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Chapter Text

Ned woke with a jolt, the breath catching in his throat like a noose. His hand went instinctively to his neck. The skin was unbroken, his beard coarse beneath his fingers, his pulse strong beneath the heel of his palm.

He should have been dead. He had felt the sword. Heard squeaky and childish Joffrey’s voice barking the command. Ice had fallen and his world had ended.

Except… it hadn’t?

The chill in the room was real. The furs pulled over his body were those of Winterfell. He knew the scent of the room, the smoke and pine, the oil rubbed into his armor resting in the corner. There was no mistaking it. He was home.

“What is this?” he whispered, the sound foreign to his own ears.

He turned his head. The other side of the bed was not empty. The red hair that reminded him of fire lay spilled across the pillow like spilt wine, her lashes fluttering as if in some uncertain dream. 

Catelyn .

A flood of relief surged through him. She was truly there beside him. The heat of her body chased the cold from his skin. 

Baelor’s Sept had been a grave. And Sansa. Gods. Sansa . He clenched his jaw to hold back the surge of pain that memory brought, but it was too late. 

Faces rushed back, and names, and cries of betrayal. 

The chaos of the throne room. The butchering of his household guard. Littlefinger’s treachery. Sansa’s screams and pleas for his life. Arya disappearing into the crowd. Ice in Payne’s hands.

He could taste the moment of death like copper on his tongue and remember the last thoughts that had battered at his heart, his children, his wife, the North left vulnerable to lions in Baratheon garb.

Yet here he was… here they both were.

His leg didn’t ache. He remembered the stab wound from the red-cloaked guard in the streets of silk, remembered having to drag himself from that cell in the Red Keep half-lamed. But now? He rolled his ankle and felt nothing but strength.

He sat up, and beside him Catelyn began to stir.

~~~

She did not wake with a start. But when her eyes opened, the ceiling above greeted her with cruel familiarity. No.

No, that wasn’t possible.

Her last memory had been her screaming, hands wet with blood not her own, and then her own throat splitting open. She had died. She had felt the air rush from her throat and her body dropping into the cold stone floor of the Twins. The Rains of Castamere playing through it all.

But now she was here. In her bed. In Winterfell.

Alive .

She dared not move. Her heart thundered in her chest. She turned her head slowly, hoping to see what she knew could not be.

But he was there.

Her husband. Her Ned. His hair was mussed, his mouth half open in an inelegant groan that struck her so hard it almost made her sob.

She stared, unwilling to believe it. Then she reached. Her fingers brushed his cheek. Warmth met her skin. 

He was real.

Tears welled in her eyes, but she swallowed them. She moved closer and placed a trembling kiss on his mouth, just to see if he would vanish. When he didn’t, when he deepened the kiss and shifted closer to her, she released the breath she had been holding.

“Ned,” she whispered, her voice catching. She touched his hair again.

“Cat.”

Her name came as a gasp, as if saying it aloud would affirm what his eyes could not.

Catelyn was already nodding, though tears spilled freely down both their cheeks now. “Yes. Yes, it’s me. Ned…” she broke off, her voice thick with emotion, “I thought… I thought you…”

“I was,” he said plainly. “I remember it. Baelor’s Sept. The crowd. Venom in that boy’s words.” He sat up, shaking. “He had him use my sword.”

She closed her eyes and covered her mouth. “I watched Robb die.”

His head snapped toward her, his breath sucked between his teeth. “Robb?”

She nodded, gripping the furs as if they might anchor her. “At the Twins. The Freys. The Boltons. They betrayed him. Killed him. And Talisa.”

“Talisa?”

Catelyn nodded, “His wife. They stabbed her in her belly. Killing her… and their babe.”

Eddard swore under his breath. It was rare for him, but nothing about this moment was ordinary.

“Then I died,” she said, looking down at her hands. “I felt the blade open my throat.”

He looked around again. “Yet we are here. In this bed. In Winterfell.”

“We are young,” she said, wonder in her voice. “As we were before you left for King’s Landing. Before Bran fell. Before the war. Before all of it.”

“Then we are not dead,” Eddard said slowly, though uncertainty remained in his voice.

“I think we are,” she said. “This feels like a gift. The gods gave us peace.”

He shook his head. “Then where is Brandon? Where is my Father? Or either of our mothers? Or Lyanna?” He searched the corners of the room again. “If this truly is the afterlife, would they not be here?”

She said nothing. The question wounded her more than she liked to admit.

“Perhaps this is penance,” she said at last. “Or a chance to do it again. But it cannot be a dream. I touched you. You touched me. This is too real.”

He turned back toward her and took her hand in his. “I don’t know what to believe. I only know that we are here. Together.”

She nodded and pressed her forehead to his chest. His arms encircled her, and for a moment, the weight of years lifted.

“But the children,” she whispered. “If this is real…if they are here…”

“Then we find them,” he said, without hesitation. “We protect them. We will not leave Winterfell again.”

Outside, a muffled shout reached them.

Eddard stiffened.

“What was that?”

Another voice rose, angry and panicked.

The two of them moved to the window. In the courtyard below, they could see movement. Torches, servants hurrying, stablehands arguing. A page nearly tripped as he ran past Maester Luwin, who looked just as flustered as they remembered.

The air was thick with disarray.

Catelyn leaned closer. “Something’s happened.”

“Something is happening,” Eddard corrected.

She looked at him, brow furrowed. “You don’t think…?”

“I think we’re not the only ones,” he said slowly. “If this is the afterlife, it’s a crowded one.”

Chapter Text

Rickon’s dreams had always come fast and loud. This time though, there was no running, no screaming, no crashing of steel or bellowing of giants. Just silence.

His eyes flew open. He was in his room. Not the dark cell in Last Hearth, not a tent, not some forest floor. 

His real room. 

The bed was familiar, the blanket heavy with direwolf sigils, the air so cold it hurt his nose despite the warmth of the room. He knew that air. That was Winterfell air.

He sat up too fast, causing the room to spin briefly.

The furs were the same ones Old Nan had tucked around him when he was sick. His wooden chest was still in the corner, and there was the little wooden horse Robb had carved him.

He scrambled out of bed and nearly tripped over the hem of his nightshirt. It was too big on him. His feet were bare. His legs looked scrawny again, and he felt like his hands had shrunk.

“What the…” he started, then stopped.

He crossed to the polished silver mirror on the wall. His hair was wild and curling and shorter than he remembered. His face was rounder. His nose hadn’t broken from Osha’s training yet.

He looked like a baby.

Because he was.

He pressed a hand to the glass, suddenly panicked. “Shaggydog?” he called out as he turned, and turned to the answering snarl, and thundering of paws.  He felt the wet kisses on his hands as his senses came to him“I… Jon?”

His heart leapt into his throat. He bolted for the door to find an empty hallway. He ran anyway.

“Jon?” he shouted. “Jon!”

He sprinted and turned corners on instinct, ignoring the servants who gasped at him and each other as he passed them. Some of them looked just as panicked as he felt. One old woman looked like she’d seen a ghost.

He needed to find Jon.

His big brother had always known what to do and the last thing Rickon remembered was running across a field, his feet aching with every step, while Jon rode to him with his arm out.

Then there was an arrow and him hitting the floor Jon charging towards Ramsay… And then nothing.

“Jon?” he shouted again, skidding around the turn near the great hall. “Jon!”

“Rickon?”

He stopped short. Sansa was standing at the foot of the stairs, her long red hair catching the torchlight. She looked different, though not in a way he could explain. Like she was older on the inside.

He ran to her.

“Sansa!” he grabbed her arm. “Did Ramsay kill you too?”

Her expression froze. “Too?”

Rickon blinked. “Yeah. What’s the last thing you remember?”

Sansa’s lips parted slightly before returning to a frown. “Fighting in the crypts. With Tyrion. There were so many wights. The dead were breaking through the walls. I had to stab Aunt Lyanna…” She looked at him slowly. “Rickon… what do you remember?”

“I was running to get Jon. Ramsay really hated him... Osha said it was because he was jealous.”

Sansa’s mouth tightened, and her voice dropped. “Yes… that seems accurate.”

Rickon looked around, still half-expecting Jon to turn the corner, sword at his side. “Did Theon really save you from Ramsay?” he asked quietly. “Even though he tried to kill me and Bran?”

Sansa looked like she might not answer, but then nodded. “Yeah. He did.”

“No,” came a voice from behind them. “She saved herself.”

They both jumped.

Arya was perched on the stair railing above them, crouched like a cat, her forearms resting casually on her knees.

Sansa whirled around, one hand on her chest. “Dammit, Arya, I told you to stop doing that!”

Arya smirked but said nothing. “Did you die?”

Rickon stared at her. She looked exactly like she had when he was little, but there was something behind her eyes now. 

“No, I didn’t die,” Arya said plainly, hopping down. “I stabbed the Night King. Shattered him like glass, last I remember.”

Sansa raised an eyebrow. “You sound like you’re bragging.”

“I am,” Arya replied.

Rickon looked between them, his mind still struggling to make sense of it. “So we all remember things from… later. But we’re little again?”

Arya glanced down at her hands. “Seems like it.”

Sansa nodded. “I looked in the mirror. I’m back to being thirteen.”

Rickon frowned. “That means we’re… what? Time traveling?”

“Mentally,” Arya clarified. “Not physically. Our bodies haven’t changed… or... I think it’s just our minds. Bran mentioned it once. It’s why Hodor…”

Rickon rubbed at his temples in annoyance. “But then why? Why now?”

Sansa didn’t answer. Neither did Arya.

“Maybe Killing the Night King caused this? This… reset?” Sansa suggested

A sudden clamor echoed through the halls. Shouts, and thunderous footsteps and what sounded like the crash of something heavy. Not fighting, but the noise of people panicking all at once.

Rickon whipped his head toward the source of the noise. “What was that?”

Sansa turned as well, frowning.

“Let’s find out,” Arya said.

The three of them took off at once, Rickon’s new legs causing him to struggle to keep in step between his sisters. 

The halls grew louder with each turn. Others remembered too.

The shouting got louder the closer they got to the courtyard. Not just the usual noise that came with castle life or the odd fight between squires. This was different. The kind of noise that came when something was really wrong.

Rickon ran faster, his bare feet slapping against cold stone. Arya surged ahead, slipping through narrow turns without effort, and Sansa followed close behind, keeping her skirts lifted slowing her Down. They burst out into the courtyard together, squinting at the brightness of the grey sky.

A crowd was already forming. Servants, guards, stablehands, even Hullen stood frozen, unsure whether to intervene or flee.

At the center of it, Robb Stark was screaming.

Rickon had never heard him like this. Not when Bran had fallen, not when news came of their father’s capture, not even during the war councils in the North. This wasn’t the voice of a lord or a king, it was the voice of a brother betrayed.

“You think saying nothing is going to make it better?” Robb’s voice cracked from strain. “Say something, Theon! Say somethin’!”

On the ground at his feet, Theon Greyjoy was crouched low, his knees drawn to his chest, rocking back and forth. His eyes were wild and glassy, mouth moving in frantic murmurs Rickon could barely hear.

“I had no choice, I had no choice, I had no choice,” Theon whispered over and over, clutching the sides of his head.

Between them stood Bran, arms outstretched, blocking Robb with his entire body despite the new shortness in his stature.

“He didn’t kill me!” Bran shouted. “He didn’t kill Rickon either!”

Robb’s hands clenched at his sides, his whole body shaking.

Arya snorted behind Rickon. “And that excuses the other things he did?”

Bran turned, his voice cracking into a whine. “Arya…”

She shrugged. “What? We’re just supposed to forget about the two boys he did murder? Jon told me how you knew about the miller’s sons.”

Rickon stepped forward, his brow furrowing. “Where is Jon?”

Arya didn’t stop. “And unlike Sansa, I can actually do math.”

“Hey!” Sansa snapped, but her heart wasn’t in it. Her eyes were locked on Robb.

“So I know when they were born!”

More people were crowding in, hushed whispers spreading as fast as the recognition in their eyes. Every face carried the same look, too much knowing in too young a body.

Everyone remembered.

Robb’s voice returned, hoarse with fury. “He betrayed us! He betrayed our family! I’m going to kill him!”

“Theon rescued me!” Sansa’s voice rang clear across the courtyard as she moved between Robb and Theon. “He did! Which is more than I can say about you !”

The silence that followed was sharp enough to draw blood. Robb faltered for the first time. His fists dropped slightly, his mouth opening without words. Robb was the oldest, the strongest, the one they were all supposed to follow. But at that moment, he looked like a lost little boy.

When Sansa looked over, Arya gave her a small shrug, just nodding once, more or less agreeing with Sansa without saying a word.

“What in the seventh hell is going on here?”

Every head turned.

Father stood at the top of the stairs, his voice iron and frost. Behind him, Mother was trying to keep up, her eyes scanning the children with recognition, pain, and panic.

Rickon’s heart leapt and stilled at once. His parents. They were here, alive ! Rickon blinked up at them. His father looked shorter than he remembered, more tired too. Father’s gaze swept the courtyard like a sword. It stopped first on Robb, then Theon, then Bran still standing like a shield, then Arya and Sansa, then…

His eyes locked on Rickon and his throat burned.

Catelyn’s voice still rang in the air, her fury palpable. “ Greyjoy ! I’m going to kill…”

“Mother, you can’t!” Bran shouted again, more desperate this time, stepping between her and Theon with arms outstretched now that Sansa was protecting him from Robb. “We need him!”

The courtyard snapped its attention to Bran again. Theon stayed on the ground, muttering his same broken phrase. Rickon could barely hear it now. 

Father took a few steps down the stairs, his voice iron. “What do you mean we need him?”

When Bran didn’t answer fast enough, Sansa’s eyes narrowed. “Wait… Bran, did you do this ?”

Bran looked like someone had pulled the rug out from under his feet. “I… well… I…”

Arya tilted her head, studying him. “You’re talking normally again. Well… normaler anyway.”

“What Arya means to say is that there’s actual inflection in your voice again.” Sansa said, giving Arya a glare. 

Ned’s voice boomed over them all. “Does anyone want to explain what is going on? What witchery could even do something like this?”

Bran clenched his jaw. “It’s complicated, but…”

Bran turned from both of them and faced the courtyard directly.

“Does everyone here remember?”

One by one, people confirmed it. Heads bowed, hands trembled, a few wept quietly where they stood. Every one of them had woken up wrong. Rickon muttered. “I was looking for Jon.”

Catelyn turned toward him quickly. “Jon?”

Sansa spoke before Rickon could answer. “Yes, Mother. Jon. The one each one of us turned to in our darkest hour. He’s our brother.”Her voice was sharp, cutting through the cold better than the wind ever could. 

Robb stared at her, brow furrowed. “ You are defending Jon ?”

“Yes.” Sansa didn’t blink but something in her voice was tight. 

Robb looked down at his hands, then back at her. “Magic must be involved.”

“Shut it.” The words should have hit like a slap, but her repressed smirk took much of the sting out of it.

Mother now had her eyes on Sansa as she walked towards them, not speaking and ignoring Robb. Father said nothing, but his gaze lingered on Sansa with something complicated, some mix of concern and curiosity.

“Bran… why did you…”

Bran lowered his eyes. “It’s… well, it’s a long story. I didn’t even know I could bring back anyone . Let alone… everyone .”

Arya’s voice rang out sharp and incredulous. “But why would you! I stabbed the Night King. We won !”

Ned frowned. “Won what?”

Arya turned to him. “The Battle for the Dawn.”

Catelyn blinked, glancing between her children. “The what?”

Bran’s voice was quiet, but his words made the air feel heavier. “We won that battle, aye. However, it was what was going to come next that we were going to lose.”

Ned had heard enough. His patience, strained as it was, gave out. He stepped forward, his voice harder than steel on stone.

“All right. That is enough. I want answers. Straight answers!”

Before anyone could reply, Ser Rodrik broke from the crowd, his voice panicked. “ There is fighting in the keep!” his eyes flicked from Ned to Robb. “My… lord…” He looked torn in two. His instinct pulled toward Robb, his sworn duty toward Ned. For a breath, he didn’t move.

“What?”

Sansa’s eyes flicked toward the stone corridors behind Ser Rodrik. “I’m guessing those loyal to Winterfell are purging those who turned coat to the Boltons.”

“The Boltons?” Ned echoed, his face hardening into something darker. 

“Jon!” Rickon gasped, suddenly breaking the building tension.

Every head turned.

He was there.

Walking out from the gate that led to the crypts, moving with purpose: stride steady, jaw locked tight.

Sansa felt something shudder deep inside her. She remembered the pain, the cold, the long nights in Winterfell when she thought all hope was lost. And then Jon had come back into her life. 

Not a shining knight or a lord draped in gold. Just… Jon. Her brother. The only one who came back for her, who would have gone to the end of the earth for any of his siblings. When Robb couldn’t… When Robb wouldn’t... 

She’d never been close to him, he was too much of an outsider. But now, she knew better. No one had ever stood so firmly at her side when it truly mattered.

There had never been a time Arya hadn’t loved him. When he left for the Wall, it was the first real hole she ever felt in her life. And when they reunited, it was the final piece of her heart to come back. He never asked her to be different. 

Rickon saw Jon and felt safe. Like he had when he was little and afraid of the dark, and Jon had told him stories about ghosts that protected brave boys or when he let Rickon crawl into his bed with him. He remembered Jon lifting him up onto a horse, showing him how to hold a wooden sword, hiding lemon cakes in his cloak after supper so Rickon could have some (“ else Sansa take them all, shhh! ”). But when Rickon was afraid, it was Jon who would be there. 

Robb said nothing. His eyes locked with his half-brother’s…his true brother’s. There was guilt in his expression. And something else. 

Catelyn did not speak. But she watched.

Jon came to a stop at the edge of the courtyard. His eyes scanned every face. He saw Sansa. Arya. Bran. Rickon. Robb. Mother. Father.

He looked at father last.

And without a word… He punched him square in the face.

Chapter Text

The last thing Robert Baratheon remembered was a boar.

Not a warhammer, not a battlefield, not a great final duel between legends. A fucking boar. Charging through the brush like a drunken knight, tusks low and eyes wild. It had gored him in the gut, spilling his insides like wine from a cracked cask. His own voice had been slurred when he made his final requests.

And then… silence.

He should have died.

By all the gods, he had died.

But he’d woken up in his own bed, the linens damp with sweat instead of blood and the sun already climbing behind the high eastern window. His hands were strong again. His body, still bloated from too much drink, was still sore in familiar ways, but alive.

And all around him… the world had gone to shit.

Now, as he stepped out of his bath, steam rising around him, he grunted at the ache in his shoulders. Half of it was from the day’s fighting. The other half from using muscles he hadn’t needed in years. The wine had worn off long before the blood. That he had found, was the worst of it.

He dried himself with a rough towel and reached for the simple outfit draped over the stool. No silks today. He couldn’t afford it.

Not when the Red Keep was bleeding.

The moment he’d left his rooms that morning, hammer in hand and voice hoarse from shouting, he’d found chaos. Not whispers. Not unrest. Not courtly scheming.

Just pure unadulterated chaos.

Lannister and Baratheon guards had turned on each other. Right there in the halls. Crossbows loosed in stairwells. Blades drawn in the godsdamned gardens. The Queen’s men blaming his men. His blaming hers. And no one left alive to sort the truth of it.

The Gold Cloaks weren’t helping. They were being torn apart in the streets. Smallfolk had turned on them like starved dogs. One watch post had been burned to the ground before midday.

Renly was gone. That much was confirmed. He’d fled with Loras Tyrell and three dozen Baratheon guards. Disappeared through the southern gate without even trying to send a word. 

Coward.

The Small Council? Missing.

Littlefinger. Varys. Ned.

All vanished.

Only Pycelle had been found, hiding behind locked doors with his chain half off. The old goat had finally been useful… barely.

As for Jaime…

Robert grit his teeth as he fastened his robe.

The Kingslayer had carved his way through three corridors of his men, dragging Cersei over one shoulder, unconscious or worse. One of the squires said she’d been knocked out cold. Another claimed poison. Whatever the truth, Jaime had carried her like a prize and vanished through the northwestern gate.

His children were missing too… That stung more than he’d expected.

He didn’t have the luxury of mourning. The city was holding together by threads, and those threads were soaked in blood.

Barristan Selmy was gone. Vanished after cutting down Borros Blount during the chaos. No one had seen him since. That left only four Kingsguard.

Arys Oakheart, the newest and  youngest, was now somehow the acting Lord Commander. That realization had almost made Robert laugh… until it hadn’t. The gods had not even left him a proper guard.

And the Sept… gods above.

The Sept of Baelor had been stormed before midday. Not by soldiers or rioters, but zealots. Hooded, robed, chanting fanatics. They’d butchered the Most Devout in their conclave, barricaded themselves inside, and were calling for the mass cleansing of the city.

Slaughtering the Most Devout… Robert hadn’t worshipped the Seven in years, but even he felt sick thinking of it.

So he had taken to the streets himself.

He had fought. Personally. Hammer in hand, one of the old ones from his armory, not the tourney toy they gave him for show. 

Ned was right, he had no business being out there. He’d nearly died twice. Once to a Gold Cloak with his helmet bashed in and murder in his eyes. Another to a smallfolk man in butcher’s leather, swinging a cleaver like a madman. It was only thanks to the intervention of a boy… no, a young man, that Robert still drew breath.

He didn’t know the lad’s name. He hadn’t asked. But the way the boy fought, the way he moved with that hammer, it had stirred something in Robert.

His bastard. Had to be. 

When the fighting stopped and Robert, breathless and bloody, tried to thank him, the boy just glared.

“I know what you are… I know what you are,” the lad had said. “I want nothing from you.”

Then he’d walked away and Robert hadn’t bothered follow. He couldn’t even blame the boy. Not after the life he’d left for all his bastards.

He rubbed his face, now freshly scrubbed and freshly shaved. The floors were still stained red in places… where pools of blood were still there. The servants were doing their best but there were some things you couldn’t wash out of stone.

Guards watched him with wide eyes, every one of them too green, too tired, or too unsure to meet his gaze for long. The corridors of the Red Keep, once filled with ceremony and pomp, now felt like a tomb… and Robert moved through them like their ghost.

Eventually, he reached the small council chambers.

There were no heralds to announce him. No fanfare. No greetings. Just the quiet creak of the heavy oaken doors as he pushed them open himself. The room was dim, late sunlight streaming through. The long table had four men seated at it.

Janos Slynt sat stiffly, fat fingers drumming against the polished wood, eyes flicking toward the door like a rat cornered in a cellar. His cloak was soiled. He looked like he hadn’t slept.

Grand Maester Pycelle was hunched over a parchment, trembling hand halfway to the wax seal. He looked up at Robert’s entrance and blinked in slow recognition, his mouth parting slightly.

Arys Oakheart stood the moment he saw Robert. His armor was polished but dented at the shoulder, one strap fraying at the edge. He gave a half-bow, clearly uncomfortable in his new role.

Finally, sitting quietly at the end of the table, lounging like he belonged in the Kings space, was Joffrey.

Robert didn’t stop walking. He stepped inside, eyes raking across each of them in turn. The room felt smaller than he remembered.

Maybe it was the silence. Maybe it was the fact that only four people were seated where eight should have been. Whatever it was, it was too quiet, too still, and none of the men in it looked as they were supposed to be.

He hadn’t seen his reflection yet, not clearly, but he knew what was going on. He wasn’t gray anymore. His knees didn’t ache the same way. His gut was still big, but the pain under it was gone. 

He wasn’t dead, he was walking again, breathing again, swinging steel again. That was what mattered.

But now, after fighting in the streets, bathing in the blood of his own city, and watching a bastard son walk away from him with more dignity than Robert thought he deserved, he was back where it started. Or what was left of the council.

He glanced around as he made his way toward the head of the table, causing Joffrey to scramble out of his seat.

Pycelle sat low in his seat, chin near his chest, hands trembling slightly. Janos Slynt was sitting tall and puffed up like a goose at a harvest feast. Arys Oakheart looked too stiff to be comfortable. His Kingsguard whites were unspotted, though his eyes were rimmed red and his jaw too tight. Then there was the boy.

He now sat next to Pycelle, fingers laced in front of him on the table like he thought himself some kind of little king already. His blond hair was shorter than Robert remembered, his jaw less sharp. He didn’t speak, but his eyes met Robert’s, and there was something in them that made Robert’s stomach turn. They were just… cold.

Robert didn’t say anything until he was halfway to the chair at the head of the table.

Then he stopped.

“Now what the fuck is going on?” he asked.

No one answered at first.

Robert looked around again and slammed his hand down on the table, knocking over a goblet. “I said what the fuck is going on. The streets are full of fire. There’s fighting in my own halls. Half the damned court is gone. And I wake up not to a cup of wine, not to a gods-damned explanation, but to corpses in the throne room and my own men killing each other like rats in a sack.”

Pycelle cleared his throat and sat up a little straighter.

“It… appears, Your Grace,” the old man said, “that we are not alone in this… phenomenon. All of us here recall events well beyond this morning.”

“So Ned didn’t abandon me… he just hasn’t arrived yet?”

“It would seem so, Your Grace.”

Robert frowned. “You remember dying?”

“Yes,” Pycelle said, nodding. “Quite vividly, in fact. I was murdered in my chambers by small, silent hands. The Queen’s former Maester, Qyburn, had taken liberties with certain… methods.”

“Qyburn?” Robert repeated. “Cersei had her own personal maester?”

“He was expelled from the Citadel for conducting experiments on living subjects. She brought him into her confidence regardless.”

Robert rubbed his face with both hands. His knuckles still smelled like blood.

“So Cersei replaced you with a lunatic?”

Pycelle coughed. “One could phrase it that way, Your Grace.”

“And then?”

“I was slain,” he repeated. “By children trained to kill. Part of some design that Qyburn was executing against what remained of Her Grace’s enemies. Or who he presumed to be her enemies.”

Robert didn’t have the energy to make sense of that. He turned to Arys next. “And you?”

Arys looked down at his white gloves, then up at Robert.

“I died in Dorne,” he said quietly. “Protecting Princess Myrcella.”

Robert stared at him. “What in the fuck was Myrcella doing in Dorne?”

Arys glanced at Joffrey, who stayed silent.

“After Prince Joffrey’s death, Princess Arianne of House Martell attempted to crown Myrcella. According to Dornish customs, she was the elder child and thus the rightful heir.”

“The betrothal to her brother might have helped…” Joffrey grumbled. 

Robert blinked. “What do you mean after Joffrey’s death? Why was she there in the first place?.”

Arys didn’t answer. Joffrey did.

“I was poisoned at my wedding.”

Robert looked at him. “What wedding?”

Joffrey tilted his head slightly. “My wedding to Margaery Tyrell.”

Robert squinted. “The girl who was sniffing after Renly’s arse?”

“She was betrothed to Renly. After his death, I took her to wife to build an alliance with the Tyrell’s .”

Robert rubbed his temples. “What happened to the Stark girl?”

“She was betrothed to me, once,” Joffrey said with a shrug. “But she probably aided in the assassination. Along with the imp.”

“Poisoned?”

“Yes, Your Grace. Wine. It occurred at the feast. A spectacle.”

Robert shook his head. “So Joffrey dies. Myrcella goes to Dorne. And then what?”

Pycelle opened his mouth, but Janos Slynt beat him to it.

“And then, the bastard son of that traitor Jon Snow killed me… ”

The rest of the sentence didn’t come out. Robert moved faster than anyone expected. He didn’t even think about it. One step, then another, and his fist connected with Janos’s face like a hammer on a shield.

There was a sickening crunch, and Janos went sprawling backwards out of his chair, blood spraying from his mouth and nose. Two of his teeth skid across the stone floor. The chair toppled after him.

Robert stood over him, breath heaving.

“You do not call Ned Stark a traitor,” he said. “Not in front of me. Not in my fucking chamber.”

Janos groaned, hands clutching at his face, blood pouring between his fingers.

Arys stood up quickly, moving between Janos and Robert without drawing steel.

“Your Grace, please… ”

Pycelle shuffled forward. “My lord, please, calm yourself… ”

Joffrey rose as well. “It’s true,” he said. “Lord Stark confessed.”

Robert turned toward him slowly.

Joffrey didn’t flinch.

“He confessed,” the boy repeated. “On the steps of Baelor. He told the world how he had been plotting to place your brother Stannis on the throne.”

Robert didn’t know what to say to that.

He sat down slowly in the nearest chair, the one meant for the king. His legs didn’t quite give out, but they nearly did. The air in the room shifted.

He remembered his friend, his brother, the only man in the world who had ever told him the truth without fear even including Jon. He remembered laughing with him. Remembered riding through the Trident together. Remembered sitting on the Iron Throne with Ned standing at his side while the city still burned.

And now they were saying he confessed to treason.

“I don’t believe it,” Robert muttered.

“He did,” Joffrey said again.

Robert leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling for a long while. Pycelle returned to his seat slowly. Arys sat again too, though he kept glancing between Robert and Janos, who was still on the floor groaning and spitting teeth into his cupped hands.

Robert barely heard the murmur of voices around the table. He was trying to focus, but the conversation kept looping in his head. Ned Stark. Confessing to treason. At a Sept? He still didn’t believe it. Didn’t want to. He was gripping the edge of the chair so hard his fingers ached.

Across the table, Joffrey cleared his throat.

Robert’s eyes shifted. The boy looked like he was building up to something.

“I had to do it,” Joffrey said finally.

Robert blinked. “Do what?”

“Execute Lord Stark,” Joffrey said.

The words dropped like a stone in Robert’s gut.

He leaned forward, slowly. His voice stayed quiet, but only just. “You did what?”

Joffrey didn’t flinch. “He was a fucking traitor.”

Robert growled.

“After he confessed,” Joffrey went on, “there was no other choice. I couldn’t look weak. Not with both of your brothers declaring themselves kings.”

Robert’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. His eyes flicked to Arys, to Pycelle, but neither met his gaze. Only Joffrey, with his narrow jaw and too-proud stare, kept speaking.

“After your Uncles did what?”

“Renly crowned himself in Highgarden,” Joffrey said, “and Stannis declared himself on Dragonstone. I had to show strength. Killing Lord Stark sent a message. It made it clear that the crown would not tolerate treason, not even from someone so highborn. I did it to protect the realm.”

Pycelle shifted in his chair. “If I may, Your Grace,” he said carefully, “Stannis had not yet declared himself king when the execution was carried out. He was still on Dragonstone and silent at the time.”

“Shut up,” Robert said, without looking at him.

“Shut up,” Joffrey said at the same time.

Pycelle’s mouth snapped shut.

Robert dragged a hand through his hair. “So you’re telling me,” he said slowly, “you thought killing one of the few men in the realm who still believed in justice would stop a rebellion before it started?”

Joffrey sat straighter. “It was better than letting the Realm think I was weak. Or worse, letting them think I’d turn kinslayer by going after Stannis and Renly first.”

Robert snorted. “So instead, you started with the one man whose loyalty might have kept the others in check.”

“He wasn’t loyal,” Joffrey snapped. “He always hated the Lannisters. Mother said so. Said Stark had always looked down on our house. Said his trout wife gave him nothing but redheads, yet when we come out looking like Mother, somehow that’s a problem?”

Robert’s breath caught.

He hadn’t thought about that in years. Not properly… he hadn’t wanted to… Not since the sack of King’s Landing, not since he found Elia Martell’s children dashed to bits, not since he turned and saw Ned Stark’s face as he stared down at the carnage. That look of disgust. Of judgment. Ned had carried it with him for years, never saying a word about it, but it had always been there, lingering in his silences.

Robert thought about how hard it had been to get Ned to stay in the capital even after Jon Arryn’s death. How little he’d trusted Cersei. 

Now, all these years later, that ugly knot of suspicion was being thrown back at him by a son he barely recognized. And gods help him, the boy had a point.

Still. That didn’t mean it had to end with a man’s head on a spike.

Robert leaned back, still staring at the boy. Joffrey looked so young now. Younger than he had any right to be. It was strange to look at his son and see a face that hadn’t yet hardened into arrogance. There was still something soft in the cheeks, a trace of something human beneath all the smug posturing. But the eyes were already cold.

Robert exhaled through his nose.

“You executed my best friend,” he said.

“He was a traitor.”

“I built my kingship on mercy and clemency,” Robert snapped. “You think I didn’t want to kill men? I wanted to kill every Targaryen I could get my hands on. I still do. But I didn’t kill every man who fought against me. I gave them a choice. I gave them a chance to kneel.”

Joffrey crossed his arms. “And how did that work out for you? Renly and Stannis both… ”

“I’ll deal with my brothers,” Robert said sharply. “They’re mine to handle.”

He pushed up from his chair, rising to his feet slowly. “But you’ll do well to remember that my methods kept the peace. Twenty years. That was me. Not your mother. Not your council. Not your godsdamned grandfather. Me.”

Joffrey didn’t answer.

Robert leaned over the table and pointed a thick finger in Pycelle’s direction. “You. I want letters sent out. To every great house. Now. Tell them I want them to report in. A full report.”

Pycelle blinked at him, then gave a slow nod.

Robert sat back down, hard. His hand hit the table again, not in anger this time, but with finality.

And for the first time since waking up that morning, he felt the weight of it. He was alive again but everything around him had changed.

And he was just starting to realize how far behind he was.

Chapter Text

The courtyard froze.

Father staggered back a half step, his eyes wide in disbelief. Then his legs gave out, and he landed flat on his rear in the cold mud-packed snow of the courtyard. His hand went instinctively to his face, coming away slick with blood from his nose.

Not one soul moved.

All eyes were on the Lord of Winterfell, fallen and bleeding on the stone.

Even Theon, curled at the center of it all, had stopped muttering. The rocking had ceased.

No one even noticed Jon had already walked away.

Ser Rodrik was the first to find his voice again, though it was tight with urgency. “My lord, the keep…”

Robb didn’t hesitate. “I’ll handle it.” His voice was clipped. His eyes lingered on father for only a heartbeat more before he turned, motioning for Ser Rodrik to follow.

They vanished into the keep without another word.

Father sat still, as if trying to make sense of what had just happened. His breath fogged the cold air, slow and uncertain.

“Why would…” he began, but the words didn’t finish.

Sansa rushed to his side. “Father! I had no idea he would do something like this, let alone to you!”

She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and pressed it to his face, gently dabbing at the blood.

Arya knelt beside her, frowning. “He worships you. Always quoting you. Always trying to do what you’d do. Honestly, it’s a bit annoying if we’re being honest.”

“Arya!” Catelyn snapped, scandalized.

“What it’s true! Father said this, father said that!”

Bran looked down at his shoes, shifting his weight between his feet. “Give him a moment,” he said softly. “He did just die for the second time.”

Sansa’s head whipped around. “What do you mean he died?”

Ned’s hand dropped from his face. “What do you mean a second time?”

Catelyn stared directly at Bran, her voice low and sharp. “Why are you lying?”

Bran’s eyes flicked up, startled. “What?”

“You always look at your shoes when you lie,” she said flatly.

Bran blinked, then looked away again. “Jon has his reasoning… probably.” he muttered, causing mother to give him an unhappy hum. “We need to get Father looked at. He can have a concussion.”

Rickon tilted his head. “What’s a concussion?”

Bran turned toward him, visibly grateful for the change of subject. “It’s like a bruise on the brain. If someone hits their head hard enough, it can make their thoughts go fuzzy or their balance go strange. It’s dangerous. Maester Luwin can help.”

Arya looked toward the gate where Jon had vanished, her face unreadable. Mother hadn’t moved from her place. Her hand hovered near father’s shoulder, but she hadn’t touched him.

And Ned… still sat on the ground, staring at the archway where his son had disappeared.

♣ ♥ ♠ ♦ 

Father’s steps were slow, careful, and visibly unsteady as Sansa and her mother each supported one of his arms. Arya walked ahead, not quite looking back but never straying far. 

They were halfway across the courtyard, heading toward the Maester’s tower, when Hallis Mollen stepped into their path. He looked flustered and out of breath.

“Lady Stark,” Hallis said quickly.

Both Mother and Sansa responded at once.

“Yes?” they said together.

He blinked. “Oh, erm…Lady Sansa?”

Sansa didn’t slow her stride. “What is it, Hal?”

“We’ve rounded up all the Bolton traitors. Should we…” he trailed off, his tone wary.

Sansa’s voice was cold and sure, “Just put them in a cell for now, I do not want them harmed!”

Hallis gave a sigh of relief, before turning quickly to carry out the order.

Sansa barely noticed him go more preoccupied with Maester Luwin coming from the covered walkway, robe tugged up slightly to keep from dragging in the slush. Without thinking, Rickon broke into a run and flung his arms around the man’s middle.

Maester Luwin stumbled back a step before regaining his footing. He looked down and smiled.

“I take it you all remember as well?” he asked gently, resting a hand on Rickon’s back.

Mother stepped forward. “Maester, we need you to look at Ned. Bran believes he may have a…”

“A concussion, Mother,” Bran supplied when she looked at him for aid.

Maester Luwin turned to him, eyes narrowing slightly. “How do you know about concussions, Bran?”

Bran glanced away for a moment. “After Baelor Breakspear’s death, Bloodraven did a lot of research into… look, it’s not important. Please take care of him, Maester.”

Father winced slightly as he tried to sit on the bench outside the tower door.

Robb came striding across the yard, his face grim but calm.

“The fighting’s stopped,” he said as he approached. “Does anyone know where Jon went?”

Father opened his mouth but only got as far as, “I am wondering that myself…”

“Please stop speaking, my lord,” Maester Luwin cut in quickly, already crouching beside him. “You’re lucky he didn’t strike your temple. Let us go upstairs”

Once they got him to the room, the Maester began his examination in full, gently tilting Ned’s head, checking his pupils, pressing a few fingers against the base of his skull. He worked in silence, murmuring small observations to himself as the others watched.

At last, Maester Luwin stood and adjusted his robe.

“He very likely has a concussion. His pupils are uneven, and his responses were slightly delayed. I’ll need to check on him again in a few hours to see if it worsens. He shouldn’t sleep for too long at a time tonight. Someone will need to wake him regularly.”

“I’ll stay with him,” Mother said instantly.

Father looked like he wanted to object, but Maester Luwin raised a finger before he could.

“No arguments.”

Maester Luwin had stepped into the back of the tower room to gather more salves and linens. 

“We need to speak,” Bran said, voice quiet but clear. “I do not believe this will be kept within Winterfell’s lands.”

Sansa turned from the fire. “As in…”

“When I did what I did,” Bran continued, not looking at her, “I did it here. In Winterfell, the godswood specifically. So it started here. But I do not think it will remain. I think it is radiating outward. Slowly, but surely. Like wine on a tablecloth”

His voice trailed off. His eyes flicked white. The silence in the room grew tighter. Sansa understood what he was doing, Arya probably did as well, but she could imagine that to the rest it was off putting. 

Bran blinked and returned to himself. “I did it about thirty-five minutes ago. Relative to me. People in Wintertown are starting to remember now.”

Mother stared at him. “How can you possibly know…”

“Meaning…” Arya cut in, stepping away from the wall, her voice edged with tension, “people we don’t want remembering will start remembering?”

Bran didn’t nod. He didn’t need to.

Robb’s voice was grim. “Including those we’ve already defeated.”

“Aye,” Bran said. “We need to prepare.”

Arya turned, studying him. “Is this why you’re speaking normally again?”

Bran looked down at the stone floor. “That… is an issue in of itself but not unrelated. And we don’t have time for me to stop and explain it yet.”

He didn’t sound evasive. Just overwhelmed.

Sansa straightened. “Worry not. I’ll send out the letters. We shall call the banners.”

Mother turned sharply toward her. “Sansa! That is your father’s right…”

Arya spoke before Ned could even raise his head.

“All the northern and Vale lords trusted and respected Sansa,” she said plainly. “She’s more informed than Robb or Father at the moment. It needs to be either her or Jon.”

Mother’s eyes narrowed. “Why the b… why him?”

A knock interrupted the argument.

Harwin stuck his head through the door, cheeks flushed from the cold.

“Jo…King Jo…”

Arya rolled her eyes. “Just call him Jon.”

Harwin gave a sheepish nod. “Jon was sighted leaving the castle. Riding south.”

Mother’s voice was a whisper, but the weight in it made everyone still.

“King Jon?”

Sansa turned toward her, voice quiet but sure. “He was. After we took Winterfell back from the Boltons. After… after Ramsay killed Rickon.”

Rickon looked at the floor holding his chest. 

Bran continued without waiting. “After the Battle of the Bastards. After Jon lured Ramsay out and Sansa shattered his forces with the Vale knights riding in. They crowned Jon King in the North.”

“Sansa shattered his forces?” Robb asked incredulously. 

“He’s headed southwest.” Bran said, his eyes had gone pale again, blank and gleaming.

Arya turned at once. “What? Why? What’s southwest?”

Harwin, who still lingered near the door, gave a half-shrug avoiding looking at mother. “White Harbor?”

Sansa let out a sharp breath. “Oh for fuck’s sake!”

Three voices barked back at her in unison.

“Sansa!” her father snapped.

“Sansa,” mother echoed.

“Gods,” Robb muttered under his breath.

Sansa straightened, brushing past them all with slow, deliberate steps. She walked toward the hearth, then turned back to face them.

“Of all the pigheaded bullshit…”

Arya narrowed her eyes. “You think he’s going to her?”

Robb frowned. “Who’s ‘her’?”

Bran didn’t look away from the window. “Daenerys Targaryen.”

Ned pushed upright in his chair, Maester Luwin making a soft sound of protest beside him. “Daenerys Targaryen?”

Bran finally turned. “Yes. He and she were together.”

Father’s face went pale. “Together?”

Bran met his gaze. “Romantically. Sexually.”

“Bran!” Mother’s voice snapped. 

“What?” Robb snapped, though he couldn’t keep the amusement out of his tone. 

Bran’s voice didn’t rise, but it sharpened. “Something that could’ve been avoided if he’d been more well-informed.”

Father stared for a moment, “You know,” he said slowly, the breath catching in his throat. 

Bran’s eyes didn’t shift. “So does Jon.”

Sansa could feel the air leave the room. Her father had gone completely still, even his shoulders, even his breath. And then…

“It’s probably why he struck you.” The words came flat from Bran’s mouth, not from a place of cruelty, but just as stating a fact. More like the Bran she had become familiar with.

Sansa stepped forward. “Well, would you care to share that truth with the rest of us?”

Bran shook his head. “It isn’t my place to tell you.”

“Then whose is it?” Arya asked.

“We need Jon back,” Bran said simply.

Harwin straightened. “I can ride after him. I can be ready within a few minutes”

Robb nodded. “I’ll go too. He’ll listen to me.”

Sansa took a slow breath and turned toward the table again, removing her gloves with quiet care. Her voice didn’t rise, but it carried.

“Then I will see to calling the banners.”

Chapter Text

Twenty minutes on the road and Robb could already feel the silence weighing on them.

Snow flurried across the Kingsroad, not thick enough to blind them, but constant enough to slow them. There were five in total: himself, Harwin, Jacks, Cayn, and a young stable lad named Lew who had been pulled in at the last minute. Lew didn’t speak unless spoken to and looked like he wanted to be anywhere else. Robb couldn’t blame him.

Jon had left the gates barely an hour ago, but he hadn’t been leisurely. He may have been riding with purpose, but no real haste.

That told Robb much more than he wanted to admit.

They caught sight of him after another ten minutes, a dark figure on a black horse, moving at a steady clip down the center of the road. No crest, no banner, no escort. Just Jon.

Ghost’s now tiny head popped out of a saddlebag, the direwolf’s red eyes glancing backward as they approached. The beast didn’t growl, didn’t twitch. Just watched them come.

Harwin urged his mount forward first. “Your Grace!”

Jon didn’t slow, he merely turned his head and glared and every one, including Robb, flinched. The look alone would have been terrifying but Jon’s new eyes matching Ghost made him look downright monsterous. They looked like fresh blood sprayed on snow. 

Harwin swallowed. “…Jon.”

“If you’re here to make me turn back, save your breath.”

“Lord Stark sent us to bring you back,” the guardsman said, not quite meeting Jon’s eyes.

Jon didn’t look at him. “I’m not going back.”

“But your father…” Jacks started.

“I do not care,” Jon said.

Harwin looked back at Robb, clearly uncomfortable. “Jon, we were instructed by your father and Lady Sansa to bring you back. We can’t just… ”

Jon’s hand slid to the hilt of his sword, some old thing that no one from the armory would miss. It was a clear boundary being drawn.

“Any of you who wishes to push the issue,” he said, his voice level, “is more than welcome to try.”

The horses tensed.

Cayn started forward with a scowl. “Listen here, you… ”

Harwin threw a hand up, blocking him. “Let us not resort to bloodshed,” he said, voice panicked. 

Robb watched the way Harwin’s back had gone rigid. He was afraid… and Robb felt it too. This wasn’t the same brother he remembered. Or rather, it was… but he changed. Hardened. Jon held himself like someone who had decided nothing mattered anymore and wasn’t in a hurry to prove otherwise.

“Jon,” Robb said, guiding his horse closer. “C’mon. Let’s go back.”

“No,” Jon replied.

“You’re not going to be in trouble,” Robb offered. “Even Father admitted he deserved the punch.”

That made Jon glance sideways, making Robb uneasy.

“…He told you?” he asked.

Robb hesitated. “Well…”

Jon snorted. “That’s what I thought.”

Robb pressed on. “Bran told him he deserved it. And Father agreed.”

“Either way,” Jon muttered, “I don’t care.”

Harwin made one last try. “What about the White Walkers?”

Robb turned to him. “The what?”

Jon looked at Harwin, not Robb. “What about them?”

“If you leave,” Harwin said, “how… who’s going to…?”

Jon let the question hang.

Robb shifted in his saddle. The words sounded like something from a child’s tale. But part of him knew, just from the look on Jon’s face, that they weren’t talking about milkmaid tales.

“Someone else,” Jon said. That was it.

Robb turned more fully toward him. “Jon… ”

“I’m done saving the world,” Jon said. “It isn’t my responsibility anymore. Let someone else do it. Or not. I really don’t give a shit.”

He kicked his horse forward, and this time the distance started widening between him and the others. Even Ghost didn’t look back.

Robb sat there in the cold, watching the figure of his brother grow smaller against the falling snow. His fingers tightened around the reins. He hadn’t known what to expect when they’d set out. A fight, maybe. A bitter argument. A scolding. But not this.

This Jon wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even cold.

He was just empty.

And for all his time as a commander, as a son, as a husband, as a brother… Robb didn’t know how to fight that.

When they were boys, Jon used to trail beside him in everything. Training. Meals. Talks with Ser Rodrik. Jon had made him better. Sharper. Less reckless. He was calm when Robb was storming, and steady when Robb second-guessed himself. Even if Jon never felt he was equal, Jon had been family.

Always.

Now… Jon looked at them like strangers. Like burdens or ghosts from a life he’d buried once and didn’t want dug up again.

Robb let his breath fog into the air before he turned his horse slowly around.

“Let’s go,” he said.

“Back?” Harwin asked, clearly surprised.

“For now.”

Robb looked back once more. Just long enough to see that Jon hadn’t looked back at all.

He didn’t know what hurt worse. That Jon had walked away… Or no matter what he did, Robb couldn’t understand why.

Chapter Text

Arianne woke to dry air scratching the inside of her nose.

It was the first thing she noticed. Not the softer than she remembered bedsheets. Not the angle of the sun peeking through narrow slats in the window. Not the faint scent of citrus oil and spice. No, what struck her first was the dryness of the air. The kind that clung to your tongue and crawled into your throat, not the typical air of Norvos. The ceiling above her was curved, smooth white plaster. Her chambers in Norvos had been square with grey stone. 

This was not Norvos.

She pushed herself up, slowly but unnecessarily as she realized that her muscles didn’t ache nor did her head throb. The familiar sour wine sweats weren't stuck to her skin. She felt… clean. Rested. Like she’d "gone to sleep" sober, though she was almost certain she hadn’t.

Arianne lifted the coverlet. Her skin was golden and smooth. No faint bite of bloating around her hips.She ran her hands down her sides, pausing when her fingers reached the sharp curve of her waist. Her hips were narrower than she remembered. Her thighs less soft. 

Her breasts…

She frowned and cupped one, then the other.

Smaller. Not much, but enough that her bodice would no longer threaten its seams. And her backside had lost the heaviness she’d grown accustomed to during her time in Norvos, where she’d consoled herself with sweet bread and too much cheese and every bottle she wasn’t forbidden from touching. She had hated the way the Norvoshi noblewomen had sniffed at her dresses and whispered about her waistlines. She had gained weight out of spite as much as despair.

But that softness was now gone.

So was Norvos.

She stood slowly, still half-expecting the chill of cool stone, but found it warm beneath her feet

The smell that hit her confirmed what the air had already warned.

Sand and dry stone and a hint of oranges baking in the late morning heat. A distant trace of salt from the coast. She knew that scent. It was Dorne. Not a single doubt remained. She was in Sunspear.

But that was impossible.

The Queenmaker plot had failed. Her father had discovered it. She had been stripped of titles and privileges, sent away to her mother’s kin in Norvos, exile until her father deemed her worthy of return. She’d kept a journal, marked every miserable day. She hadn’t seen Dorne since.

But here she was.

She looked down again at her body, still stunned by how easily it moved. This was not her body as it had been when she fell asleep last night. This was the body she remembered from years ago, before Myrcella, before the conspiracies, before her place at court had unraveled like a braid yanked too hard.

She turned back to the room, scanning it for anything that might explain what had happened.

It was hers. Not the exile’s quarters. Her true chambers in Sunspear. Her dresses, none of them the heavy and uigly Norvoshi style, hung in the wardrobe and she gleefully put on one of her pink and orange dresses, the one that once belonged to her Aunt Elia.  There were no gifts from Norvoshi cousins, no foreign perfume bottles, only the scribbled letters from her mother.

Her heart beat harder now, rising from confusion into something closer to panic. She rushed to the basin, poured water from the ewer and splashed her face. The cold shocked her. She leaned forward, bracing herself on the carved marble edge.

The girl in the mirror was too young.

Not a stranger. But a version of herself she hadn’t seen in a long time. Less sharp around the mouth. Less shadow under the eyes. Less fury packed behind the brow.

She didn’t know what this was. 

A dream, maybe. 

A punishment. 

A miracle. 

A trick of the gods.

Before she could dwell on the impossibility of it, a raven announced itself. It flapped its wings hard, landing on the iron railing of the window, squawking in bursts. The bird hopped and fluttered, more frantic than any messenger bird she had ever seen. Then it turned its body, sticking out one leg, there was a scroll tied to it. She stepped forward, untying it with quick fingers. The raven snapped at her wrist once, as if to rush her along, before launching back into the air. It was gone in an instant.

Arianne looked down at the seal. It was unmistakable. A direwolf, grey on white. Stark.

She broke the seal.

The letter was brief, written in a hand she didn’t recognize.

In your time, the ones you loved were not who they seemed. Ellaria and the Sand Snakes were taken. Replaced by faceless men. It was them who killed your father. Not the ones you grew up with.

That has not happened yet. You must protect them. If others remember, some may try to take revenge.

This is not a dream.

-A friend in the North

Arianne read it twice. Then again.

This wasn’t the drunken daze of Norvos. This was real. Someone was going to kill her father. No. Her father was going to kill someone else.

She didn’t pause to think. Her feet were already moving. She grabbed the loose robe from the bedpost and wrapped it around herself, tying the cord at her waist with shaking hands. The door opened easily. No guards. No servants. Just the  golden light of nearing sunset creeping in through the arches.

Her mind spun as she moved. The scent of Sunspear clay hit her full force. The heat rose up from the ground, familiar and merciless. Her heart pounded in rhythm with her steps. She was younger. This place was younger. The years had rolled backward, and something had changed.

She knew the way to Oberyn’s chambers. Even before her exile to Norvos, he kept a private wing in Sunspear despite usually remaining in the Water Gardens. Few were permitted near it, but she had snuck in more times than she could count.

The corridor curved ahead. Areo Hotah stood at the archway. His back was to her, eyes focused on the door ahead. She did not slow. Her bare feet made little sound against the tile, but he turned just as she reached him.

“Princess…”

She moved before he could finish. Her shoulder caught the edge of his body and she twisted under his outstretched arm. Areo was large, but not quick enough to stop her.

The door to Oberyn’s rooms was cracked open.

Inside, her father stood near the bed.

Her father was not a man prone to anger. He was quiet, deliberate, and often motionless for hours at a time. But now, his hand was raised. In it was a dagger.

Ellaria lay on the bed, eyes wide and mouth parted as if caught mid-breath. Her arms were at her sides, her body frozen. She had not even screamed.

Arianne didn’t think. Her legs launched her forward. She struck her father from behind, her shoulder slamming into his ribs. It was only the element of surprise that allowed her to actually provide anything resembling an effect, as all five feet of Arianne was not about to stop her father. While he spent so much of his time in a chair, he was still a foot taller than her.

They tumbled, his free hand catching at the side of the bed as they rolled. The dagger came down as they fell and pain shot through her hand.

It was only as they stopped, her father’s weight partly atop her, that she realized what had happened. Her hand was pinned between them, the dagger buried clean through the flesh between thumb and finger. Blood dripped from her palm to the tiles. Arianne gasped once, more in shock than pain and her father froze. His breath was coming hard, but he was no longer resisting.

Ellaria had sat up on the bed, pressing a hand to her mouth, her eyes wider than ever before.

No one spoke.

The dagger was still in her hand.

And her father was still lying beside her, eyes fixed on her face. His hand had gone limp, the dagger no longer gripped but still buried through Arianne’s palm. The blood ran hot and steady, trailing down her fingers, but she did not cry out. 

Ellaria was on the floor beside the bed, chest rising and falling as she stared at Doran with wide, disbelieving eyes. Her skin was pale beneath the candlelight, her face blank with the sort of horror that had no words yet. Oberyn knelt next to Arianne. He had not moved to strike her father... yet. 

“She… you…” His voice caught, and then steadied. “What is this, brother?”

Her father said nothing.

Arianne swayed but did not fall. “He thought she killed him. In the life before.”

That drew Oberyn’s eyes to hers, sharp and sudden. “What?”

Arianne nodded, blood dripping in a steady beat onto the floor. “That’s what this was. A raven came to me this morning. Sealed with the Stark sigil. Said Ellaria and the girls had been replaced by Faceless Men. Said they were the ones who murdered you, Father.”

Oberyn’s mouth opened, then closed. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides.

“I remembered waking. That was all,” Arianne continued. “And I knew something was wrong. I wasn’t in Norvos anymore. I was in Sunspear.”

Oberyn let out a long breath. “I remember the Mountain. I remember the moment before he… before I died.”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

Beside the bed, Ellaria trembled. “I… I don’t know what any of you are talking about. You died, Oberyn. I was in the stands. I watched your skull be crushed like a melon. And then…” She blinked, looking around the room. “Then I woke up here.”

Her gaze finally fixed on Doran, and the confusion gave way to fear.

“I remember nothing,” Ellaria said, staring at her father. “After he died. I remember screaming. I remember Ser Gregor’s fist coming down. I remember… That’s… That’s all. Then I woke up here.”

Her father nodded once, the movement barely perceptible. “And yet I remember you murdering me.”

“I never would,” she said, voice shaking.

“I believe you,” Arianne said gripping the wound now tight with pain. 

Her father seemed to deflate.  “The letter warned you in time. I nearly…”

Oberyn stood, then crossed the room to the door. “Aero,” he said as it opened.

Hotah stepped inside without hesitation.

“Station men with each of the Sand Snakes,” Oberyn instructed. “Protect them. If anyone approaches them without leave, they are to be detained.”

Aero gave a short nod. “At once.”

As he turned to go, her father looked up. “No word of this leaves the palace.”

Aero glanced to Arianne, blood still seeping between her fingers. His mouth thinned, but he nodded.

Once they were alone again, Ellaria took a long, steadying breath. “I do not understand what is happening. But I would never hurt your brother. Never.”

“I know,” Oberyn said, his voice low. 

Ellaria’s eyes filled with tears. “What did I do?”

Arianne did not answer at once. Finally, she met Ellaria’s gaze.

“You changed after Oberyn died,” she said. “You were grief-maddened. Vengeful. You went after Princess Myrcella. You seized control of Dorne. You turned on the rest of the family.”

“I don’t remember any of that.”

Her father sat with his head in his hands. “I thought I was preventing you from doing it again.”

Oberyn returned to Arianne’s side, helped her back to her feet. “Come. Let us get that looked at before you pass out.”

“I’m fine.”

“Now maybe,” he said. “But you won't be if you keep losing blood like that.”

♣ ♥ ♠ ♦

Arianne sat with her hand bundled in a thick wrapping of gauze and linen, the blood already soaking through the cloth in blotchy rust-colored patches. Her father’s solar was quiet, the kind of quiet that left everyone  refusing to meet each other’s eyes.

Her father had not spoken in ten minutes.

He sat across from her, both of his hands resting on the arms of his chair, his back more upright than usual. His face was drawn and sallow, aged not by time, but by regret. Arianne had never seen him look quite so frail. 

He had almost killed Ellaria and stabbed his own daughter through the hand. 

Had failed to prevent Trystane from going after Obara... and now Obara might be dying.

Trystane was the only one in the room not sitting. He stood by the window, arms folded, his eyes bloodshot and red. He had not said a word since he staggered back into the solar. The Maester had come and gone twice. No word. No change.

Nymeria sat beside Tyene near the wine cabinet, neither had taken a drop. Both of them were pale, Nym’s eyes glassy and distant, Tyene’s fingers twisting together nervously in her lap.

Arianne finally looked to Ellaria, she hadn’t spoken since the Maester had bandaged Arianne’s hand. The dagger had punched straight through the soft meat between thumb and forefinger. It would heal, Oberyn said. Eventually. But there would be nerve damage. Permanent, perhaps. And the risk of infection remained. It was nothing compared to what Obara was dealing with.

“I nearly to killed my daughter,” Her father said, breaking the silence with a voice low and trembling. “And my son to struck down his cousin.”

Trystane flinched, but didn’t turn as if afraid the movement might crack the fragile air between them.

“I didn’t think,” he said, voice quiet and miserable. “When I saw Obara… I didn’t wait. I didn’t ask. I thought I remembered what happened. What they did. And I…” His eyes dropped to the floor. “I just… acted.”

Nymeria rose from the settee, walked over to him, and slapped him across the face.

“She might die,” Nymeria whispered. “You struck her down without a word.”

“I know,” he said. “And I won’t ever forgive myself if she does.”

“She won’t,” Tyene said, rising too now. Her voice wasn’t firm. It wasn’t confident. But it was what she needed to say. “She can’t.”

Her Father looked to Arianne then, and for a long moment, it was only them. Father and daughter. Blood between them, literally and otherwise.

“You stopped me,” he said. “You saved Ellaria’s life. You paid for it in blood.”

“I’d do it again,” Arianne said plainly. “Even if it meant losing the hand.”

His mouth tightened, a twitch of some emotion he didn’t allow to become words.

“The letter,” he said, “From House Stark. You said it warned of a plot. Replacements.”

Arianne nodded slowly. “It claimed Ellaria and the girls were replaced by Faceless Men. That the deaths they brought about weren’t their own. That someone would try to take revenge against them, and I had to stop it.”

“You could have died,” Father said.

“Yes,” she answered. “But it saved Ellaria’s life. And perhaps Obara’s. And yours. If they’d tried to explain the truth, none of us would have believed it.”

He sighed heavily, and his shoulders slumped a fraction. Then he reached for the small stack of ravens on the table beside him. Five seals broken, four still unbroken.

“I’ve had other letters today,” he said. “Not from Stark alone.”

He laid them out like cards on the table. “The Stormlands are marching on the Crownlands. The Reach has shattered into three bloody pieces. Florents, Tyrells, and Tarlys tearing each other apart. The Riverlands are already burning. Seagard, Raventree. The Westerlands are driving in from the west while the Freys raid from the north. The Ironborn are attacking the coasts, sacking everything. And the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms… she is gone. Along with half the Kingsguard and Small Council. Vanished.”

None of them spoke.

Only the fire cracked.

“The North?” Arianne asked, unsure of what else she could.

“Still. For now. The Vale too.”

“And the Crown?”

Doran paused. “Uncertain. The King may be a boy or a bastard or both. Tommen is missing. Myrcella…”

He stopped.

“Myrcella?” Trystane asked, stiffening.

Doran looked at his son. “She is missing too. That much we know.”

Arianne pressed her palm to her eyes and breathed out through her nose.

“She is not in the capital,” Her father said. “The letters all agree on that. Whether she escaped or was taken… we do not know.”

Trystane sat heavily on the edge of the window seat, face pale.

“We need to act,” Arianne said. 

“I will not march blindly,” he said at last. “I’ve made that mistake already.”

“What now then?” Tyene asked.

Her father’s eyes flicked to her. “We prepare. We gather our strength. We protect each other.”

“Aero is guarding the girls. All of them. No one will harm my family again. Not in this life. Not while I still draw breath. We must assume the worst,” he said quietly. “Not only for ourselves, but for the Seven Kingdoms as a whole. Whatever happened to us this morning happened everywhere, and the consequences are already unfolding. But we cannot wait idly to see how the world chooses to reorder itself.”

“What do you mean to do?” Oberyn asked carefully.

Her father shifted in his seat, his weakened leg propped up carefully. “The plans we held close for so long can no longer remain hidden. We must move openly now. Oberyn, I will need you to travel east once more and meet with what remains of House Targaryen.”

A startled silence fell over the room. Arianne felt her own surprise, turning quickly to confusion and then alarm. “Father, the Targaryens? I don’t understand.”

Her father had sadness etched in the lines around his eyes. “I never shared this with you openly, Arianne, but perhaps I should have done so long ago. My caution, my careful approach, was never a lack of action. It was deliberate. My intention was always clear, at least to Oberyn. After Robert’s Rebellion, after the murder of Elia and her children, I swore I would see justice done. My patience was never indecision. It was a mask, hiding the truth. For years, I plotted quietly, in secret, to bring Dorne into alliance with House Targaryen once more. To right the wrong done to Elia, to us. Oberyn understood this.”

Oberyn nodded slowly. “I did. It was I who met with their regent, Williem Darry, when the time was right. Arrangements were made. Promises exchanged. The plan was to bind our houses together again through marriage and then support their return.”

Arianne felt her heart turn cold at his words. “Marriage? You planned a marriage with the Targaryens?”

Doran hesitated only briefly. “Yes. You were to marry Viserys Targaryen. It was arranged years ago. It was secret, yes, but it was agreed upon by both sides.”

Arianne rose to her feet abruptly, ignoring the throbbing pain in her injured hand. “And you kept this hidden from me?”

“It was necessary,” Doran replied softly, regret clear in his voice. “If Robert Baratheon had ever known our intentions, he would have marched on Dorne without hesitation. I had to protect us all. That meant secrecy, even from you.”

“You gave me no choice,” she snapped, her eyes hot with anger. “I spent my whole life believing you intended to set me aside, to put Trystane in my place. I found a letter to him in your hand declaring him your heir. I believed you hated me, Father. I thought you found me weak, unworthy of ruling. That was why…” She stopped herself suddenly, unable to speak further.

But he understood immediately. “That was why you tried to crown Myrcella,” he finished for her, realization dawning in his eyes. “You thought I intended to rob you of your birthright.”

Arianne couldn’t look at him then. The shame was fresh again, as real as the wound in her palm. “I  never knew. I acted because I thought it was my only chance.”

Her father did not speak for a moment, absorbing this quietly. “You should have heard the truth from me directly,” he admitted finally. “I made an error. I see that now. Perhaps it cost us all dearly.”

Trystane stirred slightly from his place in the corner, his voice barely audible. “I never wanted your place, Arianne. Not once.”

She looked at her brother, seeing the sincerity in his wounded eyes, and nodded slightly. “I know. It was not your fault. I was wrong about many things.”

Ellaria broke the silence next, her voice hesitant but firm. “And now, Prince Doran, you still intend to ally with the Targaryens?”

“Yes,” Her father said. “And this time it is no mere scheme. The dragons have returned to them, creatures of power and destruction. Daenerys Targaryen commands strength, real strength that cannot be ignored. She will reclaim what was stolen from her, whether we aid her or not. But if we stand with her, if we fulfill the promises Oberyn and I made long ago, then justice for Elia and her children might finally be delivered.”

Oberyn folded his arms thoughtfully. “We must be cautious. The Targaryens are strong, but we cannot trust easily and I doubt they will either. Many are our alledged allies stood by and allowed harm to come to us before. We should not assume they would protect our interests. Many are opportunists, cowards, or worse.”

Her father nodded grimly. “I agree. Our allegiance is with our blood... our family," He said, looking at Ellaria, "not with those who would gladdly dance upon our grave. Oberyn, you will go east. Confirm our intentions. Discover what support we can truly count upon. Trust no one else with our true purpose until you see Daenerys herself. Be wary.”

“I will,” Oberyn promised. “It will be as we planned, only now we act openly. Perhaps this second chance will see justice done properly.”

“Let the other houses fight,” Doran replied, his voice firm. “Let them weaken each other. When the Targaryens arrive, they will find a divided realm, easy to reclaim. Our task now is to ensure that Dorne is ready to stand beside them when the day comes. Let the Stormlands fight the Crownlands, the Reach devour itself, the Westerlands and Riverlands bleed each other dry. We will watch, we will wait, and when the dragons land again on Westerosi soil, we will be there with them.”

“Arianne,” her father said, turning towards her directly. “You and the Sand Snakes must leave Dorne. For now.”

Arianne stared at him blankly for a moment, convinced she had misheard him. She looked toward Oberyn, whose dark eyes immediately narrowed.

“What?” Oberyn asked sharply.

Doran met his brother’s gaze steadily, unflinching. “I said they must go north, to the Starks.”

Oberyn let out a harsh sound, disbelief mingling openly with anger. “To Winterfell? You mean to send your heir and my daughters to the frozen north, to the doorstep of Robert Baratheon’s closest friend? You’ve lost your mind.”

Arianne stood quickly, feeling heat rise up her neck. “Father, Oberyn is right. Eddard Stark would never side with us against Robert. Least of all if he knows we’re aligning ourselves with the Targaryens. It’s madness.”

Doran did not flinch from their protests. His posture remained rigid and calm, his voice measured. “Ned Stark is not what you believe. He was the only man who stood openly against Robert Baratheon when Tywin Lannister’s dogs murdered Elia and her children. He is a man of honor.”

“Honor?” Oberyn scoffed bitterly. “He chose Baratheon’s friendship over justice. He might not have swung the sword himself, but his silence made him complicit. Now you would gamble Arianne’s life, and my daughters’ lives, on the man’s honor?”

Doran’s gaze sharpened. He leaned forward, pressing his hands flat against the table. “You were not there, Oberyn. Stark spoke out. He demanded justice, publicly and privately. He left King’s Landing rather than bow to Robert’s pardoning of Tywin. His honor cost him dearly even then, but he stood his ground. And now, all signs point to a break between the Baratheons and the Starks.”

Arianne shook her head, “You cannot possibly know that, Father. You risk too much on hope alone.”

Doran sighed softly. “It is not hope, daughter. The Starks have good reason to despise the Baratheons now. Ned Stark was executed by Robert’s heir, publicly accused of treason. His wife, Catelyn Stark, was implicated in Renly Baratheon’s death. Stannis openly declared their son Robb a traitor, openly demanding his head. And their eldest daughter, Sansa, was accused at King’s Landing for the poisoning of King Joffrey.”

Oberyn’s let out a soft, derisive noise.

“That trial,” Oberyn said slowly. “I sat as judge at that farce. The girl, Sansa Stark, she was barely more than a child. She was terrified, confused, utterly innocent. If she had truly plotted Joffrey’s death, I’ll eat my hat.”

Doran nodded slightly. “Exactly. The Starks have every reason to break with the Baratheons now. Even if Ned Stark still lives, as the reports today strongly suggest, he and his house have little love remaining for Robert’s line. Their family was torn apart, betrayed, dishonored in a way that even Robert and Eddard's friendship cannot survive.”

Oberyn did not look convinced. His arms folded tightly across his chest. “Perhaps they have reason to turn their backs on Robert, but would they truly ally themselves openly with a Targaryen heir, dragons or no dragons? The Stark lord was murdered by Aerys, and they would be alright allying with his daughter?”

“Perhaps,” Doran admitted. “But the Starks have given us good reason to trust them already. They warned us, brother. Without that warning, Ellaria would be dead at my hand, and your daughters lost to suspicion and revenge. We owe the Starks a debt. One we cannot easily dismiss.”

Ellaria finally spoke softly, breaking her long silence. “He is right, Oberyn. We owe them my life, and perhaps yours too.”

Nymeria, silent until now, raised her head slightly. “Then why not simply thank them with a letter, or gold, or some less dangerous means? Why send Arianne and us away?”

“Because,” Doran said patiently, “someone already tried to kill Ellaria today because of what they remember from the other timeline. Trystane nearly murdered Obara for the same reason. If memories have returned elsewhere in Dorne, and I believe they have, your lives may be in greater danger here than anywhere else. The North, distant as it may be, could be safer than Sunspear right now. It is far from old grievances.”

Arianne’s throat tightened. She had always feared exile. Now it was coming to pass... again! Yet this time it was for her own protection. She knew she should argue, knew she should fight this. Yet she found her voice subdued, hollow. “You truly think this is best, Father?”

“I do,” Doran said softly. “I believe it is the only option. The Starks have no reason to wish you harm, and their honor may help shield you from those who do.”

Oberyn still looked angry, but his protest faded. He had already nearly lost Ellaria once today. Arianne knew that if sending his daughters north would keep them safe, even at great risk, he would not argue forever.

Trystane finally spoke up, his voice strained and raw. “What about me, Father?”

“You will remain here,” Doran said firmly. “Your presence will help maintain stability. You will stand openly as my heir while Arianne is away, a signal of strength and unity. And if war truly comes openly to our shores, we will need you here.”

Trystane nodded quietly, accepting his role without protest.

Tyene perked up in horror, "You do not have..."

"I will not allow any of you to come to harm." Ellaria said, stubbornly. "I shall stay."

Arianne slowly turned back toward her father. “When do we leave?”

“As soon as preparations can be made,” he answered gently. “You will not travel alone. I will send trusted guards and enough gold to ensure your passage is safe and swift. There will be no delay.”

Arianne lowered her eyes, swallowing the bitter ache of exile once more. “Very well,” she said softly. “I will do as you ask.”

Ellaria reached out quietly, placing a gentle hand on her arm. “We will all do as we must, child.”

The Sand Snakes were silent, but Arianne saw resignation and sadness in their eyes, forced from their home by circumstances outside their control. Yet, as painful as this exile was, Arianne understood her father’s reasoning. The Starks had already saved them once. Perhaps, in the cold and distant north, they might yet find the safety and answers that eluded them here.

As Arianne sat back down, feeling the weight of decisions she had no hand in, she wondered if they would ever return home again.

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