Brienne

Sansa had run into the arms of her brother, ignoring any ideas of proper etiquette or decorum that Brienne was sure had been drilled into her by Lady Stark as a child.

'Gods, Sansa,' the sworn sword could hear the bastard mutter. 'You're safe. You're finally safe.' His eyes, however, previously shut as he held his sister tightly, suddenly opened with a start, and he practically pushed her away. His voice became serious. 'Sansa…there's something you should know.'

'Can't it wait Jon? We haven't seen each other in years, and I've only just got here. Won't you give me a minute?'

'I would, Sansa. I swear I would, but there's simply no time.'

'Tell me then. What's so complicated?'

'I…I can't tell you. You'll have to see for yourself.'

'For fuck's sake Jon, what is it?'

As the muttering between the two of them continued, her growing more frustrated and he more tense, something entered Brienne's peripheral vision, something eerily familiar; as loathe as she was to take her eyes off her charge for even a second, she found that she couldn't resist.

He was a Dornishman by the looks of things, tall and lithe, with a day-or-so's worth of beard growth on his jaw, a saddlebag slung over his shoulder and light leather armour rather than the black cloak worn by brothers of the Night's Watch. It couldn't be. Could it?

'Prince Oberyn!' Hand on hilt, she marched over to him, gesturing to Podrick to keep an eye on Lady Sansa, who was still arguing with her brother in hushed tones. 'Is that you?'

The man had seen her now, and as she got closer it became clearer that the figure in front of her was indeed the prince of Dorne, albeit with his head intact and that harlot of his nowhere in sight.

'Ahh! The Kingslayer's lapdog! What are you doing so far north, if you don't mind my asking?'

'How—how is this possible!? You died! The Mountain crushed your head, for fuck's sake!'

'Yes.'

'Yes? Is that all you have to say for yourself!?'

The prince dropped his saddlebag and looked at her. He was tired, Brienne noticed, far from the flamboyant figure at Joffrey's wedding, the smug warrior who'd gone toe-to-toe with Gregor Clegane with a legitimate belief that he could be victorious. 'Listen here. I am in no mood to be accosted and lectured by a woman playing at war when there's a real one comi-'

'Oberyn!' Jon Snow had turned his attention away from his sister and towards them. 'Now is not the time. You have a task to attend to. I suggest you get on with it.'

The red viper nodded and picked up the saddlebag, letting loose a long sigh as he walked off toward two men in pale armour.

'In the meantime, I…I will tell you all I can.' The haunted look in his eyes didn't escape Brienne. 'You'd best come inside then.'

A short walk up some rickety wooden steps, and Brienne was inside for the first time in weeks. Whilst by no means warm, with the walls and windows being battered by the harsh winds and a feeling of frost yet lingering in the air, the absence of the direct assault of the biting cold was a welcome reprieve for both Brienne and—as was evident in a distinct lack of shivering for the first time since they'd been south of The Twins—Podrick, who made a beeline to the fire, ignoring all the faces—Valyrian, Northern, and even some queer lookalikes of Renly—present in the room.

Sansa seemed as though it made no difference to her—hers was the blood of the north, after all, and a single wall wouldn't make her any more comfortable than she had been. There was no sharp intake of breath, no shrugging of her cloak; she stood, unmoving, staring straight ahead, her face contorted with shock.

'R-Robb? Is that you?' With that, she ran forward and threw herself into the arms of the young man who'd risen from his chair. 'Y-you're dead, aren't you? Am I dreaming?'

Robb? Her brother? The same brother who'd been stabbed by Roose Bolton and had his head replaced by that of his direwolf?

'This is no dream, sister. I'm here, really here.' The man spoke, absent any signs of ever having had another head or a dagger in his heart. 'And I swear to you, by the Old Gods and the New, I'm never leaving again. But…there's someone else you should probably speak to.'

'Hello, Sansa.' A young man now spoke, a gruff looking northerner who looked curiously like Lady Sansa's bastard brother. 'It's so good to see you, my darling.'

'F-father? H-how are you here, I-I saw you die, Ser Ilyn used Ice and Joffrey didn't give mercy as he promised and I was forced to watch I'm so so sorry I never meant for any of it to happen and—'

'Peace, child.' He cut off her ramblings, pulling her in close as tears continued to stream down her face. 'It was not your fault. Never your fault. The fault was that of the Lannisters and no-one else. As for how I am here, well that…that is a bit more complicated.'

Sansa

It was a dream she'd had many times in King's Landing: her family together again, far away from the rancid poison of the Capital. Sure, that had always been in Winterfell, and mother had been there, as had Arya and Bran and Rickon and Lady, but it was closer to such a fantasy than she'd ever thought possible—Robb and father and Jon (even if he was just her cousin), all together in one place. Not to mention her uncle and aunt. Fairy-tales and songs rarely had happy endings, she knew, but maybe hers was one of those rare ones?

Or, a voice in her head intruded. Maybe you haven't reached the end yet, and it'll end just as tragically this time.

No. She couldn't even think about that. Not yet, anyhow.

'Mind if I join you?' Sitting down next to her on the bench outside the main hall of Castle Black was Robb, handing her a cheap iron mug before taking a swig from his own. She took a sniff and gagged, but still took a tentative sip. She hated ale, but she supposed it was too much to ask for the poorest-equipped body of men in the Seven Kingdoms to be stocked with Arbor Gold.

They sat in comfortable silence, her head on his shoulder, not saying anything—nor did they need to. It may have been an hour they stayed like that, or perhaps a mere minute, before more voices appeared and Jon and father sat down.

'What now? Are we to stay at the Wall, whilst…' she trailed off and swallowed. 'Whilst Ramsay desecrates our home?'

'Never.' Jon said but a single word but said so which such ferocity that there was absolutely no doubt in Sansa's mind that he meant it. 'We have a plan, sister. We'll take back Winterfell, kill the bastard, and prepare for the coming war in our own home. I swear it.'

She scoffed; unladylike, she knew, but she couldn't quite help it. 'And how do you propose we do that? Ask nicely? Play him for it in a game of cyvasse? The only way you'll take Winterfell is over his dead body, and the only way to get that is through a battle.' The echoes of Cersei Lannister in her voice disgusted her, but she pushed on. 'Ramsay has thousands of men, he has thick castle walls, and he has the biggest advantage; he doesn't have to fight, not if he doesn't want to.'

'That's what we wanted to ask you about, Sansa,' Robb cut in, blunt as ever. 'How can we get him to fight? You know him better than any of us, know his strengths and weaknesses and how his mind works.'

No one knows how his mind works, she thought to herself. Not even Ramsay himself. It's a bottomless pit of chaos and cruelty and hatred and narcissism.

'He's a narcissist,' she blurted out before the thought had even fully formed. 'A showman. Challenge him directly and he won't be able to resist. Make him angry, make him insulted, and he'll be no more challenging to put down than a rabid dog.' Her voice had become cold and she hated the fear in the eyes of her family, but she wasn't the girl they'd known before and it was high time they found that out. 'A challenge from his runaway bride? He won't be able to resist a battle.'

Jon looked at the ground, deep in thought. 'That might just work. I hate the idea of using you for bait, but right now it seems we've no other choice. We'll still be at a disadvantage for numbers, especially if Oberyn and the knights don't get back in time, but if we can cut off the head of the snake than the body should wither.'

'Never took you for a poet, Snow.'

'And I never took you for a prick, Stark, but here we are.' Her brothers—no, brother and cousin, she had to remember that—grinned at each other, each taking another sip from their mugs.

'Boys, language,' her father interjected, a small smile on his face. 'First you give her ale, now you curse like a Braavosi merchant for all the world to hear—what kind of example are you setting for your sister?'

'Not the worst that I've seen, big brother.' A voice came from down the walkway, her aunt Lyanna having turned the corner a moment before. 'A liberated barrel of Dornish red at Lord Umber's wedding ring any bells?'

Her father's face flushed a deep crimson. 'Come, Lyanna, are you really going to hold that over me all those years later? We were only children at the time.'

'So are they. Or they should be, for one more night at least.'

'Aye, you may have a point.'

'Of course I do. Always have, always will. Now,' she continued. 'Let me have a conversation with my niece. You boys can go drink with the dragons and the stags, or whatever it is that men do when not in the presence of a beautiful lady.' She batted her eyelashes and laughed.

Her family stood without protest, going back into the warmth—it was getting dark, Sansa noticed, and would likely get colder as well. They sat, silence once again lingering between them, Lyanna fiddling with a bottle sloshing with dark liquid. She took a deep sip and sighed, leaning back so that her head touched the stone walls of the main hall. And then she spoke.

'You blame yourself.'

'I'm sorry?'

'You blame yourself. For your father, for your brother, for the war. All of it. You blame yourself.'

'That's ridiculous, why would I—'

'I heard about what happened in King's Landing, Sansa.'

Silence.

'I…I never knew what would happen.' Her voice was a whisper, almost imperceptible against the harsh winds. Almost. 'I knew father was innocent, and I thought Cersei would be able to see that and I'd be able to marry Joffrey. I was to be queen. And instead I started a war, being married off to a dwarf and a monster and forced to the end of the world.'

Lyanna passed her the bottle and Sansa took a sip. It was more bearable than the ale, warming her stomach in a not-unpleasant way and not tasting as though someone had pissed in a mug.

'At least you had a good reason.'

'Huh?' Gods, where were her manners? She must be more drunk than she realised. Sansa drank again, incidentally at the same moment she internally resolved to stop drinking.

'I also started a war, remember. There were other factors, to be sure, such as Brandon being thick and my father being too honourable, too trusting in the character of a madman, but it all came back to me running from a marriage to a man who would've adored me, to a woman who was already married and could never be with me, not in a thousand years.' Her aunt had a faraway look in her eye. 'I'd be lady of the Stormlands right now, Bran the lord of Winterfell if my father hadn't kicked it yet, Ned doing whatever the fuck he wanted. Would we be happy? I don't know. But we'd have been alive.'

'You can't blame yourself, aunt! You had no way of knowing what would happen, you were just trying to do what you thought was best, no thought of the consequences. Maybe you had a hand in it starting, but it was kept in such a way through the actions of others, actively seeking destruction.'

Lyanna's eyes snapped toward Sansa, all melancholy vanished, with an impish smirk directed at Sansa. 'Exactly.' She stood and slowly began walking back to the door. 'Think on that, niece. But for the love of the gods, do it inside. It's bloody freezing.'

Orys

'How…the fuck…are you…still doing this?'

'Not a clue,' his many-times-grandson shrugged, downing a mug of ale before promptly planting Orys' hand into the table, ending their fifth consecutive arm wrestle. Robert may have been an oaf at times, but he was surely one of the strongest men he'd ever met, even when he was as deep into his cups as the near-empty barrel next to him suggested.

'Are you seeing this, Aegon? The boy's like a damned aurochs!'

'Aye, Orys, I see. Now, let the poor bastard rest and enjoy his drink. You've been humiliated enough for one night.' Had anyone else said such a thing, especially when it was as late as it was, as deep into his cups as he was, they'd surely have found themselves a few teeth shorter, but Aegon had always had such a way about him that he could calm Orys.

He stood, belching, and walked over to Aegon, who was sat with his namesake in a quiet corner of the hall. The conqueror had a slight flush on his cheeks and a dreamy look in his eyes, but still fared better than his young relative, who looked as though he might empty his stomach at any point.

'How fare you, Aegon? Taken that stick out your arse yet?'

The king smiled at him. 'Not just yet, I'm afraid.' He fell into silence and took another sip.

'You're thinking of her, aren't you?'

'Who?'

'Rhae. You always think of her when you drink.'

'Both of them, actually, her and Visenya both. Aenys and Maegor as well.' He looked up at Orys. 'I've been so busy with planning for the wars ahead that I've hardly spared them a second thought. It's strange, to think that I spent my life fighting so that they might have a better life than I, but I will never know what became of them—sure, I may find out who reigned and when they died, but I will never know the truth of their character or their wisdom as a ruler.'

'Pardon me, your grace, but I must disagree. That ponce who now wears a black cloak may be a disgrace to the house of the dragon, but the young lad, the son of Lyanna seems to be a good sort, with a decent head on his shoulders. And your namesake, from all I've heard, was a good man and a fine king.' That point may have carried more weight were Egg not currently snoring with his head on the table. 'Even the one is Essos is said to have hatched her own dragons and is now ruling Meereen. Fact is, it's a strong legacy, Aegon. A strong one indeed.'

'Gods, you're right. Rhaenys would laugh to see the great Aegon Targaryen in such a pitiful state, and Visenya would likely cuff me round the head for being such a pathetic drunkard.' He cracked a smile—a small one, but a smile nonetheless. 'I miss the both, you know. It's been twenty-seven year since I've seen Rhae's face, and even though Visenya outlived me, I'd wager it's also been twenty-seven years since we were truly family. The dragon only lost one head, to be sure, but the other two withered and died without it. After I awoke, Egg and Rhaegar at my side, I'd hoped that they'd soon join us, that the three-headed dragon would fly again. Wishful thinking on my part, it would seem.'

'The dragon still has three heads, Aegon. Mark my words, it will fly again.'

'Aye. You may be right.' Aegon stood, taking a moment to balance himself. 'Gentlemen! We have much to do and precious little time to do it. You each know your roles, each know the jobs you have to do and why they must be done. We must be up early on the morrow and do our part. So, with that, I have one final piece of advice; get some fucking sleep!'

He was met with a roar of approval from across the room; men and women from across the centuries and the continent, all united in their goal—to take Winterfell and live to see the dawn.

They convened in the courtyard in the cold glare of the early morning sun, eight figures atop horses, ready to ride out, and two still left standing, locked in firm embrace.

'I'll see you soon, my son. I love you. Never forget that.'

'I won't…mother,' said Jon Snow hesitantly, still dumbfounded at knowing who his mother was. 'It'll be like no time at all. We'll see each other in Torrhen's Square in a moon's turn, and then we'll take back our home.'

'Farewell, son. Good luck.' With a quick kiss on the cheek, she turned and vaulted onto her horse, years of practice being shown off through the ease in which she was saddled. The party began to move, Aegon at its head, Lyanna at the rear, moving as one.

They split off at as the Kingsroad met the Last River, each in their own groups, with their own destinations and their own goals. Each knowing that this was only the prelude before greater dangers—the throne to the south, the Others to the north. They may not survive, they knew. But they'd damn well give as good as they got in the meantime.

Lomas

After watching the riders slowly travel out of sight, Jon Snow turned around and got the attention of Lomas, who, up until that moment had been shivering beneath his black cloak and internally wondering why he was up so early, and why in the name of the gods he hadn't taken his father up on his offer for the family farm.

'Open the gate! We're letting them through,' Lord Snow barked

'Who?'

'The gate leads north of the wall. Who do you think?'

So it was true. He really planned to let the wildlings through. Maybe they'd been right when they tried to kill him. Or maybe not. After all, getting rid of the folk beyond the wall would give the Night's Watch one less thing to do, and Jon Snow had always seemed as though there was something worthwhile going on in his head.

Didn't matter either way. Lomar would open the gate no matter what, he knew. He had no reason to obey the man who was no longer his lord commander, but also had no reason to directly go against a man who'd risen from the dead. That was a good way to find yourself given latrine duty for the foreseeable future, no matter whether he was actually a member of the Watch or not.

As he opened the gate and the fur-clad figures, he noticed that that was a sentiment seemingly shared by his sworn brothers, all of whom seemed to be finding the entry of the wildlings as a fortunate distraction, aiding in their plans of resolutely avoiding any eye-contact with their former lord commander.

All, but the silver-haired man who'd arrived the day before with the group from beyond the wall. He was staring at Jon, Lomas noticed, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the railing.

He did not look away.

A/N: Here's another chapter done, basically a prelude before things really start moving. Hope you're still enjoying it all. As always, feel free to leave a review!

Remember to all you can to help those struggling in the current climate, fuck the Tories, ACAB, and that Black Lives (always have, and always will) Matter.

Cheers for reading!

-Kinginthenorth1

—Glad you enjoyed the chapter, I'm looking forward to exploring Sansa and her family reuniting properly, and how that's gonna develop since Robb and Ned are also back. Lady Stoneheart will be making an appearance, and without spoiling too much in terms of Nymeria, Rhaenys, and Visenya, I'll say that we haven't yet seen all the characters who've returned ;)

Dez Guardius—In terms of the Skagosi, you're absolutely right about the dragonglass and the fealty to the Starks. I only referred to Drangonstone because chances are the Targaryens would be more aware of its resources (with it being their ancestral home and all) than the Starks would be for Skagos. Since they're trying to reclaim Winterfell as soon as possible, it wouldn't be feasible for them to get the necessary boats to get there, gain their support (which was never particularly strong in the first place), and get them all back in time to fight the Boltons as per Aegon's timeline.

Force Smuggler—Sansa's going to be more relieved than anything else at the sight of Robb and Ned. Given all the terrible shit she's been through, I feel as though she'd take the good things where they come. As for the Dorne plot, it's gonna be a mix of the book and the show—Doran being a schemer as per usual, the sand snakes + Ellaria being vindictive bastards, Arianne Martell actually existing, and of course Gerold Dayne—I never could resist a good family reunion.

DarthMaine—Ned and Sansa both have reasons to distrust/hate Baelish, and the sudden reappearance of all these people is definitely gonna throw a wrench in his plans.