IV.

Arya and Rickon had disappeared after they sneaked out of the dining room, leaving Robb, Bran, Jon, and Sansa standing around, watching them slink down the hallway. With pursed lips, Robb turned to his siblings and asked, in eerie familiarity, "My room?"

The procession remained silent as they left the comforting familiarity of the family wing of

Winterfell, passing by hallways and tapestries that they all knew well. For Sansa and Jon, it was bittersweet, having seen the destruction Ramsay inflicted on their home; for Robb, it was with a sense of regret and longing, as he had never seen Winterfell again after he left.

Eventually, they arrived in Robb's new room, certain Arya and Rickon would be joining them shortly. They ended up near the large fireplace: Robb had pulled a chair closer and slouched into it, exhausted, with his legs spread and a weary expression on his face.

Bran, in his wheelchair, was next to him. Sansa fussed for a minute or two, laying a thick woollen blanket around his legs and tucking it in. Bran was silent, dark eyes watching Sansa knowingly, but when she looked up and caught his gaze, he murmured a quiet, "thank you," to his sister, which made her beam.

Jon ended up sitting the closest to the fire, on the rug and facing the door. He shucked his heavier layers and furs and was dressed only in a shirt and trousers. All his weight was on one arm as he leaned back, one leg curled under and the other bent at the knee with his other arm draping over it in a very casual recline.

Sansa ended up sitting opposite of Jon, but much closer to Bran; she cast a wary glance at the flames before settling her skirts and arranging them comfortably, her back to the door even as she drew a blanket around her shoulders and covered some of the scars up.

The four sat in silence for several minutes, each lost in their thoughts. When the door to Robb's room opened, with Arya and Rickon spilling in, they all jerked in surprise and looked up.

"We brought pilfered goods!" declared Arya with a gleam in her eyes.

"We raided the kitchens," added Rickon with a wide grin on his face. With the mess of curls and his youth, Rickon looked like an angel, but the grin was all devil – and utterly charming, especially as he bounded forward with the crate in his arms, dumping it at Sansa's feet when he threw himself onto the furs next to her.

Arya was far more restrained, moving with deliberation and grace when she sat between Robb and Jon, placing a few mugs down between all of them. When Robb sent her a searching glance, she answered, "I thought it was time for us to clear the air."

Rickon opened the crate and pulled out two items, one for each hand: in one was a dark glass bottle, with bits of straw that protected it in the crate still sticking to its side; the other was a wineskin.

"Wine," he began, hefting up the sloshy wineskin and then the other with that grin on his face, "Or the really good stuff: bhodka?"

Robb tried to look stern, glaring a bit at Rickon. "You're the youngest one here—"

"If we're going to be having a heart-to-heart, give me the good stuff, Rickon," demanded Sansa, reaching for and taking the precious and heavy glass bottle from his hand. She uncorked the stopper with her teeth and took a swing even as Robb stared open-mouthed at her.

The fiery liquid burned as it went down and she sputtered, a little escaping her mouth. Arya laughed as Sansa wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, wheezing a bit. She passed the bottle to Jon.

"Well, cheers, Sansa," her cousin said dryly. "This brings back fond memories, doesn't it?" He ignored the mugs Arya brought and instead took a swig of the alcohol directly from the bottle like

Sansa had, and did a much better job than her. He passed it to Arya who also took a drink like a champion and then passed it to Robb.

He stared at her, and then around the semi-circle of his siblings. "Who are all of you?" but he shook his head and took the bottle, coughing only a little and then passing it to Bran with only a moment's hesitation.

Bran, however, did hesitate, looking at the bottle like it was the strangest thing he had ever seen, even as he clutched it. "I..."

"C'mon, Bran, have some!" cajoled Arya.

"Or hurry up and pass it back to Sansa so I can have some," said Rickon, eagerly.

"You're too young, Rickon, you're only three and ten!" protested Robb.

Rickon rolled his eyes. "How do you think I recognized the drink, Robb? I've had it before."

Wide-eyed, Robb said, "What?"

Rickon, with an air of superiority, leaned against Sansa and peered up at Robb, who was once his eldest brother. "What do you think they drink on Skagos to keep warm at night?"

Robb muttered something under his breath, but Bran interrupted him by admitting, quietly, "I never had a drink before. I never... I never had the opportunity to."

"Then feel comfortable to start now with us," said Sansa kindly, turning her face up toward Bran. She placed a hand on his knee, covered by the thick blanket. "We're here."

There was something hooded, sad, in Bran's eyes when he murmured, "I missed out on so much..." but he then took a gulp of the liquid.

He immediately began coughing, his face going red even as Robb and Jon snickered. Bran shoved the bottle at Sansa, tears in his eyes as he rasped, "Take it. Take it."

The others laughed at him – Rickon one of the loudest, which made Bran glare at him – but Sansa obligingly took the bottle, a small sip, and then passed it to Rickon who drank it like a seasoned alcoholic without the red face, the raspy voice, or cough. He then passed it back to Jon.

The bottle made a few circuits. Then: "I don't recognize them."

Eyes turned to Rickon, who stared down at the rug. Sensing their weight, he glanced up and around at his siblings and cousin, and then let his eyes trail down again. He shuffled a bit and repeated, with more detail, "I don't recognize Mother or Father. I was... I was five? Maybe six? – when Theon took Winterfell and Osha and I left. It's been years and their faces, their voices faded and all I knew was Osha, and the cold, and Skagos."

He looked up, glancing first at Jon, and then Sansa. He fidgeted with his hands as he tried to read the room. "I, uh." He stopped, mouth opening and closing. "I don't... they – they're not – mine. I don't... I don't recognize them. I don't know them, and I. I, uh." He swallowed, thickly, and then whispered, imparting a secret, "I don't feel anything for them anymore."

"Oh, Rickon," murmured Sansa at his side, drawing him to her as they cuddled.

Rickon gave a stuttered gasp, blinking back tears. "I see red hair and I think of you, Sansa. I see you on that ridge, looking down at Ramsay's army. I think of what he said the night before – about

how you and Jon had come for me. I think of safety and home, and I think of Shaggy's fur, and Jon's voice and the smell of smoke and dirt. Common Tongue is danger, and..."

His eyes were wide, almost unseeing. "Braithim níos compordaí yn siarad yr Hen Tafod aon rud eile, nawr."[1]

Robb and Arya both frowned at the strange language that emerged from Rickon's mouth, but Jon sighed. "Ég veit."[2]

All eyes swung toward Jon, and Rickon's head shot up at stare. Catching Rickon's eyes, Jon gave a tiny grin and asked, "Did you think you were the only one of us who could live amongst the Free Folk and not pick up the Old Tongue?"

Rickon gave a wet laugh, unabashedly rubbing roughly at his cheek with the heel of his hand. A bond sparked between Jon and Rickon, something unique to only them – this was the man who tried to save Rickon's life, who braved an entire army for him.

"Not fair," pouted Arya. "I want to know the Old Tongue, too!"

"I'll teach you," promised Jon, bumping his shoulder with hers, and passing her the bottle. She toasted him and then drank.

Robb sat up from his slouch. "What! Me too!"

"How about we all learn?" suggested Sansa, always the peacemaker. Her eyes took a sly slant. "It could be our secret language."

Amused, Jon pressed his lips tight and shook his head at her, but Robb and Arya both shared a grin, especially when Arya passed the bottle to Robb.

Bran broke the mood by stating, straightforwardly, "It will be advantageous for what is to come."

"What's coming?" asked Robb, blinking.

"Bran – did you see something?" demanded Jon. "What do you know?"

Bran turned expressionless eyes on Jon, barely blinking. "I don't see as much, anymore. Not since... not since we returned."

"But you did see something," stressed Sansa, staring up at him, a furrow between her eyebrows.

Bran inclined his head, the tiniest, but then turned back to his staring, looking into the flames. Jon shivered, thinking it looked a bit too much like Melissandre seeking answers from R'Hallor in the flames. But there was the tiniest frown on Bran's face.

"I... I don't see things the way I did before," he admitted, sounding more human as frustration leaked into his voice. His hands, resting on his lap, curled into fists. "I can't see as far, or as much."

"That's a good thing, Bran," said Arya quietly, sitting up straight and tense. "You weren't you before."

"Why can't I be both?" demanded Bran, snapping his eyes at Arya, who froze under the onslaught.

"Why can't I be Brandon Stark and the Three-Eyed Raven? What was so bad about being him?"

"What was so bad?" repeated Jon hotly, glaring at him. "What was so bad was that you weren't you – you were more the Raven than Bran Stark! It was like he completely erased who you were. You kept secrets, you thought only to tell us things when it was convenient for you, at the last minute. You can skinchange, Bran, and yet did you try taking over Dany's dragons? Did you use animals to scout ahead to warn us of the Night King and his movements? One day it was all, 'oh, the Wall has fallen,' and that was it!"

Bran snapped, "I was marked—"

"And yet you crossed the Wall and allowed the Night King to follow, dooming us all!" snapped back Jon. "If you truly worried about humanity, you'd have stayed hidden north of the Wall!"

"Jon!" cried Robb, aghast.

"Jon," chided Sansa, before turning to look at Bran. He was staring at Jon, shock across his face, mouth hanging open. "Bran... if crossing the Wall caused its protections to fail, why didn't you just travel to Eastwatch and take a boat? Then you wouldn't have crossed the Wall, would you? You'd have gone around it and the magical protections would remain."

Bran's mouth snapped shut with an audible clack as he turned to stare at Sansa and the calm manner, she delivered an alternative.

Robb cleared his throat. "I know... I know you felt useless after the fall. When your realized you wouldn't walk again, and all your dreams... about being a knight – they all disappeared. But... but it sounds like you pinned everything onto the idea of being the Three-Eyed Raven more than anything because you would be different and special. Able to do things – erm, see things... although I still don't understand," the last was mumbled.

Bran was silent, weighting what Robb said. Finally, slowly, he inclined his head. "You're right," he said, quietly, looking down at the fists he made on his lap. He slowly let his fingers unfurl. "You're right. I felt useless and he promised I would fly. If I couldn't walk anymore... I wanted to fly."

"One of the first things they teach skinchangers past the Wall," began Jon quietly, "was that if you go into a bird's body, you don't stay too long. It's too easy to simply wish to fly away and leave behind any earthly attachments."

"Well." Bran's lips quirked up into wry amusement. "That would've been nice to know."

Robb passed Bran the bottle, and he took it was the same wry smile, taking a sip. Over half was gone. With a sigh, Bran passed it to Sansa, and admitted, "I lost so much of myself then. But... it's been hard coming back to myself. All of Bran's pain. His anger, his fear."

Sansa and Jon shared a worried look at Bran talking about himself in the third person.

But Bran's lips stretched from the tight, wry smile to something a bit fonder, if not tinged with sadness. "Father once told me that the only time someone can be brave is when they're afraid. And I've been afraid for a very long time now."

The others waited, sensing he wasn't done. They were rewarded when Bran finished in a strong voice, "No more. I won't be afraid anymore."

"Good on you," cheered Arya with a wide grin. "Fear cuts deeper than swords."

"Who told you that?" asked Robb curiously.

Arya's cheerful grin slipped. "My dancing teacher."

Robb snorted, "You had a dancing teacher?"

Arya glared and punched Robb on the arm. "My dance teacher was the First Sword of Braavos, thank you! He taught me to water dance!"

Arya hugged her knees to her chest. "Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow. Quick as a snake. Calm as still water. Strong as a bear. Fierce as a wolverine. Fear cuts deeper than swords... and the man who fears losing has already lost."

"Wise words," said Robb, suitably chastised and impressed – and the closest he got to apologize.

Sansa took a tiny sip and passed the bottle to Rickon, who took a drink and then passed it back to Jon.

"Syrio was a good man who fought off the City Watch with a wooden sword." Arya rested her cheek on her knees. "All I wanted, from that moment, was revenge. Revenge against Cersei, the Hound, Joffrey – everyone who hurt us."

"I'd say you achieved that, with the Freys," said Robb as dark pleasure curled in his stomach. It leaked into his voice as maliciously pleased, and so wrapped was he in thinking of the pain they felt, he missed Jon's sharp look.

But Arya shook her head, letting her dark hair fall across her face, hiding it partially from view. "No. I lost myself as Bran did. Only, I lost myself in the House of Black and White."

Sansa and Jon knew Arya had changed when she returned to Winterfell, but they never knew where she had been. Bran, who knew, kept silent; but it was Sansa's gasp that alerted Robb and Rickon that the House of Black of White was important.

Jon, who had the bottle, took a very long pull, the lines at the corner of his eyes tight. "To become a Faceless Man—"

Robb swore under his breath, eyes wide on his little sister who was now his age.

"—you had to leave everything behind. You became No One. There would be no revenge, no family, nothing." Arya glanced at her siblings, the lower part of her face hidden by her knees and arms with only her dark eyes peering out from the veil of hair. "I tried. I honestly did. I went on missions. I killed people. But... I always came back home. I wasn't No One. I was someone. It just took me a while to realize."

"I hated myself," admitted Sansa bitterly. "I hated myself for so long, for what I did and didn't do in King's Landing. I would go back and go over what I could change but what did it matter when it was already done?"

She paused.

"I wanted to die." Sansa's admission was calmly stated, but it was enough that Jon jerked where he sat, nearly losing the grip on the bottle. Quickly, he passed it to Arya. "Joffrey took me to see Father's head. He told me he would give me Robb's when he won the war, and I replied, 'Maybe he'll give me yours.'"

Arya, who was taking a drink, snorted and some came out of her nose. She hastily brought a hand up to wipe at the liquid and passed the bottle on to Robb, who was grinning widely.

"I would have, too," he agreed, a dangerous look in his blue eyes, so like Sansa's. He discarded the bottle at his feet.

"I know you would have," she agreed, a fond look sent his way. "But Joffrey had his kingsguard slap me, and then – for a single moment, I thought about pushing Joffrey off the rampart, sending him to the ground below and breaking his neck. Oh, I'd be dead next, of course, but it would have been better than living."

"What happened?" asked Rickon, who had been quiet for so long that Sansa thought he had fallen asleep next to her.

Sansa glanced at him. "The Hound. Sandor. He stepped forward and stopped me. He could read me so easily and saw what I was ready to do." Sansa shook her head, remembrance coating her words when she brought her hand to her lips, unconsciously, and murmured, "He saved me quite a few times when I was in King's Landing."

"He was sweet on his little bird," laughed Arya, but there was a teasing tone in her voice and she and Sansa shared a secretive, wordless glance that had Robb and Jon share an equally confused look.

Robb leaned forward, letting his elbows rest on his thighs and his hands hang between his open legs. His auburn hair, tousled, hid his eyes even as he rasped, "I'm so sorry it wasn't me, Sansa. I'm so sorry that I wasn't the one to save you."

Sansa said nothing, just evenly looked at her brother: once, her cherished older brother who chased away the monsters under her bed, who was her hero in her eyes. The one who could do no wrong. Later, Jon took that position until he did do wrong, in her eyes, but there was something acrid and bitter in the first betrayal than the second.

Robb ran his hands through his hair. "I fucked up. I fucked up so bad—"

"You were a military genius," replied Jon, in confusion. "People spoke of you and your plans with awe—"

"I let winning get to me," whispered Robb, tortured. "I developed an ego. Gods, what was I even doing in the South? What was I thinking? That I'd march into King's Landing with an army at my back and demand Father's release?"

"Yes," said Bran.

Robb snorted. "He'd have been killed. And then he was. And what did I do? I fucked off to the Riverlands instead of going straight to the capitol."

"Why did you go to the Riverlands?" asked Arya.

Robb's mouth twisted. "Mother's home was burning, and the Mountain was pillaging. I was going

to help Uncle Edmure."

"Erm..." began Jon, sharing a glance with Sansa, "Shouldn't he have been doing that himself?" "He's got heart," admitted Robb with a grimace, "But not the brains for battle."

"Oh."

"Aye, oh," echoed Robb. "And then I was trapped there, winning against Jaime Lannister and then losing when Mother let him go – and Karstark killed those Lannister boys – and everything spiralled so badly from there."

"Marrying your foreign wife wasn't the best decision either," broached Sansa carefully. Robb lifted his head and glared at her. "Not when you had an understanding with the Freys. Although, Robb – the Freys? What were you thinking there?"

"I didn't!" he replied hotly. "Mother agreed! A Frey bride for a crossing!"

Aghast, Sansa, Jon and Arya stared at Robb. Finally, Arya said what they were all thinking: "You got the raw end of a deal there, brother."

Robb moaned, "I know! But I needed to cross. What else was I to do?"

"Well, if the original plan was to continue down the Kingsroad to free father and our sisters,"

began Jon sarcastically, rolling his eyes, "then continue down the fucking Kingsroad!"

Sansa snorted, and Rickon looked delighted at the sound.

Robb groaned and rolled his own eyes, "I know. I know!"

"You got caught in the trappings of being King," continued Jon. "Pulled in so many directions you didn't know which way was up or down anymore."

Miserably, Robb nodded. "I just wanted to do right to my people. But in doing right by the men, I forgot about Sansa and Arya. About why I went south, to begin with. I made bad decision after another and it—" he swallowed thickly, a shaking hand coming up to the scarf around his throat, hiding the grisly, lurid red line.

He turned to Sansa, sliding off the chair to his knees and reached for her. Holding her hands, voice hoarse, he implored, "Forgive me, Sansa. Forgive me. I am so sorry, little sister."

She had waited so long for those words. She resigned herself to never knowing why Robb did what he did. It didn't absolve him – nothing could and the scars on her heart would forever remain – but...

"I love you," she said, opening her eyes without realizing she closed them. "I love you. You are my brother, and I forgive you."

"Sansa," whined Robb, yanking her forward and hugging her tightly, clutching her to him. Something hot fell on Sansa's shoulder and she pressed Robb closer.

After a few moments, Robb drew back, his cheeks wet and eyes red-rimmed. He sniffed a few times and then cleared his throat as he sat back on his haunches, Sansa moving back beside Rickon.

Robb moved slowly into the chair, worn and weary. He passed Bran the bottle from his feet, but Bran shook his head and passed it to Sansa, who drank and then to Rickon. He shook it, and they heard the slosh of very little left.

Rickon held the bottle to Jon, who took it. "You can finish it. Besides..." Rickon trailed off. "You're the last one."

Jon frowned, shoulders falling, but he did as the youngest Stark suggested and finished the bottle. And then, Jon said, in a tired, thin voice, "Gods, I'm tired." He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, the lines on his face deepening. "So tired."

Robb – the most distant of the Stark children from the future Jon, Sansa, Arya, and Bran came from – was the one who was brave enough to ask, "Tired about what?"

There was a brittle smile on Jon's lips when he glanced at his cousin. "Everything. Nothing – it's just... just—"

He exhaled sharply and pushed out of his recline, leaning heavily on his bent knee. "I spent so many years wanting to be more than Jon Snow. I wanted to matter, to be someone important with a title and a purpose. I spent my whole life growing up Stark but never one, and it ate at me."

"You were always one of us," interrupted Arya hotly.

Jon shook his head. "No, I wasn't. Do you remember Robb? When we played Come into My Castle? You were always the Stark in Winterfell, until that one time when I said I was going to be —"

"And I said you couldn't be because you were just a bastard and my Lady Mother said so," finished Robb, voice hoarse with shame. "I remember."

"And then," Jon laughed bitterly, "And then, one day, I am not Lord Stark – but I'm the bloody King in the North! I finally became what your mother always feared: the person who stole your birthrights."

The Stark children were silent, wrestling with their own feelings and knowledge. Jon barrelled through, continuing to speak. "You know – for the longest time, I thought I should be upset with fath—with Lord Stark. For hiding the truth about me. Because everything I had done, for so many years, was to chase after the feeling of having a name and purpose of my own. So, I was more than just a Snow – that I was worth something." His voice dropped. "That being King was worth something."

Silently, Sansa reached out across the rug and space between them and held Jon's hand. He caught her blue eyes with his and squeezed her hand, wordlessly. He dropped her hand.

"But it never actually mattered," he continued, voice bitter. "Did it matter if I was Stark or Snow when I went to the wall? Did it matter when Robb named me his heir and our bannermen named me King in the North over Sansa? Did being a Stark or Snow matter when the dead rose?"

He paused; eyes caught on the flames of the hearth. Tentatively, he reached out and put his hands in the flame – and ignored Robb's sharp intake of breath. "Knowing who my father was – and my mother – something I always wanted to know – it... it ended up being so unimportant, so useless. Half-Targaryen, half-Stark... it didn't change how things ended. Everything I thought that defined me – my name, my lack of one, my relationship with Ned Stark, as father or uncle – Gods, even my... even Daenerys – I still died in the end."

He drew his hand close to his chest, curling it into a fist and staring down at the appendage and the lack of burns and marks on the pink skin.

"We all did," said Sansa softly, startling Jon enough to jerk and glance at her. "Whatever attempt Daenerys made, she burned Winterfell and the Godswood. That's how I died, Jon. Everything I lived through – suffered, hoped, survived – and it was for nothing."

Jon glanced at Arya and Bran – the others who had been with him at Winterfell – and saw Arya's grim look and Bran's mouth turn down.

"It wasn't supposed to be that way," admitted Bran. "We were supposed to win."

"Then how did we end up here?" asked Robb, curiously.

In a very human move, Bran shrugged.

Jon settled back to brood; Rickon did lightly doze against Sansa; Arya gnashed her teeth and worried them between her lips.

Finally, Sansa murmured, "We need to decide what we do going forward." She gazed around at her family. "We can't stay here."

Robb and Bran were the loudest protestors, while Jon and Rickon kept silent. Arya fell somewhere in the middle, glowering but realizing what Sansa was getting at.

"Stop it!" snapped Sansa, glaring at her brothers. "Stop it – you know we can't stay here!"

"Why not?" asked Bran, mulishly and sounding so like the young boy Robb knew when he first woke up after his coma. "I want to stay! There's the Godswood and the heart tree, and I could commune and try to figure this out—"

"And that's exactly why you can't stay," stressed Sansa, staring imploringly at Bran. "Think of what happened last time when you came back to Winterfell, Bran. How much time you spent in front of the heart tree and how you lost yourself looking at the different possibilities you could and things happening around Westeros. You aren't yourself when you do that."

"I could handle it," he muttered.

Jon finally spoke. "With practice, but not so close to the Wall and... and him. Maybe when you're further away."

Bran glowered; chin tilted down. "My connection helped prepare us for the Others—"

"Did it really?" muttered Arya under her breath.

"—So, I should keep working on increasing my abilities again, so I can see!" finished Bran hotly.

"You can see just fine without falling under the other Three-Eyed Raven's spell," argued Jon, curling his mouth into a scowl.

Bran had a similar scowl on his face. "Why do you get to make that decision? It's my life!" "Uh, because he's the eldest of us now?" interrupted Arya.

"Because he was the King in the North?" added Rickon in mock confusion – although mostly because he caught Arya's look and decided he would say things to bother his older brother.

"Because what he's saying makes sense, Bran," continued Sansa, a pinched look on her face.

Bran turned to Robb, who threw his hands up. "Don't look at me – as you've all very kindly pointed out, I was dead first out of everyone. I have no idea what you're speaking of, and figure it's best if I learn to keep my mouth closed, for now."

Feeling attacked, Bran twisted back to face Jon and spat, "Well, if you're going to be telling me what to do, Jon, let's talk about you, shall we? Not just the King in the North once before, but the legitimate youngest son of Rhaegar Targaryen. I suppose we should just name you King of Westeros and be done with it!"

Sansa winced even as Jon reeled back. "Oh, no... no, no, no." He violently shook his head. "The last time I was king of anything, I didn't exactly win any wars. In fact, I think we can unequivocally state that I lost the most important war there was!"

"Not really," said Arya with a pointed look. "Didn't Bran mention earlier that after all he had seen, we were supposed to win?"

All eyes turned to Bran. He shrugged and muttered, "We were. But something..." his brows furrowed. "Something changed, and it... it brought us here when I pulled us together."

Sansa looked deep in thought even as Robb hesitantly asked, "Do we... do we know how you brought us here?"

"I can't see that," replied an exasperated Bran. "Why do you think I want to continue my training with Bloodraven?"

Robb choked on saliva. "The other Three-Eyed Raven – person – thing – that you learned from was the Bloodraven – Brynden Rivers himself?!"

Bran shot him a glare that was read as you dunce, yes and then ignored Robb's stupefied look. "Can we get back to Jon ruling Westeros, please?" asked Arya, eyeing her cousin from the corner

of her eye. "Because I am ready for it."

"I'm not!" protested Jon. "The realm is stable! We don't need to go to war! We need as many people here alive as possible to fight the Night King!"

"Which won't happen for seven years," argued Arya calmly, leaning back and stretching her legs out. "A lot can happen in seven years."

Jon turned to Sansa and wailed, "Sansa! Tell her!"

But Sansa was slow to reply, her voice hesitant when she replied. "Honestly... it might be a good idea, Jon."

"What!" a chorus of voices – Jon's, Robb's, and Rickon's – chimed together.

"I don't mean immediately," clarified Sansa, tossing them all a dirty look in response to their outburst. "But rather... well... when Jon Arryn dies. Or closer to the date when things began going wrong. The realm will already be disrupted, and it would be a perfect time for a Targaryen restoration."

"Dany exists, you know," groused Jon.

"I am well aware of that, Jon." Sansa glared, her eyes holding his hostage for a long, long moment as she let her displeasure be known. "But Westeros is hardly her birthright as queen, is it? If you fail, then it would go to Viserys."

"Who was insane, as far as rumours went," happily added Arya. "So, he's disqualified for being too much like his father." She paused, adopting a mocking look as she tapped a pondering finger

against her chin. "Why! By that vein, so is Daenerys!"

Jon crumpled. "She's not insane."

"Well, she wasn't all right in the head, either," muttered Sansa. "Who brings Dothraki to the North in winter without any winter clothes?"

"Or provisions for her army and forcing us to feed them with our meagre stores," added Arya gleefully.

"What!" shouted Robb, face turning ruddy. "She did what!"

"Or go wright hunting with a dragon as proof, only to lose that dragon to the Night King," added Bran, his lips curled into a rather vicious, but small, smirk.

"You're japing," gasped Robb, glancing between his siblings and cousin. "She had dragons – and... and if what you're saying about the Others is true – practically gave them one?!"

"Aye, alright, you've all made your points clear," muttered Jon. "If all we're doing is playing a blame game, then there's plenty to go around."

Arya sat up, leaning forward. "Jon – of course. We've all made mistakes – some terrible ones that directly resulted in our deaths—" she glanced at Robb here "—or mistakes that got others killed—" here, Sansa's shoulders dropped "—but none of us did this in the middle of winter, as the Long Night approached. Not with the stakes we were up against."

Jon sighed, rubbing his hands against his eyes. "Fine," he muttered. "I don't fully agree... but I will admit mistakes were made on her part. And mine." He sighed. "Definitely mine."

"It still brings us back to the problem that we can't stay here," said Sansa after a moment. "Not only are our younger selves here, but our knowledge is dangerous. We'll attract danger to Winterfell, and I don't wish to see our family harmed." She looked down at her hands as she whispered, "Not by my hands if I can avoid it."

"Agreed," said Robb, sitting up straight in his chair. "As familiar and comforting as Winterfell is, we cannot stay. We must leave."

"And go where?" asked Rickon, fear in his eyes. "I trusted our bannermen once before and they handed me over to Ramsay. I won't stay with them."

"Nor should you," soothed Sansa, leaning over and smoothing his hair back. He leaned into the touch.

"We could travel," suggested Arya eagerly.

Robb stifled his snicker and Jon muttered, "Big surprise."

"No, truly!" Arya looked at everyone. "If Jon were king – well, that would sort bringing people together against the Long Night, wouldn't it?"

"I suppose..." began Jon hesitantly.

Sansa frowned as if running the scenarios through her mind; Bran was absently nodding, but Robb and Rickon were frowning in confusion.

"And if we travel Westeros, and not stay in one place too long, then we can subtly look for those

who are still Targaryen loyalists!" Arya's voice was rising with excitement.

"That won't work," interrupted Robb. "We're Starks, Arya. We literally helped tear the Targaryens down for what they did to grandfather and Uncle Brandon."

"But we have proof of a Targaryen Stark." Arya jutted her chin out and jerked it in Jon's direction. "He looks like a Stark but is fireproof. There's no other bloodline like it that has that kind of magic. And... and – listen! We could travel and do things and see people and bring them to our side! To prepare for when the king dies!"

"Oh, are we planning treason now?" muttered Robb, but he was ignored.

"There is more proof, in your parents' marriage certificate," murmured Sansa. "At the Citadel." "Wait – there is?"

Everyone was ignoring Robb at this point, who threw his hands up and scowled.

"Heading from Winterfell to Oldtown isn't going to take seven years, Sansa," said Jon gently. "Perhaps only half a year at most, depending on if we travel by horse or ship. What would we do for the rest of the time?"

"I'd love to see Volantis."

Everyone swung to look at Robb, who wiped the wistful look from his face when he realized everyone was looking at him.

"Volantis – why—" began Jon in confusion, but Sansa sighed and looked at Robb with something akin to pity. "She won't be the same, Robb."

Her brother's cheeks flushed red and he looked down. "I know... but... I owe it to her, to see her... and I want—I want—" he sniffed and looked up, his eyes red-rimmed and watery. "I want to say goodbye. A proper one. Even if she doesn't understand why."

"We'd have to get past the Triarchs," said Arya dubiously.

"We'll be fine," replied Bran, easy confidence in his voice.

Robb's mouth dropped a bit. "Truly?"

"We've got Old Valyria blood with us," shrugged Bran, glancing at Jon. "And we've magical blood of our own, thanks to the First Men."

"Going to Braavos again and see Syrio would be lovely," added Arya dreamily. "The canals... the food... the sword fighting..."

"The Faceless Men," joked Jon in the same tone she used, "The assassination attempts on your life..."

Arya glared at Jon.

"Whatever you want to do, I'm fine with it," shrugged Rickon, speaking up. "I just want to be with all of you."

"Being back here, it's... it hurts," admitted Sansa, biting her lip. "I see Ramsay's shadow and other ghosts. I lived here and remade Winterfell after what happened, but... the memory of how I died is

fresh."

"I wouldn't mind tracing my parents' steps," whispered Jon, fear lacing his voice. His eyes darted up to test how his cousins took his admission. "I know I have no memory – and that they didn't raise me, that was all your Lord father – but... Summerhall... the Tower of Joy... those were their places. Maybe it would bring me closer to them, and maybe... maybe I'd understand why they did what they did." His voice went quiet, "Understand who I am supposed to be..."

Bran sighed, loudly, and everyone turned to look at him. "You're not going to let me stay, will you?" When Jon shook his head, Bran sighed again. "Very well. If we're to... travel and see Westeros and beyond... and crown a king... and save the world," his lips curled at the words, "I would like to take a weirwood sapling with us. I still wish to practice my sight – it's important to me... and strengthening my connection through the weirwood would help."

"Well," began Sansa dubiously, "I suppose a sapling is better than sitting beside a large, fully grown tree."

Eyes darted around the semi-circle in front of a slowly dying fire, hesitant looks abound. "Are we... are we doing this?" murmured Arya, inhaling sharply and holding her breath. "I guess we are," muttered Jon. "The Starks will be on the move."

Robb shook his head. "No, Snow – the pack will be on the move."

{TBC}