discussion didn't go so well after he left; they hadn't even touched upon Lyanna, just Ned hiding Jon away. He sighed, flipping the knife on the table over and over nervously. He had spent a moon's turn with his nieces and nephews on their journey south from Castle Black and yet, still did not understand them. As it was, he was removed from the Stark family by nature of being a member of the Watch; he could only imagine how difficult it would be for Catelyn to see her children grown.

He cringed, glancing at Ned. Did he warn her of how different they were? If not, his goodsister was in for a shock.

The door opened and Catelyn sat up straight, eyes wide as Rickon pushed Bran into the room first, leading him to the table where an empty spot had been left at the head opposite Ned for his chair.

"My baby!" wailed Catelyn, attempting to rise. Ned yanked her back down.

"Mother," replied Bran, in that same bland tone he used. Benjen tried to hide his shudder.

Rickon warily eyed Catelyn, but finally gave her a nod and a tight, "Mother," before he sat next to Benjen, one seat down and opposite her.

Catelyn seemed stunned by the cold reception but then turned back to the door as Arya strolled in, wearing breeches and her lips pursed. "Arya, child, why are you not dressed—"

"Evening Mother, Father, uncle," she said, throwing herself into the seat next to Rickon and grinning at him. He grinned back, the grin growing wider and more genuine as Arya slouched in the chair, and then pulled a tiny knife from somewhere on her body and began picking at her nails.

Benjen wasn't sure if he should laugh at Arya's passive nonchalance or Catelyn's horrified face and settled for turning his laugh into a cough that he hid with his hand. Ned caught his eyes and

Benjen realized he utterly failed to convince his brother.

Then, Robb walked in, his earlier, confident struts as King in the North subdued. But he was the politest of the brood, greeting his father first and then mother by taking the seat next to her and kissing her cheek.

Jon and Sansa entered together, Sansa on Jon's arm. They were whispering lowly as they stepped into the room and paused when they viewed the table. Sansa pursed her lips and asked, "Where is Jon to sit?" when she counted the chairs and realized there was only enough for eight and not nine.

"I've got it," replied Jon, spotting the discarded chair from Bran's spot. "He is not—" began Catelyn, a downturned scowl to her face.

"—Eating alone, no, I certainly don't think so," finished Sansa smoothly, turning to face Jon and beaming at him. "Oh, excellent, Jon, you'll be opposite me."

By turning to face him, she presented her back to her parents, and both gasped. Jon, of course, ignored all this, as were the other Stark children who had now seen her back; Jon hauled the chair from the wall to Arya's side, causing her and Rickon to squish together. As they were both slight – Arya in size and Rickon for only being three-and-ten – they fit together to give Jon space between Arya and Bran's head seating.

Once done, Sansa nodded and moved to her seat next to Robb, deftly ignoring her parent's open mouth gapes. Benjen's eyebrows shot up. Oh, well done, he thought, eyeing his niece. She used her scars to deflect her mother from Jon, successfully; it was such a departure from the younger Sansa he knew, who disliked Jon and odd to see her championing herself for him.

"Shall we?" asked Sansa, looking around the table. "I'm famished."

To avoid servants and gossip – although that was a lost cause, given Benjen entered Winterfell with the older Starks without disguises and during the middle of the day, something Ned was going to have to address or figure out soon enough – dishes were presented on platters on the large table with a few pitchers of drinks on either end. Immediately, Arya and Rickon dove toward the large bird on the table, fighting each other over it with their forks and knives. Robb calmly served himself, ignoring his younger siblings, and turned to his mother to ask, "Mother? What would you like? I'll serve you."

Benjen just stared, as they went about their dinner, blithely ignoring the older Starks watching them in shock and wordless confusion. Finally, Arya asked with food still in her mouth, "So, it's 292, aye? The Greyjoy Rebellion finished?"

Taking the lifeline Arya threw, and ignoring chastising her for her manners, Ned nodded. "Aye. Balon's youngest son is here—"

Robb slammed his fork and knife on the table. "Theon's here?"

Ned paused. "Aye."

Nodding, Robb said, "Pardon me, I have a squid to kill." He pushed back from his chair and made to stand, only Sansa grabbed his arm and forcefully yanked him back down into his chair, sending him toppling and listing to the side and into her. "Ow, Sansa!"

"Theon is not our enemy, Robb," she said firmly.

"He burned Winterfell!" the once-king howled to Benjen, Ned, and Catelyn's confusion and horror. "He killed Bran and Rickon!"

At that, the rest of his siblings stared at him in disappointment, with Rickon even going so far as to say, like Arya, with a full mouth, "Funny, 'coz I remember Ramsay shooting arrows at me, not Theon."

Flushed with embarrassment, Robb sat in his chair and began moving his food around his plate. "Aye, well..." he frowned and muttered, mulishly, "He betrayed me. He was my brother..."

"And he saved me, and returned to Winterfell to fight," finished Sansa. "Whatever issues you have, it's between you and him from that time, and not the boy he is now."

Robb continued to mutter under his breath, but he didn't say anything else on that topic.

Catelyn rallied her courage and stuttered tearily, "Sansa, my love... what... your... your back, sweetling..."

"Oh, those," replied Sansa airily, although Benjen could see Jon was watching her carefully from his spot. "They were from the kingsguard."

"What." Ned's voice was low, vibrating with rage.

Sansa glanced at her father. "The kingsguard, father. Remember? They are sworn to do as the king commands."

"Robert would never—"

"Laugh at slaughtered children and call them dragonspawn?" interjected Jon, bitterly. Ned froze. "Send assassins to kill a girl barely six-and-ten because her brother sold her to the Dothraki for their horses to retake a kingdom?"

Ned looked like he had significantly aged by the time Jon finished speaking.

"It wasn't Robert, father," Sansa chirped, cutting into her meal as though they were speaking of the latest court gossip rather than the scars on her back, "but rather, Joffrey. And Ser Barristan was long gone from his position. Cersei had him stripped of the title of Lord Commander for being too old."

"So, not all the kingsguard," mused Ned, in some sense of relief, but Benjen was observant, and saw the traps they were laying.

"Oh, no, it was all of them," continued Sansa, taking a bite of her food. She swallowed and patted the side of her lips with her napkin. "Sers Oakheart, Moore, Blount, Trant."

Benjen noticed the name not said. "Not the Kingslayer?"

Immediately, Sansa, Jon, Arya, and Bran frowned; Jon went as far as saying, "Don't call him that."

"He wasn't there," offered Bran, speaking up for the first time in his staid voice. He hadn't touched a single thing on his plate, either. "He was a prisoner of Robb's. Although, I doubt he would have beat Sansa – he is conflicted enough regarding his vows, but it would have been too like Aerys' beatings of Rhaella. He likely would have stepped in and stopped it from happening."

"Jaime Lannister is an oathbreaker—" interrupted Ned, face going a bit ruddy.

Arya sighed. "Who killed a king that you would've killed anyway, for murdering uncle Brandon and grandfather. Who cares whose sword did the deed?"

"Arya!" gasped Catelyn, hand at her mouth.

"He was kingsguard, sworn to protect the king," rumbled Ned angrily, a hand clenching tightly around his utensils. "What good were his vows to protect the man when he could turn cloak so easily?"

"Protect the king as sworn by his vows as a kingsguard," murmured Jon, "Or protect the people of King's Landing as sworn by his vows as a knight. Which trumps the other?"

Ned frowned. "What do you mean, Jon?"

Jon tilted his head and glanced down the table. "Wildfire. Aerys had caches of it placed everywhere under the city. When your army, and the Lannister army, appeared, he ordered the barrels lit."

Catelyn's eyes went wide, and her hand shot out to grip Ned's. "No."

"Ser Jaime made a choice: kill the pyromancers and the king to stop the order, saving thousands in King's Landing... or protect his king and die," finished Jon quietly. He turned back to his plate. "He made the right decision."

"I... I didn't know," said a pale-faced Ned.

"You never asked," reprimanded Bran, the slight downturn of his lips the equivalent to a scowling frown. "You saw him on the throne and Aerys' body and that was that." He paused. "You don't ask many questions, in general. It's a failing of yours."

"Bran! Don't speak to your father that way!" Catelyn snapped.

But Ned's eyes narrowed. "No, speak Brandon. Tell me where else I should have asked questions."

"Oh, here we go," muttered Arya, elbow on the table and using that hand to shield her eyes from her parents' end of the table as she hunched over her plate. She began shovelling more food in her mouth and upon seeing that, Rickon began to copy her, eyes darting between his parents and Bran.

Bran's placid eyes calmly surveyed his father. "Promise me, Ned. Promise me."

Ned went white and swayed in his seat, eyes ripping from Bran to look at Jon, who was ignoring

him.

"Promise me?" echoed Catelyn, looking between her son and husband. "Ned? What does that mean? My lord?"

"Or perhaps, father," continued Bran, "Instead of baiting the kingsguard by telling them you looked for them on the Trident, you should have spoken of your sister instead. You might have had five living Northern companions, no problems from Barbrey Ryswell and the Dustins, and protection for Jon." There was a glint in Bran's eyes that Benjen did not recognize when he spoke. "Our knees do not bend so easily."

Ned shoved back from the table as he stood, sending his goblet clattering and tipping over across his full plate. He ignored Catelyn's cries of alarm as he stared at Bran. "How could you know that? Those words?"

Bran's lips quirked up. "I was there. I saw it all."

"I don't understand," said Catelyn into the quiet of the room. "Ned, I don't...? What does Bran

mean, protection for the bastard?" Sansa flinched at the term.

Jon, wiping his mouth on his napkin, sent a pained smile to his uncle. "Perhaps it is time you told your wife the truth, my lord." He stood from the table, bowing in his direction. "Thank you for the meal, but I think it's best I retire now."

Arya and Sansa also stood, and Robb stood slowly as well, realizing that his parents needed the rest of the evening. Rickon scrambled after his siblings, grabbing a drumstick from the bird, and shoving it in his mouth. "Goo' 'ight," he mumbled.

Benjen stared as Robb wheeled Bran out, the rest following.

"Ned?" Catelyn's voice was trembling.

Benjen reached for his goblet of ale and chugged it down. It was going to be a long night.