The courtyard was quiet yet loud as the royal party first began to ride through Winterfell's gates. No one dared to talk about a whisper, yet everybody seemed to be whispering, passing rumours and half-truths to their neighbours about the Baratheons and Lannisters.

Everybody except for the Starks, that was.

The tension in the family was almost overwhelming. Sansa was staring straight ahead and barely managed a response anytime she was spoken to; Ned was preparing himself for what was to come; Catelyn was sending anxious looks at her daughters and Robb and Bran seemed to be trying to close ranks around Sansa and Arya the best that they could without it being completely obvious to onlookers. It would have irritated Arya – and did irritate her, a little, but only in so much as there was not much point for them to try to protect her when she probably had more experience than either of them – but Sansa, she knew, had to appreciate it. It wasn't exactly much, but it was something, and that was more than she had ever had before when dealing with Joffrey Baratheon.

As the riders began to pour through into the courtyard, Arya reached out and grabbed Sansa's hand. Sansa flinched at the touch and Arya was about to open her mouth to apologise when Sansa tangled her fingers with Arya's and clung on tightly enough to hurt.

"Showtime," whispered Sansa.

"If anyone can do this, it's you," Arya whispered back. "You already caught Ramsay." Sansa looked at her for the first time since they had come out to the courtyard, giving Arya a smile so tight-lipped it looked more like a grimace.

Joffrey rode through the gates, sitting tall on his horse. It surprised Arya how – well, how princely he looked. Somewhere along the way, she had exaggerated him in her memory until he looked more monster than person. Unconsciously, she tightened her grip on Sansa's hand. Mycah, Father, every person that died in the War of the Five Kings, she remembered.

I'm coming for you, Waters.

Sansa's face had smoothed out and she was staring at Joffrey with wide, doe-like eyes, a shy smile crossing her face. Reflexively, Arya couldn't help but feel irritated at the sight. She's acting, she reminded herself angrily. This was no time to be falling back into old habits. There were more important things to be doing, like building up her role as spy. Arya focused on making her own expression as vacantly adoring as Sansa's was.

Bran nudged her. "Why are you cross-eyed?" he whispered.

Arya huffed. Think about anything else. Horse riding, Needle, Jon –

Gendry. Gendry would look better on a horse than Joffrey ever had. Gendry had been too rough to ever be a prince. He'd never been pampered once in his life. Gendry would probably laugh at all of Joffrey's airs and graces, though he'd be gentle with Tommen and Myrcella, both of them too little to be cruel.

She wondered if she would ever see Gendry again. There had been years when she had accepted that she never would, but he would be right there in King's Landing, not across the Narrow Sea. It would draw too much attention to him, though, Lady Arya of House Stark going out of her way to visit a blacksmith. Maybe I can pretend to be commission a gift for Father, she thought. Then I can see him. Only once or twice, but it wouldn't be too suspicious, would it?

The carriage wheeled into the courtyard. One of the King's Guard took his helmet off, shaking out his blond locks, and opened the door for his sister. Cersei Lannister took her brother's hand and gracefully descended the stairs.

Gendry. Gendry's lips on hers, his hands warm on her back, Gendry hiding from the Goldcloaks –

Fuck. Even Gendry was too attached to her hate for Cersei. She frantically cycled through what friends she had made over the years: Hot Pie, Lady Crane –

Jaime Lannister was staring into the crowd, his eyes roving across the mass of people. Arya's gaze fastened on him. He was looking for someone, but who for? Everyone he could be interested in was already assembled at the front of the household, waiting patiently for Robert. Ned, Catelyn, the Stark children – the direwolves, maybe? They were all locked away in the kennels.

She couldn't pay as much attention to the Kingslayer as she would have liked, because Robert Baratheon, first of his name, had entered the courtyard and was dismounting from his horse. Arya worked to keep the disgust off her face as she knelt. Jon might not have been there to compare him to, but Robb was, and the Stag King did not look even half as kingly than the boy of eighteen did. Even kneeling, his face was solemn and his back straight, while Robert shambled toward Ned with hardly a shred of gravitas.

Arya let her father and Robert's conversation wash over her; it was all the same as last time round, anyway. She stood when she was expected to and gave Robert the response he expected while she inspected the rest of the visitors. Cersei was inspecting Winterfell with barely concealed disdain, while Tommen and Myrcella huddled behind her, staring around in awe. Joffrey had taken to watching Sansa, earning himself a glare from Robb and Theon both. Jaime Lannister's attention had caught on someone in the crowd, someone only a person or two behind Arya and Sansa. Arya risked craning her head around to check.

Brienne was behind Arya and Sansa, and she was staring back at the Kingslayer, enraptured. Arya would have expected her to be watching Robert or Joffrey. But no, she remembered now: she had spoken up for the Kingslayer when Daenerys Stormborn had wanted him dead. That still didn't explain why Jaime was staring at her, though, unless…

But Jaime Lannister didn't fit their theory, did he? What oaths had he sworn to Arya or Sansa? None, that was what. He was from a family that had destroyed theirs and had crippled their brother. Fighting the Others – a common enemy for all of humanity, not just the Starks – wasn't enough to overcome everything else.

"You've been riding for a month, my love," said Cersei, startling Arya out of her wondering. There was an edge to her voice. "Surely the dead can wait."

Robert ignored her and beckoned to Ned. Ned took the lead, leading him towards the crypts. A moment of silence echoed through the courtyard as Arya took in Cersei's expression, a frozen anger seething just behind her eyes.

"May I show her grace to her chambers, Mother?" asked Sansa brightly, cutting through the silence. Cersei turned to study Sansa, interest sharpening her gaze.

"If her grace wills it," said Catelyn.

"Of course, little dove," said Cersei. "It has been a long ride."

"Robb can show the princes to their chambers," said Catelyn. "And perhaps Arya can accompany Princess Myrcella."

Arya looked over to Myrcella. She had never had much to do with her, even during their time together in King's Landing, but she remembered a girl that didn't seem to have inherited her mother's cruelty. Myrcella smiled at her shyly and Arya smiled back.

There was an opportunity, here.

"I hope that the North isn't too boring for you, your grace," chattered Sansa, making sure that there was a spring in her step as she led Cersei Lannister through the hallways of Winterfell. She would have preferred to be just about anywhere else in the castle than here, with Cersei: conspiring with Arya in the godswood, helping Bran pelt Robb with snowballs, sewing with Jeyne and Beth, stealing kisses from Theon in the Broken Tower. But it wasn't possible, not now. She had a role to play.

Cersei had told her once that when it came to the people one loved, you will act the fool to keep them happy, to keep them safe. It was perhaps the one piece of advice that Cersei had ever given her that Sansa had taken to heart. She would do what it took to keep her family safe, and if that meant playing little dove to Cersei Lannister, then she would do it.

"It's charming," said Cersei, her voice kind. It had been so long since she had heard Cersei Lannister sound kind that Sansa almost tripped, even though she had been expecting it. Sansa knew that Cersei would want her to be a useful idiot, sheltered and naïve, and that Cersei would want to cultivate her into an asset against her father in whatever small way she could.

"Yes, well," said Sansa, glancing around with embarrassment. "I'm sure it can't compare to the Red Keep, your grace, or Casterly Rock."

"Would you like to see King's Landing, little dove?" asked Cersei. "It is a shame that your father hasn't sent you and your sister to spend time at court. I'm sure you would cause quite the stir."

Sansa gave Cersei a flustered smile at the compliment, doing her best to blush. "I'm afraid I can't, your grace," she said. "I am already betrothed to Lord Theon Greyjoy and will become Lady of the Iron Islands one day. It would be unseemly for me to go south without my betrothed or any chaperones."

"A pity," said Cersei. "You would shine at court. You're far too pretty to be outcast to those Seven-forsaken islands."

Sorry, Theon. Sansa fidgeted, glancing down at her feet. She kept her voice subdued as she responded. "It is my duty, your grace."

"Ah, yes. Family, duty, honour, isn't it?" said Cersei. "You're certainly living up to your Tully heritage."

"Thank you, your grace," said Sansa. She hesitated. She wasn't meant to know that Ned was likely being offered the role of Hand of the King right now, just below her feet. "Perhaps – perhaps if I could arrange for someone to take me south. I know that Lord Theon is my father's hostage, but surely the King would do just as good a job at watching over him, or perhaps my brother, Robb, could come south with me -"

"Don't get too far ahead of yourself," advised Cersei, amused, but with a hint of smugness lurking behind her green eyes. "But yes, sweetling. It is certainly something we can look into."

The wind buffeted across the open plain, a wild and lonely place that seemed to be miles away from any sign of civilisation. Jon dismounted his horse, looking around at what was to be his home for the night with distaste.

"Jon," called Benjen. "We're to get water."

There was a stream not far off – it was why they had chosen to make camp here, even though it was still a few hours until dusk. Jon grabbed up some waterbags and followed Benjen out of the beginnings the camp. It was a small creek, but cool and clear. Jon leant down at its edge and splashed the icy water on to his face, letting the bite shock him back to alertness.

As he placed the first of the waterbags into the stream, Benjen said, "Your father told me what you found in the crypts."

Jon jerked abruptly, splashing water and almost losing his grip on the bag. "You knew?" he asked incredulously. "For how long?"

Benjen's face was bitter. "Since the beginning. I was the one who helped her leave Winterfell." Jon's legs gave out under him and he collapsed on to the bank, staring across at Benjen. "She loved him, then," continued Benjen. "I don't know if she did by the end – I think not, because I can't imagine Lya staying there of her own will when Father and Brandon were murdered, and the Mad King was demanding Ned's head."

"Is there anything she could have done?" asked Jon.

"Likely not," said Benjen. "At the end of the day, the rebellion began because Aerys ordered Jon Arryn to execute Ned and Robert, not because Lyanna was kidnapped, or even because Father and Brandon were executed. But I believe she would have tried, but Rhaegar didn't give her that choice." Benjen shook his head. "I still wonder what would have happened if I had tried to stop her from going."

Jon remained silent. Would his mother still be alive, the queen or the lady of Storm's End? Had her death paid for his life?

"But then you would never have been born, and I know that she would have taken anything it took for you to be born," said Benjen. "I know that, and so does Ned. We never risked you, because at first we needed to protect what was left of Lyanna, and later because we needed to protect you for your sake."

"Was I born out of –?" Jon couldn't bring himself to say the last word.

"I don't know, Jon," sighed Benjen. "But I hope it was out of love."

By the time they finished talking and made it back to where they were making camp, most of the work was done, and the Night's Watch recruits were shooting the two of them dirty looks for escaping it. The sun had dipped further towards the horizon, though it still wasn't quite setting yet.

"Stark! Snow!" called Mormont sharply. "With me."

Jon followed Benjen into Mormont's tent, already set up. The Greatjon and Smalljon were already seated inside, having joined the Night's Watch party riding north until their paths split, as was Dacey Mormont.

"It's still well over a week's ride to Castle Black, but we don't have the luxury of time," said Mormont. "Treating with the Wildlings will be difficult enough, and we don't have enough information about the White Walkers."

"I sent word ahead to Maester Aemon," said Benjen, leaning forward where he had seated himself. "He will have gone through all of Castle Black's library, at the very least, by the time we return to the Wall."

It still wouldn't be enough, of course. If it had been, perhaps they wouldn't have been defeated so utterly in Sansa and Arya's time. Only Benjen knew that, though, and Jon kept his mouth shut.

"I'm not going to pretend I understood what happened in the crypts," said the Greatjon. "But I trust it meant something to the two of you." He nodded at Benjen and Jon. Jon sent a look at Benjen, who nodded at him. He took a deep breath.

"The Others aren't our only concern north of the Wall," said Jon. "In Winterfell's crypts, we found evidence of a being called the Three Eyed Raven. He appears to have been a skinchanger. We don't believe he was working with the Others, but he wasn't helping us, either."

Dacey blew a hiss of air out between her teeth.

"How is he not part of the stories?" asked the Smalljon. "We have stories passed down to us about the White Walkers and the early men of the Night's Watch, even if we have forgotten things. Why not the Three Eyed – Raven, was it?"

"Raven, yes," said Jon. "I'm not sure what to tell you. Maester Luwin and the rest of my family is going through the manuscripts back in Winterfell. They'll tell us anything they can."

Benjen cleared his throat. "The Three-Eyed Raven is also said to be able to see through the faces in the Weirwood trees," he explained.

"In the Weirwoods -?" spluttered the Smalljon.

"It's possible he has a connection with the Children of the Forest, at the very least," said Jon. "We don't know where the Old Gods fit into all of this, if at all. We need to be careful what we discuss in front of the Heart Trees."

"And what about making a pact with the Wildlings?" asked Mormont. "Will they not expect to agree to a truce before the Heart Tree?"

"It's possible," agreed Jon. "Likely, probably. But if the Three-Eyed Raven is still active north of the Wall, then he's likely already heard my family discussing treating with the Wildlings, and I have no doubt someone will mention the truce before a Heart Tree eventually. If we break tradition, then it'll only make him suspicious. We do as expected."

"And of the Wildlings?" asked Dacey Mormont. "How do you expect to win them over?"

"The Wildlings don't work like we do," said Jon. "They chose Mance Rayder as king. They can also un-choose him. We need to offer them something good enough that the majority, at the very least, will go along. Once the majority agree, hopefully some will go with the crowd, and we'll only have to persuade the hold-outs."

"Surviving the Long Night should be offer enough," snorted the Smalljon.

"It should be, yes," said Jon. "But we don't know how many of the Wildlings have come in contact with the Others. They'll all have heard of what's coming for them, that's for sure, but it's one thing to have never experienced it for themselves and then use it to take the Wall – something they've been trying to do for generations – and actually having experienced the White Walkers hunting them. We don't know how desperate they'll be, so we don't know what terms they will be willing to take."

It was something that Sansa had drilled into him: the Free Folk had been desperate by the time they came south of the Wall. There had only been a few tens of thousands of them, at best. The Wildlings at this point in time would be different: much larger in force, and therefore better able to leverage demands.

"It's something we'll deal with when we come to it," said Jon. "I've discussed this with Lord Stark many times. I know what he is willing to offer to the Wildlings. The more urgent matter, I think, is whether the Night's Watch and the people of the North will accept them coming south."

The Greatjon sighed. "It's not an easy sell, boy. The Wildlings have been harrying our lands for years beyond remembering. Our people will not be happy to have them amongst us."

Jon inclined his head in understanding. "We plan to disperse the Wildlings across the entire North, and even further south if the King permits it. What Wildlings come to the Last Hearth will be a minority amongst your people, I assure you. We're also planning on separating clans that have warred with each other where possible, to minimise warfare as they settle into the North and our ways."

Mormont had pursed his lips. "I'll do what I can with the Watch," he said. "For much of our history, we've believed the Wildlings to be our only enemy left. The men won't be happy to let them through peacefully when we've had to defend ourselves from them so many times."

There was a shout from outside. Benjen sighed. "We should get back out there. Yoren's spent long enough dealing with the recruits as it is." Mormont nodded and the party stood. Jon waited by Benjen as the others filed outside. Benjen clapped him by the shoulder when they were alone in the tent. "You spoke well," he said. "You get it from your father."

Jon's heart lurched. "Lord Stark or -" He dropped his voice low. "Or Rhaegar?"

Benjen quirked an eyebrow at him. "Ned, of course. You've not got a drop of dragon in you."

But I rode one, Jon wanted to scream. I rode a dragon named for Rhaegar. I fucked my own aunt just like the Targaryens did and I abandoned my kingdom on the brink of war, just like Rhaegar did.

The words stuck in his throat, and he looked away.

"Tell me about Jon Arryn," said Ned. "When I first received your raven, I had to read it three times over. Jon, betray you?"

Robert's face was grim. "I don't know what to tell you, Ned," said Robert. "Years and years we worked together, and for years before that he'd raised me, and then next thing I know his wife is before me and telling me that he was plotting against me."

Lysa. His good sister, betraying her husband? It made no sense. Family, duty, honour were the Tully words, and betraying Jon did not align with any of them. "Is there no chance she was mistaken?" asked Ned desperately.

"She was pretty damn convincing," said Robert. "He threatened my children, Ned. Tell me, if Jory Cassel's wife came before you, begging for mercy because of her husband's plots, what would you do?"

"I would investigate," said Ned.

"So I did," said Robert, nodding. "He'd been meeting with armorers in the city and looking for any evidence that my children were not my children. Cersei wanted his head, threatened to have her father call in his debts. Sending him to the Watch was the best I could do."

"He's dead," said Ned. He almost continued that Cersei got what she wanted after all, but insulting Robert's wife – no matter what Robert felt about her – might be pushing a bit far.

Robert stopped in his tracks, turning to look at Ned. "What?"

"They were set upon by bandits not long before they reached Winterfell," said Ned. "He didn't make it to the Wall."

Robert closed his eyes painfully before his face slowly solidified into a grim certainty. "He was a traitor, Ned."

No, he wasn't! Ned wanted to yell. You know he isn't, but you won't admit it, because if you admitted you sentenced him wrongly – even if you were trying to save his life – then you admit that you had a role in his death.

"I need you," continued Robert. "The Seven know that Cersei fought me over it the entire way here. She thought that you would have been influenced by Jon, and that her father was a safer option. Prove her wrong. Lord Eddard Stark, I would make you Hand of the King."

And if I make a misstep, is this how you'll treat me? thought Ned. Will you throw me aside and call me a traitor for the rest of your life to avoid facing what you have done?

But he didn't have a choice. The Others were coming. The realm had to be ready.

"Your grace," said Ned, trailing off. He collected himself. "You know that I would always be honoured to serve you."

Robert's face relaxed into a smile. "It's not an honour, Ned. I want you to rule my bloody kingdom for me while I drink and hunt and whore myself into an early grave."

"You can't, your grace," said Ned. "Only days ago, Lord Commander Mormont and my brother rode back to the Wall with my son, Jon Snow, and with half the heirs to the North at their back. They have reason to believe there's war coming."

"With the Wildlings?" said Robert. "Good. I've been itching for a fight."

"Not the Wildlings," said Ned. "The Others."

Robert barked out a laugh. "The White Walkers? You really expect me to believe in that, Ned?"

"I know, your grace. It was a struggle for me to accept, too," said Ned. "But I trust my brother, and if he says that the White Walkers have risen again and are marching on the Wall, then I believe him."

"They're a fairy story," insisted Robert, his face paling in the torchlight.

"We've found proof," said Ned. "Deep in the crypts, we've found a room locked away by one of my ancestors, well before the Conquest – perhaps even before the North was unified. There are records in there, and…" Ned envisioned it again, the ice sword hanging on the wall, cold emanating from it like a furnace. "A sword made of ice. It must have been in there over a thousand years and it's never melted."

"Fuck me, Ned," said Robert, drawing to a halt and reaching out a hand to balance against the wall. "This was meant to be a simple visit. I make you Hand of the King, I try to tempt you into breaking your daughter's betrothal, we all ride back to the shithole that is my capital together."

"I'm sorry, your grace," said Ned. "But there's nothing to be done other than to fight."

"What's your boy doing at the Wall?" asked Robert. "Half the North's heirs can't be there just to reinforce the Wall."

"He's treating with the Wildlings," said Ned, letting relief flow over him once again that Jon was safely out of reach while Robert was in Winterfell. Robert might not have any idea about Jon's parentage, but Ned still appreciated the physical distance between them more than he could say. "We look to settle them throughout the North. If the Others are moving again, then we need to empty the lands beyond the Wall of as many people as we can so they cannot build themselves an army."

Robert's face paled further. "Gods, I'd forgotten about the – wights, isn't it?" He pushed himself off the wall and began pacing further down the crypts. "Show me Lyanna," he ordered.

Ned hurried to fall back into step with Robert. "Do you believe me?" he asked.

"Not yet," said Robert grimly. "But I think I will."

They came to Lyanna's tomb. There was fresh flowers at her feet, a handful of winter roses. They were too fresh to have been left by Jon; Sansa or Arya must have crept down to leave them. Something deep inside Ned warmed at the thought of his daughters reaching out to his sister, even if it had to be in such a tiny way.

Robert stepped close to the tomb, reaching out to brush his fingers against Lyanna's stone cheek. "Will she be raised by the Others, if they get this far?" he asked. "Turned into a puppet?"

Sansa had died in these crypts, with countless women and children alongside her. Even the Starks would show no mercy if the White Walkers reached Winterfell. "Yes."

Robert closed his eyes. "I still dream of killing him," said Robert. "Every night, I cave his chest in. But for her to be brought back…"

"It won't be her," cut in Ned.

"I know that," snapped Robert. "If she can't be with me, then she should be at peace. Those fuckers won't take it from her."

"You'll stand with us?" asked Ned, hope stirring in his chest.

Robert let his hand fall back to his side, straightening his back. There was a gleam to his eyes that Ned remembered from their youth. "Show me what you've found."

As the courtyard began to empty, Brienne met Jaime's eyes and began to draw away from the crowd. She had been in Winterfell long enough – both times – that she knew the quiet places, where to go when one didn't want to be disturbed. She didn't watch over her shoulder to make sure that Jaime was following; she knew that he was.

She led him across the castle, down through the covered walkways. The stables, the First Keep and the Library Tower would all be busy, right now, and the Bell Tower was still ringing bells in celebration of Robert's arrival.

Eventually, she entered the Glass Gardens. There was no one tending to them, not now when there was so much to be done with the royals' visit. It was not the Godswood, either. She understood Sansa's logic, why they had to keep meeting before the Heart Tree, but she couldn't do this in the sight of the Three-Eyed Raven.

In the far, dark corners of the Glass Gardens, Brienne finally came to a stop, turning to watch Jaime approach. He had stopped by the entrance, taking off his white cloak and laying it down by the door before he approached.

"Wench," he greeted.

Brienne surprised them both by flinging her arms around him. She had been dreading it for months, riding south with Sansa and Arya with a version of Jaime that had never known her, who had never thrown himself into the bearpit, never lost his hand or been stripped of his role as King's Guard.

Who had never knighted her.

"Did you hear him?" asked Brienne. "Bran Stark?"

"He told me to fulfil my oaths," said Jaime, hugging her back gently before letting her go. "Is this a common thing?"

"You, me, Theon Greyjoy and Ramsay Bolton so far," said Brienne.

Jaime wrinkled his nose. "A Bolton?"

"He's dead," said Brienne flatly. "We've taken care of him. Lady Sansa and Lady Arya woke up with a different message, to unite Westeros before the White Walkers come. We've been fortifying the North and the Night's Watch is treating with the Wildlings."

"I've tried to keep the peace in King's Landing," said Jaime. He winced. "Not very successfully. I've had Tyrion helping me."

Brienne nodded. That was good; Sansa trusted Tyrion (or at least, trusted him as much as she trusted anyone outside the Stark household) and would be able to work with him in King's Landing. If the two joined forces and shared knowledge, they would be able to get a lot done that they wouldn't be able to do alone. "You and he will have to meet with Sansa and Arya, let them know what you've done so far."

"Did you lot warn Jon Arryn?" asked Jaime. "I tried, but he didn't seem to trust me much until all of a sudden, he did."

"Sansa and Arya sent an anonymous letter," said Brienne. "What happened there?"

Jaime grimaced. "It's a long story. Best we wait till we can meet with the Stark girls so I don't have to tell it twice."

"The Broken Tower," decided Brienne. "We'll all make our excuses at the feast and meet there tonight."

Jaime's jaw set, his eyes going hard and distant. "Must it be the Broken Tower?"

"It's the quietest place," said Brienne. "We're least likely to be disturbed there." Well, besides for in the Godswood, but she wasn't sure how much of Jaime's story the Three-Eyed Raven should hear. Something seized in Brienne's chest every time she entered the Godswood now, knowing what she did.

"Is there anything they need to know?" asked Brienne. "Anything I should tell them without waiting for tonight?"

"No," said Jaime. "Wait, yes. There is one thing. There's someone else."