Archive of Our Own

Between one second and the next, the world went silent. There was the clamor of the crowd, the screaming of his daughter Sansa, the heavy, fearful pounding in his chest and the tight draw of his breath, the burn in his eyes and throat. In the middle of it all, a surge of panic – Arya, where was Arya – he hadn’t seen her—

Then, the screech of a sword and–

It was like that first moment after plunging yourself into water. A dive off the dock into the blue banks of the Westerland coast as a young man. Wood planks splintered his bare feet as Robert and a group of girls cheered him on. Jumping into the whistling air, the water crashing against his weight as it welcomed him deeper, and deeper. It wanted to pull him in, down to the very bottom. He sank, and opened his eyes to see clear blue all around, and sandy hills beneath his feet. It was a whole other world. But his body was buoyant, his lungs running out of air. He looked up to see the bright sun sparkling through the water’s surface like beams of light through the slats of windows. He raised his arms and pushed off the soft, drenched sand. He weighed nothing as he floated up into the bright day. He opened his eyes to see–

Destruction. It was not with dripping eyelashes that he blinked. His view was blurry but saltwater was not the cause.

Was this the land of the Old Gods, the heavens, the end of the world? He felt horror looking upon it. It couldn’t be. The drooping, obliterated facade of King’s Landing stared back at him. That treacherous, shit-smelling capital that the Gods would frown upon.

It did not look like the kingdom he knew. It was covered in dust, and swathed with rubble. Fuming and melting in equal measure. The bones of the city jutted up even if the flesh and confection had been thoroughly burned away.

And where were the people? Where only moments ago there had been thousands, now there were none. The thousands of folk brought to see his execution, gone in just a blink. Just a dive. The vestiges of the Great Sept of Baelor, where he was brought to be murdered, surrounded him as steam and rubble. He must be dead. It must be so. It was so unnaturally quiet, after all. And the sky was tinged with gray, so unlike that pure Southron blue which was made from the color of his eldest daughter’s eyes.

Ned’s knees ached. He found himself kneeling still, as if he still awaited the blade. He stood with a stumble and a shiver, a compulsive hand to the back of his neck, and began climbing through the debris.

The stale stench of years-old dead seethed from the streets. He remembered it from the first war, how long it took to scrub that odor out from the roads and the keeps and Winterfell, too.

He stepped over a skeleton, and another. The bones were burned to crisps, black and beginning to crumble like the stones around them. Ash fell on his shoulders and filled his nostrils. He coughed and coughed. He stumbled through the streets and had his first sight of the Red Keep, far away.

He stared, for only a single turret of the castle remained. It jutted up into the thickened sky – the highest point, and the loneliest.

As he approached the Red Keep, he saw something else that shook him. High atop the only remaining turret, two flags flew as one. The ash-wind stoked them like flame on a wick, leaving them to ripple and whip together. Black and white banners. The red, three-headed dragon danced with the direwolf of his own house.

He was surely dead as he was dreaming. Stark, Targaryen… it was a match made to cause a war.

Had that infamous Doom of Old Valyria now come to Westeros? Following on the heels, some centuries later, of the Targaryens? But no. He remembered that he was dead, for Meryn Trant had just swung his sword at his neck. He had heard the slice and the silence that came after. This was the afterlife, Ned knew it to be so.

He spent hours walking through the collapsed streets of King’s Landing: Flea Bottom, Blackwater Rush, the King’s Gate. All the peasant houses and all the noble ones, gone. Reduced to almost nothing. Among the rubbled, there were so many bodies. Skeletons of men, women, children alike.

He had never been a faint-hearted man. But this place… Air came to his lungs with much difficulty, half a result of the ash, half of the seizing dread that had overtaken him.

He left King’s Landing on foot. Hunger coiled in his stomach. Did the dead feel hunger? He didn’t think so. His mouth was dry, and the dread of the destroyed capital would have made him sick if he allowed it to. He thought of his children, his wife, his sister, of Jon. He thought of all of them as he walked and walked and walked. He headed North.

He came across a person only some metres outside of the capital. He was stunned, after all of that silence.

It was a man on a horse, a buggy full of wheat latched behind. He came to a stop and cocked his head at Ned.

“Allo,” the man greeted. “Headed North, are ye?”

“Aye,” Ned agreed.

“Where to?”

“Winterfell.”

The man raised his eyebrows. “Long way to go on foot.”

“Yes. I need a horse. And food and water.”

“I’m headed to the Vale.” The man patted his horse’s neck. “Got me a wife waiting up there. Ain’t got no extra horses.”

“I wasn’t asking,” said Ned. But then he looked back toward the capital. “What happened?”

“Ye don’t know?”

Ned shook his head.

“But how could ye not know?”

“It doesn’t matter. What caused this?”

“The Mad King’s daughter,” the man said, appearing fearful now. “She came with her army and her dragons. She burned it all. Everythin’. My whole family was here when it happened.”

Ned looked back at the distant rise of that turret, those flags. “When?”

“Near twelve years now, innit.”

“What of the Lannisters?”

“Dead.” The man spat on the ground. “Good riddance.”

“And the Starks?”

The man shrugged. “I can tell yer Northron. Won’t find none of ‘em down here, not anymore.”

“And… the King?”

“Well,” said the man, “Yer headed in the right direction if ye want to meet the king. That’s where the capital is, don’t ye know.”

Ned flinched, as if to look once again at the destroyed city, but stopping himself mid-motion. “Where?”

The man looked at him like he was dumb in the head. “Winterfell.”

Ned shook his head. The confusion must have been plain on his face.

So, the man said, “Where have you been, anyway? Even the Free Folk know about the war. You been living under a rock or what?”

Ned wiped at his forehead, the sun hot on his skin even through the blanket of ash in the sky. Did the sun and moon work as normal in the land of the dead? He could see through the smog that it was beginning to droop toward the horizon.

The man cleared his throat.

Ned shook his head again. “Could you point me in the direction of the nearest township?”

. . .

He had a bag of coin but no blade, no food, and no water. The blacksmith was his first order of business.

“Longsword,” Ned said, throwing down a few coins.

“It’ll be ready in two days,” the blacksmith replied.

A horse was next. A mare with an auburn chest and a grand mane. He stabled her at the nearby inn where he bought himself dinner and drink. The more hours that passed, the more dubious he became. The innkeeper, his daughter, the blacksmith, the cook, the man from the road…

All these people. Commoners going about their lives, no concern for the fact that a dead-man walked among them.

He was a dead man but he still felt hunger and thirst. He still needed to sleep – he could feel it tugging at his bones. He still needed to piss and and he still needed to shit. So did all the people around him. He was alive. He must have been.

But Westeros was different and Ned did not understand. He kept his mouth shut and headed North two days later, his new sword strapped to his belt. A slow trek it was, but alive or dead, he would see his keep one last time.

He was afraid of what he might find there. The very thought of Sansa’s screams – those last sounds before the silence of water – was enough to chill him to sweat. To turn his heart to a furious beat.

But he soldiered on. He passed towns and villages filled with commoners but no lords. None dared approach the man on a mount with a longsword at his hip. The Westerosi had a healthy caution, but the fields he passed were ripe and the children running within them, fat. At the Trident he saw the double flag again. Dragon and Direwolf.

It took days of riding before he reached the North. At Moat Cailin he purchased himself a room at an inn for the night. His back and bones ached; he was no longer a young man. A phantom throb in his neck told a story of decapitation. That night, following days of only his own thoughts for company, he allowed himself to enjoy the comforts of a featherbed, and of a little too much ale.

He prayed to the Old Gods as he tried and failed to sleep.

The next morning, he mounted his mare to once again head North. But before he could leave the city proper, a woman caught his attention. Bedraggled, she begged a horseman passing.

“Please, please–” She besought him, hands outheld. But the horseman giddied away, leaving her in the dust. Her ruby hair fell in dirty tangles around her waist.

Ned’s face slackened when she turned, her face tear streaked and unkempt.

The eyes of his wife Catelyn Tully Stark beheld him. Her mouth fell open.

“Cat?” He dismounted in clumsy confusion, hands outstretched. He rushed to her as she collapsed with a wail to the frigid ground, mud splattering all over her dirty gown. She held her hands in prayer and closed her eyes, rocking back and forth. “Stranger, tell me am I dead or alive or am I mad?”

“Cat,” Ned cried, falling to his knees beside her. He embraced her. “You’re neither dead nor mad. You’re alive.”

She peeled reddened eyes open to fix upon him in wonder. “How can it be? A gift from the Gods?”

“Aye, it must be.”

Cat sobbed into his shoulder. “But what of Robb? Of Bran, Rickon? Where are they? I died in the same room as him but he was nowhere when I awoke. I searched everywhere, and my throat was together again, but Robb–” She gagged, touching her neck.

That dread of every moment since he, himself, awoke on the destroyed steps of the Great Sept, now sharpened into a point so sour he could not feel anything beside it. “I do not understand.”

She wailed. “They killed him in front of me, and then cut my throat. Under their own roof.”

He pulled her forcefully up. “Who?”

His wife was in such a state, he had to shake her. “Who?”

She muttered prayers, shaking her head. “The Freys. But they’re gone now and a new house sits there. It’s been years, it’s been years, Ned, don’t you understand?”

He held her close. “We need to get to Winterfell.”

“Yes, yes,” she said, but was so distraught. “I have no coin, Ned. I have walked so far.”

“It’s alright, Cat,” he said. “It will be alright.”

He purchased another night at the inn, to allow Catelyn to wash up and rest after so much traveling, all alone. She fell quickly into a fretful sleep on the featherbed while he sat there beside her, watching over. His wife had aged in his death. New wrinkles here and there, lines of stress and frowns. Even in her sleep, she trembled and held a hand to her throat which she told him had been sliced from ear to ear.

His stomach turned to think of it. Robb, killed. His wife, killed. And what of the rest? His brave daughter Arya? And Jon at the wall? Little Rickon? Sweet Sansa? He thought of the three-headed dragon and couldn't stop himself from shivering.

Catelyn slept the entire day and most of the night. When she finally awoke, she was calmer. She looked at him with such wide eyes, face pressed with red lines from the pillow. She looked as sweet and as young as when they first wed. “It’s really you.”

“Aye.” Ned swallowed. “Cat, I do not know what happened, but I know I have failed you and our children. No words will do justice to my wrongs.”

But she didn’t say anything, instead crawling out of the bed, taking him in her arms in a way that was so familiar. “I missed you, Ned. I missed you until my very death. This is truly a gift from the Gods, that you and I are here together. But we must get to King’s Landing. Our daughters–”

“King’s Landing is destroyed,” Ned said. “A man told me twelve years have passed since the Mad King’s daughter came and burned the city to the ground.”

“What?” Cat gasped.

“Winterfell is the capital now, that is where we need to go.”

“But our girls–”

“If there are any Starks remaining, they will be in the North,” Ned said, certain of it. “Have you seen the Stark and Targaryen banners flying together in the cities? Westeros is at peace now, but I think it was at war for very long before that.”

Catelyn swallowed harshly, touching her throat, then her belly, as she was wont to do when she thought of her children. “Yes, we must go, then.”

. . .

At the inn, they ate amongst the commoners. He and Cat kept to themselves, draining their soup and ale in short order. Meanwhile, they listened in on the conversations around them for clues about the world they had found themselves in.

“‘Allo,” some man caught Ned’s eye. He scratched his head. “Don’t I know ye?”

“I’m afraid not,” Ned replied.

In the corner, a barmaid spoke with some of the townsfolk about the stores for the winter. “Of course,” the woman said, “It won’t be nothing like the long night, but gotta shore up anyhow. Good Queen Sansa sent out extra rations for families with children, the Gods bless her heart.”

Cat caught his eye, a stunned look about her. “Do you think…”

“We need to get to Winterfell,” was all he said.

For the rest of the distance, Catelyn rode his mare while he walked alongside. They took only one more inn along the way, for the coin was running low. The rest of the nights were spent camped out under the trees, bundled in what blankets and shelter they could find. They ate the game he caught and slept on the bedrolls he purchased, holding each other for warmth. Catelyn told him of the War of the Five Kings, of Bran and of Rickon missing, of Sansa in the capital, and of Arya gone, presumed dead.

“King in the North,” Ned said. He shook his head. “It was my decisions that led to all of this.”

“You shouldn’t think that way,” his wife chastised. “We never could have seen any of this coming. It was the Lannisters.”

“I heard they’re all dead.”

“Good,” Cat said savagely.

The final stretch to Winterfell was cold and hard, fear seizing them both and refusing to let go. What if, what if, what if. And as they walked the King’s Road, Ned and Cat saw a change in their old land.

Ned had once been the Warden of this land. Now, walking through this new North, he recognized it as something much grander than it had ever been in his lifetime.

The banners became more common. Stark and Targaryen. Ned and Cat shared a look.

And then, they finally came upon Winterfell. It was a familiar sight and it wasn’t, at the same time. A fortress surrounded it. The banners whipped proudly in the frosty wind. Townships bustled all around, men with carts, and women with children. The people and the land had prospered.

Ned approached the gates first, Cat lingering behind on the mount.

The guards came to attention. “Who goes there?”

“Eddard and Catelyn Stark.”

The nearest guard scoffed.

“You don’t believe me but your Queen will,” Ned said. He looked the boy in the eye and nodded at the gate. “Are you going to let us in? We’ve traveled a long way.”

When the gates rolled up, Catelyn was once again by his side. They walked into Winterfell. The bones within were the same, as Ned’s bones were the same, but a lifetime had passed, it seemed, for so much had changed.

A man who must have been the castellan, looked at them nervously but ordered the horse stabled. He brought them to the great hall. “The cooks will bring you something while you wait. The Queen will receive you once she has returned from the Godswood.”

“And of the King?”

The castellan frowned. “Away.” Then he left with one last suspicious look.

Ned and Cat stood side by side in dreadful feeling. Two modest thrones, tall-backed and styled in that Northron humbleness, sat empty at the far end of the room where once they had dined as a family amongst the soldiers, commoners, and Lords alike.

He heaved a great sigh and slumped down at one of the long tables. Catelyn came to rest more softly beside him. She touched his shoulder, and they waited silently for a while.

Cat had just opened her mouth to say, “Do you think–”

But the door to the great hall opened, and the sounds of shoes upon the ancestral stone rang out. There were two pairs of footsteps – one pair that was lighter, and one heavier. It was a Queen, dressed in a great fur cape, a silver circlet resting atop fire-colored hair. She stepped through the doors, a large, lumbering beast of a woman-knight at her side.

When the Queen saw her visitors, she came to an abrupt stop.

Ned, himself, felt that all the air had been squeezed out from his lungs. It was like the ash of King’s Landing had descended upon him once again.

Cat let out a choked noise, hurrying forward, “Sansa–”

The woman-knight stepped in front of the Queen, gripping the hilt of her sword.

And the Queen’s face had gone pale as snow. She looked between Ned and Cat with such rapid blinks. “What is this? I don’t understand.”

“Your Grace–” began the woman-knight.

“Brienne,” said the Queen with the face of their daughter, “Tell me truthfully, have I gone mad? Or do you, too, see the faces of my parents who have long since passed?”

The woman-knight, Brienne, trained her eyes on the two of them with severity. “I never never met your Lord father, your Grace, but your mother I did know, and that is her face exactly as I remember it.”

Sansa visibly swallowed.

“Sansa,” said Ned. “I believed I was dead. In one moment I was at the foot of the Great Sept, with your cries in my ears and Meryn Trant’s sword passing through my neck–”

At this, the Queen, his daughter, flinched.

“–and the next, I awakened in a destroyed King’s Landing, with no one to be seen. And–”

The Good Queen Sansa stepped the barest step forward. Though her posture was immaculate and her hands clasped delicately in front of her, her countenance was shaky and tired. Her face bloomed with a sort of fearful teariness, upturned in the face of her long dead parents.

“And?” she murmured.

“And the Targaryen and Stark banners flying as one.”

Catelyn stepped forward next, “Your father found me by the King’s Road on the way here to Winterfell. I, too, woke as if only the barest second had passed following my death. The Freys…” Her hand came to her throat, nervously. She looked around the hall as if her killers might appear at any moment.

“And…” Sansa whispered, “Robb?”

But tears filled Cat’s eyes and she shook her head, collapsing to the bench to weep. “I do not understand why it should be us brought back to life and our son should not be granted the same.”

Sansa turned to Brienne. “But how is this possible?”

“We’ve seen stranger things, your Grace,” said the knight. “You and the King have brought peace to Westeros, the Seven know that. It’s a boon.”

“Yes,” said Sansa, faintly. “I prayed many hours that I would see my family again, but I thought that it would be in death, not in life.”

“Your Grace, there are many mysteries to the world.”

The Queen stood taller. She looked upon her parents. Something unsure remained. Ned saw his sweet, young daughter in the way she took them in. “This isn’t a jest?” she finally asked, stepping forward.

“Not one I am aware of,” Ned said, holding out a hand.

With that, Sansa rushed into his arms and held him with all her might. Ned swallowed back a lump in his throat to think of all the years that had passed, and all that might have occurred. He tucked her into his chest and pressed his lips to her hair, above such a circlet that proclaimed her Queen, his very being trembling with emotion.

Sansa embraced her mother next, and the two women wept in the great hall, tears echoing and splashing to the stone. Ned stood watch, and so did the woman-knight, as the day turned soaked with tears.

Eventually, their daughter – a woman grown, and a true beauty– pulled back to wipe her reddened eyes. “I must send ravens to Arya and Bran. They will want to come see for themselves. How did Bran not know of this? But no matter, he will surely be able to explain once he arrives.”

“What of Rickon?” Catelyn said, her voice deep with dread and fear.

Sansa’s face constricted with such a forceful moment of grief. She shook her head, and Catelyn and Ned felt this loss as one. Eldest and youngest sons, dead and gone. All in Ned’s absence.

He cleared his throat and ventured to ask, “And Jon?”

Both his wife and daughter stilled. Sansa did not quite look him in the eye when she answered, “Alive and well. He’s to return soon, is he not, Brienne?”

“Yes, your Grace, by the end of the sennight, if not sooner.”

“Good,” Sansa nodded. “If you excuse me, I will send the ravens. The castellan will see to it you are shown to your rooms in short order. And food, of course.”

Their daughter left the hall as if fleeing from a terrible amount of feeling. Ned felt it too, the hanging, drooping tiredness of this strange situation.

. . .

The castellan – with a much kinder feeling than before – brought them not to the Lord’s chambers but a well-outfitted guest apartment. This should not have surprised Ned, but he found that it did anyway. Maids with curious eyes came with food and helped them to clean. Clothing was provided. They ate, they bathed, they dressed. Ned and Cat reeled.

“Will you accompany me to the Godswood?” he asked after a while. His wife nodded and took his arm.

They walked through the halls to curious whispers and looks. Children ran amok. It was very unlike the Red Keep of King’s Landing, where lords and ladies sneered at all and sundry.

Frost fell peacefully upon the land, the castle, the turrets. The Godswood beckoned. A fresh blanket of snow erased footprints as they were made. Of all the things in the world, this was the least changed. Ned collapsed to his knees before the great Weirwood and prayed, Catelyn tucked into his side.

Some time passed like this, before they were interrupted.

“Oh, hello,” said a soft, surprised voice. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

When Ned and Cat turned, there was a boy of about three-and-ten. His eyes were a very pale blue and his hair a reddish brown. His clothing spoke of high birth, and there was a small but sturdy sword strapped to his hip. He had such piercing eyes from which he looked at them curiously.

“Not at all,” said Cat. “Have you come to pray as well?”

He nodded, “I do not recognize you.”

“We only just arrived,” Ned said, standing. “To whom do we speak?”

The boy smiled. “No one has ever asked me that before. I’m–”

“Theon!” a voice pierced the wind. Sansa stood some paces away. She approached, Brienne trailing at a distance. “What in the heavens are you doing, child, you’re meant to be in lessons.”

The boy gave her a sheepish look. “Sorry, Mother. I just wanted to see the Godwood before dark.”

Mother.

Ned’s attention fixed itself quickly to the boy named Theon, just as Cat’s did. And indeed, he could see his daughter in the face of this boy.

Sansa had come to his side and touched his curling auburn hair tenderly. He was almost of a height with her, she who had always been graceful and tall. Ned remembered another young boy of the name of Theon, and wondered if he too had passed.

The young Theon – their grandson – kissed Sansa on the cheek. “You didn’t tell me we were to have guests.”

“They were unexpected, sweet boy,” said Sansa. “Even I do not truly believe it.”

Theon frowned. “What do you mean?”

“The gods have gifted us on this day. Standing before you are your grandparents, the Lord and Lady Stark,” and her voice went to a quiver upon saying these words.

Theon’s eyes widened, and he looked over his grandparents with sweet surprise. “Truly?”

“I do not understand how it is possible, but I find myself grateful. Your Uncle Bran will surely have an explanation for us once he arrives.”

The boy’s eyes lit up. “Is Aunt Arya coming too?”

Sansa smiled, caught the eyes of both of her parents. “I’ve only just sent the ravens, but I’m sure she will darken our doorstep as soon as she is able. She’s visiting with Bran right now, I believe.”

“Come,” she then said, “Dinner will be served soon. We shall eat in my solar.”

To Ned and Cat, she added, “I’m afraid we oughtn't divulge your identities just yet, at least not until my husband has returned from his trip. For now, if anyone asks, you are visiting from Essos. It would explain why you are not familiar with the state of things.”

“Of course.” Ned hesitated for a moment, “Your Grace.”

Sansa smiled. “Please, family must call me nothing but my name, Mother, or Aunt.”

Ned and Cat fell into step besides mother and son. “So, we have more grandchildren?”

“Oh, yes,” said their daughter. She held the young boy into her side and smiled at him. “Theon here is my eldest. But then there is our daughter Lyanna, our sons Robb and Eddard. And our youngest, only three summers old, named Catelyn of course.”

“You honor us,” said Catelyn.

Sansa smiled. “Arya has one daughter, named Visenya.”

“And Bran?”

She shook her head. “Unfortunately, his fall left him unable to father children. Though, I do not think he would be interested regardless. He has a mind for other things, my brother.”

“That’s putting it lightly,” Theon giggled. Sansa smiled, and ruffled his hair.

But Ned and Cat were much too overwhelmed by all of this to prod for any more information.

Sansa led them through the keep to her solar. A table had been laid out with plenty of food. Children giggled and jumped around as they waited, a kindly looking Septa keeping a careful eye on them.

“Mother!” a little boy exclaimed, running and jumping for her.

“Hello, dearest boy,” Sansa said. She turned to Ned. “This is little Ed. And that mischievous boy over there is Robb. Lyanna is sulking over there at the end of the table–” her voice dropped to a whisper, and a smile, “–she gets into such foul moods when she doesn’t eat. Oh, and where’s my little Cat?”

The Septa came forward, a wild-haired toddler on her hip. The young Cat reached for her mother with a sticky grin. When Ned looked closer, he saw that her eyes were a pale violet. It was the same color as the Mad King’s, and as his son, Rhaegar’s.

Ned sat beside Catelyn as the food was served.

“Your husband is away, then?” he asked.

“Yes,” Sansa said, sipping from a goblet of mead. “He’s visiting with the royal family in Sunspear. As the Westerosi capital is now in the North, there have been attempts by the Dornish to seize what was once King’s Landing as well as other prominent Southron regions. Bran, our Lord Paramount in the South, has knocked any such resistance soundly away, but my husband and I are hoping to foster a prosperous relationship with Dorne, if possible.”

“It baffles my mind to think that Winterfell is the capital seat of Westeros.”

“Yes,” Sansa said. “And it is a very long story indeed.”

Theon sat beside Sansa and listened to the conversation with a keen look. His brothers and eldest sister sat beside him. Lyanna was around the age of ten, and seemed calm enough though she ate with a surprising voracity. Robb and Eddard were close in age, around seven or eight. Sansa fed little Cat who sat perched in her lap. The little girl’s violet eyes smiled curiously at the newcomers.

“Your husband is Targaryen, then?” Ned asked.

Sansa paused. “Yes.”

“Who?”

But Sansa avoided his and Cat’s eyes. “You shall meet him soon enough.”

Despite this Targaryen father, all of the children aside from Theon had dark, almost black hair. True Northron sons and daughters, as Arya and Jon had appeared. Only the purple eyes of the young Cat struck him as strange.

“Is he good to you?” Ned asked.

Sansa smiled. “Oh, yes.”

A suspicion unfurled deep in his gut; he was unsure what to make of it.

. . .

The next morning Ned and Cat returned to the Godswood. The night had been a long one, full of thought. They prayed, even Cat, to the Old Gods. For enlightenment, for reasoning, for happiness, and health.

A roar in the sky stunned them both. A deep noise such that he had never heard. The dragons he had seen in his youth, well, they had been small and sad. When he looked up into the white sky, a massive shadow flew overhead. A dread of a flying dragon. It was black as night and its screech was terrible.

A figure sat small atop of it, so far he could not be seen. Here came the Targaryen husband, surely.

It took a long while for Ned’s heart to slow its racing.

They returned to the keep soon after. Ned’s hands were damp within his gloves as they left the Godswood. The dragon was somewhere close and Ned feared they would be burned to dust if they turned the wrong way. But beyond the gates of Winterfell, the people walked and talked and laughed as normal. No one feared the flying dread in the sky. Slowly, he calmed.

Once inside the castle, they headed in the direction of the great hall.

They turned a corner and stopped still.

A grown Jon stood stunned in front of them. He wore a sword at his hip, his hair tied back at the base of his head, and a breastplate designed half wolf, half dragon.

“It’s really true,” he said, face stark pale. “Brienne said, but–”

“Jon,” Ned said.

Catelyn was quiet beside him.

A moment of shock passed before the men embraced. It was the deep embrace of father and son, for Ned would always look upon Jon as his son, as he had raised him as such.

When they pulled apart, Jon looked at a loss. His eyes flicked between them, so much like Sansa’s had. “Lady Stark,” he greeted. “I trust Sansa has seen to your rooms and comfort.”

“Yes,” Catelyn said, and it was in that stiff manner, but mayhaps not as stiff as always, for so much had happened, and a bastard boy was no longer the worst thing in her life. “Thank you.”

Jon swallowed. They all stood for a moment, quiet and uncertain.

“We were headed to the receiving hall,” said Catelyn. “We had hoped to finally meet this husband of Sansa’s. A dragon, can you believe it?” She shook her head in disbelief. “Truly, much has changed.”

But it was then that Ned’s eyes caught Jon’s. A look passed. A tense moment of nervousness from Jon, a long held sorrow.

“You were raised right,” Ned said. “I trust you’ve done well by her.”

“Yes, ser, I would die before I brought shame to her or to her house.”

“Very good,” said Ned. “I can’t say I’m not surprised.”

“I can hardly believe it myself, sometimes.”

Catelyn frowned. “What in the heavens are you two talking about?”

Ned and Jon met eyes once again, before Jon said, “Come, I’ll bring you to Sansa.”

They continued in the direction of the receiving hall but were first waylaid by the young Theon. He appeared at the other end of the corridor, stopped, let out a great whoop, and burst into a sprint. With a laugh, he launched himself into Jon’s arms, who let out his own grunt of his own laughter, swinging the boy around in a circle.

The boy began babbling in excitement, “I’ve been looking for you nonstop! I heard Drogon coming in and I had to find you. You’re back early, have you seen Mother yet? She’ll be pleased!” The boy hugged Jon again, “I missed you, Father.”

Jon ruffled the boy’s hair, fondly. “And I missed you.”

Theon grinned, pulling back. “I see you’ve met – or I suppose, re-met – the Lord and Lady Stark. Mother’s been in a tizzy since they arrived here.”

“Aye,” Jon said, and both he and Theon glanced at the Lord and Lady in question.

Something thunderous had begun to crack at Catelyn’s genteel facade. “I do not understand.”

Before Ned could explain, Jon stepped in, “Let us find Sansa, and perhaps Lord Stark can explain then. I have my own questions, indeed.”

“Aye,” Ned agreed.

Jon stepped into the great hall first, empty except for Sansa and her lady-knight. The Queen beamed and rushed toward the armored man. She swept him into an embrace and a kiss. It was only then that she noticed her parents following not far behind.

Catelyn looked like she had been forced to eat something extraordinarily unpleasant, for her face was screwed up with distaste. “Sansa…”

“Mother,” Sansa said, a tremble to her voice in the face of this disappointment. “It’s not what you think.”

“Not what I think!” Catelyn raised her hands. “This is your half-brother. It is absolutely indecent. What were you thinking? And you–” she turned on Jon. “You’ve corrupted my daughter, you–”

“Enough.” It was Ned who broke this tirade. “Cat, enough. I have much to explain.”

“How can you explain this sin? Siblings laying together, we are no Lannisters, no Targaryens. And Sansa,” he voice lowered to a stunned whisper, “To have your children fathered by a bastard…”

Young Theon frowned. “We don’t use that word here.”

But Catelyn was furious, pink spots on her cheeks. Jon fisted his hands at his sides and Sansa twisted her own in front of her, anxiously.

Ned sighed so deeply. “He’s not a bastard, Cat, but the trueborn son of my sister Lyanna, and…”

Cat’s eyes were wide. “And?”

It was Jon who answered. “Her husband, Rhaegar Targaryen.”

“Yes,” Ned said wearily. “But how did you learn of this? I told no one. You would have been killed in your nursing bed, had word got out.”

Jon and Sansa shared a look. “It is a long story. For another time.”

Catelyn was beside herself. “He was never your bastard?”

“No,” Ned said. “But I cannot apologize for this lie, or for making you believe me unfaithful. I promised my sister on her deathbed that I would protect this boy to my dying day. You remember how it was, right after the rebellion. The people, Robert, they were after Targaryen blood. And Lyanna and Rhaegar, who were the cause of the war in the first place–” Ned shook his head. “It had to be done.”

“Come,” Sansa finally said. “Let us break fast as a family, and find forgiveness.”

. . .

Catelyn was quiet for the next several days, solemn and watching. Even in the privacy of their chambers, she did not broach the subject of what she had learned. Ned did not regret the decisions he’d made to protect Jon, but he did regret that these decisions had hurt his wife. He could only be glad that the truth was out; he did not wish to squander this miraculous second life with any more lies or falsifications.

Ned found it strange to see Jon and Sansa in this light, even though he was glad for them. They were a striking couple. Jon had grown into a true Northron man, with a long and stern face, jet hair, and gray eyes. He was broad and strong with the rough hands of a man who had seen many battles. Beside him, the tall and lovely Sansa, with fiery hair, piercing blue eyes, and a certain steely, unimpeachable kindness.

Catelyn must have noticed the same thing, for she broke her silence a couple nights later to observe, “They love one another very much, it seems.”

They had just spent another evening in the royal solar, feasting together. The children were all still delighted that Jon had returned, and the little ones in particular enjoyed hanging from every one of his limbs. To this, he would just smile, and laugh, and swoop to snatch little Cat up and sling her over his shoulders. And Sansa would just beam, her laughter like a bell. At mealtime, Sansa behaved as impeccably as her station demanded. But it was clear that she doted on Jon, the way she sat close at his side and wouldn’t stop smiling. Jon wasn’t much of one for his own smiles, but Ned knew the boy well, and could see the love and fondness in his own eyes.

“Aye,” Ned replied.

“Jon is a good father, like you,” she said quietly.

He cupped her cheek gently. “And Sansa is a good mother, like you.”

But Cat just looked tired. “She hated him as a child. I. . . suppose that was my fault.”

“It was my fault, Cat,” he replied. “Let us leave the past behind us.”

Still, there were strained moments. It was evident that Jon in particular was unsure how to interact with Catelyn, not now as a grown man, nor as her daughter’s husband.

Beyond meals, Ned and Catelyn were mostly left to their own devices. Jon and Sansa were the busy rulers of a healing Westeros, and it was plain to see that they engaged in their duties with the utmost severity. They had ultimately decided not to widely share the true identities of Ned and Catelyn, as they worried the unbelievable event may be attributed to the work of black magic. It was Sansa’s suggestion that they continue to be permitted the titles of Lord and Lady, and that they pose as distant cousins of the Queen, ones who had been living in Essos for the past several decades, unable to make the journey before now.

“The people may question the Lannisters’ decision to gift Winterfell to the Boltons,” Jon cautioned, “if a more natural, and manipulable heir existed at the time.”

“The Lannisters were not known for following godly law, Jon,” Sansa replied. “They had me, and that was enough.”

Over the sennights hence, the story of their children’s lives pieced together slowly, with marked hesitance. Ned could tell that Sansa and Jon had censored much of the events of the last decades, though he had determined a few facts for himself.

He learned that Sansa spent many tense years in King’s Landing before being brought back to Winterfell. Once North, she was married to a husband she looked back upon unkindly. It was unclear to whom, though Ned suspected Roose Bolton.

He learned that Jon spent many of his own years among the Night’s Watch, manning the Wall and allying himself with the Free Folk, until such a time that he abandoned his post to lead a deadly siege against Winterfell, reclaiming the land from the Boltons. This was the battle in which Rickon had regretfully died.

He learned that Brandon and Arya both remained missing, separately, for several years. While Arya had eventually returned from Essos blessed with skillful swordsmanship, Bran had returned from the far reaches of the North, blessed with something else entirely. Something that made him speak a little strange, and see more than the Gods could.

And he learned that Theon, who was not Ned’s child, but who had been his ward, was looked back upon by Jon and Sansa with considerable respect, as evident by the name of their firstborn son. The elder Theon had risked his life to protect Sansa, and had given his life to protect Bran.

The more he learned about the lives of his children, the more his head spun. Hearing Sansa and Jon speak casually of their lives, and of Westeros today, so different from what he remembered, was enough to dizzy him. Truth be told, he was tired. He was glad he no longer had to rule, or lead. It was as if the whip of that blade, coming right for his head, had left him an interior wound instead of a physical one. He found himself struggling to eat some days, and struggling to calm himself, even though a sense of safety and security blanketed the capital Winterfell, ruled by goodly leaders.

They received word that Bran and Arya would be arriving in a fortnight, alongside Arya’s husband, their daughter, and the King’s Hand, all of whom had been visiting the Lord Paramount in the South at the time of the news.

It was with much difficulty that Ned awaited the visit of his last two surviving children. Catelyn did not fare much better. The days crept by slowly, though the company of Sansa and Jon and their children was a worthy distraction.

On the day of their arrival, a large welcoming party gathered in the main courtyard of Winterfell. It was strange. Not long ago, as the Lord and Warden of this land, Ned would have been at the front of this party, preparing to welcome his guests into Winterfell. Instead, Ned watched from a small distance as Sansa and Jon stood proudly shoulder to shoulder, awaiting the arrival of their siblings. Ned and Catelyn had been asked not to greet the newcomers until after the reception, when the family might retreat to the privacy of the royal solar. Ned knew it would be difficult not to run to his children when he first saw them, but he steeled himself. He stared in the distance, waiting, waiting…

A modest company of horses, knights, tents, and supplies crested the furthest hill. Ned watched, and continued to wait, his heart in his throat. There be his son and his daughter. He wondered what they would be like, what they would look like. Catelyn clasped his hand in hers, squeezing tightly, as the group finally came to a rolling stop at the open gates.

“Lord Brandon Stark, Paramount of the South!” The castellan boomed. Catelyn gasped, watching as a slender young man was assisted off a horse, and helped into a chair. He was brought forward and Sansa, at the head of the crowd, leaned down to kiss her younger brother on the cheek.

“Welcome home, brother,” Jon said, clasping the younger boy on the shoulder.

“Your Grace,” Bran said softly. This was Bran, the little boy he had left injured in his bed. Still injured, and yet, grown. He stared, mouth dry, and startled when the lad’s eyes suddenly fixed upon his.

“Lord Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the King!” was the castellan’s next announcement. Ned’s heart thundered with surprise. His eyes tore away from Bran with much difficulty. And yes, he had heard right. There he was – the imp. He was older, but markedly the same, shaking hands with Jon, and then Sansa.

“Ned,” Catelyn gripped his arm harshly. She hissed, “Did you know about this? It was he who plotted to kill Bran!”

Ned turned his gaze away from Tyrion. Bran was still watching him. “They arrived together, Catelyn. There must have been some misunderstanding.”

“And last but certainly not least!” the castellan cried, “Lord and Lady Baratheon, with their daughter, the Lady Visenya.”

A little girl streaked across the courtyard, squealing. Arya, Ned thought immediately. Just as soon, he felt pressure behind his eyes and realized, no. The little girl, with muddy shoes, who had launched herself into Sansa’s arms, was not his daughter, but his granddaughter, Visenya. Arya followed behind slower, a woman grown. Beautiful in her own right, a sword at one side, and her husband, Gendry, to the other. She was already looking their way, her lips parted and her eyes wide.

Ned pressed his fingers to his lips. Arya, looking stunned, greeted the King and Queen. He was relieved when the welcoming party disbanded only some minutes later, with the castellan’s final announcement of a feast that evening in honor of the returned family members.

Ned took a shaky Catelyn’s arm in his and led her back into the castle to the solar, where they would wait to meet Bran and Arya properly.

“Ned, Gods!” Catelyn moaned. She looked pale.

The wait in the solar took only a couple minutes, but it was arduous. Catelyn paced back and forth over the rug, and Ned sat heavily down on the bench, his head in his hands. Finally, the door slammed open.

“It’s true!” Arya exclaimed, rushing in. “But how?”

It didn’t seem she really desired an answer, however, for the next moment, she had launched herself into Ned’s arms, much like little Visenya had launched herself into Sansa’s.

“Arya,” Ned choked, holding her tight.

“Father, I– I–” she pulled back, staring up at him. “I can’t believe it. And– Mother!”

They embraced. Meanwhile, Sansa, Jon, Bran, Gendry, and Visenya trailed into the room behind her.

Arya pulled back from Catelyn only to whirl on Bran. She discreetly wiped her eyes. “How did this happen?”

“The Gods work in mysterious ways,” Bran replied. “Hello, Mother, Father. I knew you would find yourselves here, in time.”

Catelyn fell to her knees to embrace her son next. He remained somewhat placid, as he patted her on the shoulder.

“Bran, my boy,” Ned said, stepping forward to rest his hand on the young man’s head. His voice shook just a little. “How you’ve grown.”

The mood in the room was solemn for the next several minutes, as the family reacquainted themselves with one another. Soon, however, Catelyn remembered a pressing matter. “Brandon! The imp, Lannister, he was the one who conspired to kill you when you were pushed from that tower, we must–”

“It is true it was a Lannister who pushed him,” Sansa interrupted swiftly. “But it wasn’t Tyrion, Mother. It was Jaime, at the behest of his sister, Cersei.”

“But how could you trust any Lannister with such a position as Hand to the King! They are all conniving, and treacherous, and would rather see any Stark dead!”

“Tyrion is trustworthy," Bran inputted, with a very calm voice. “He has been helping this family since before you both died.”

“But how could you be sure?” It was Ned who asked this. It was the Lannisters who had betrayed his friend Robert in the worst way, who had killed Jon Arryn, and Ned himself, who had tormented his daughter, and who had done so much harm while Ned and Catelyn slept on, oblivious.

“I am certain, because I was married to him,” Sansa said. “For a time.”

“What?” Catelyn gasped.

“I thought you were married to a Bolton,” Ned said.

The group in front of him exchanged uneasy glances. Sansa averted her eyes. “That is also true,” she allowed.

“Sansa,” Jon started, taking her hand.

“It’s alright, Jon,” Sansa said. “The Lannisters wished to control the North, so they wed me to Tyrion when I was three-and-ten. He was honorable enough not to consummate our union, leaving the marriage unviable. I was eventually married to the Bolton heir instead, to lend the family more credence as Wardens in the North. Jon bested my husband in battle, and now I am here. The point is, Tyrion is loyal. I would trust him with my life.”

“They’ve been here for weeks!” Arya said. “You’re only telling them this now?”

Sansa’s face was pale. “You know that it is hard for me to discuss.”

Arya, at least, looked a bit contrite. “Sans…”

“It’s alright,” Sansa said softly. “But enough about me! You should introduce your family.”

Arya brightened. Some paces away, Gendry stood with Visenya in his arms. Arya grabbed his hand and dragged them both closer. “Mother, Father,” she said, bouncing on her toes. A grown woman she may have been, but Ned watched on in fondness to see the ways she had not changed. “This is Gendry, and our daughter, Visenya. She’s six. Visy, these are my mother and father. Your grandparents. Can you believe it! You’ve never had grandparents before! Say hello.”

Visenya looked just like Arya when she was little. Albeit a bit more shy. She clung to her father’s neck, and peeked out timidly at Ned and Catelyn to say, “Hello.”

“Hello, dear,” Catelyn said softly. “Aren’t you lovely.”

Visenya blushed and hid away in Gendry’s neck again, to the titters of the adults. Gendry held out his hand. “Lord Stark.”

Ned shook it. “Lord Baratheon,” he replied with a touch of disbelief, remembering when this boy was a blacksmith by the name of Waters.

Gendry looked a bit awkward at the title. “It was all legitimized, I swear.”

“I did not doubt it,” replied Ned. “I am glad for you.”

“Thank you, Lord Stark.”

“And Arya,” Ned said, lips twitched. “I think I recall you telling me you would ‘never, ever, ever,’ become a Lady. And yet, here you are.”

Arya rolled her eyes, and elbowed her husband teasingly in the side. “Well, what can I say? Gendry’s saved my arse more times than I can count. If anyone was worthy, it was him.”

“Arya!” Catelyn gasped. “What language.”

But their youngest daughter just laughed. “It’s good to have you back, Mother.”

. . .

Eventually, they had to pull apart to prepare for the feast. Back in their chambers, Catelyn cried some into Ned’s chest – “They’re all so grown!” – and Ned fought back his own wave of emotions. Seeing Bran and Arya alongside Sansa and Jon was such a boon. And yet, it only made the absence of Robb and Rickon that much more stark.

“Bran is so quiet,” Catelyn remarked a bit later, as she combed her hair. “And… strange. He was never like that as a child.”

“Jon said that, while he was missing, he communed with a… mage and garnered the memory of centuries of history. And this experience transformed him.”

“Well,” his wife said, looking pale. “Stranger things have happened, I suppose.”

Not long after, a soft knock on the door startled them. Ned crossed the room to open it. Sansa stood on the other side, a bundle of fabrics in her arms. “Hello,” she smiled a bit shyly. “I brought gifts.”

“Come in, please,” Ned opened the door wider.

“Sansa!” Catelyn beamed. “What’s this?”

“I made these for you both,” their daughter replied, approaching the bed. First she laid out a beautiful gown in silver and blue, with delicate details all along the wrists and hems. Beside it, she set down a handsome matching Lord’s tunic and cloak. She fussed with the clothing for a moment, smoothing out the creases. “I hope you like them. If they are not to your taste, I–”

“Oh Sansa, these are simply gorgeous!” Catelyn said.

A relieved smile broke out upon Sansa’s face.

“This is your design?” Ned asked.

Sansa blushed a little. “Yes, I– still enjoy dressmaking when I have the time. It’s a nice distraction from all the–” she waved her hand around as if to encompass all the many duties that came with being Queen to Westeros.

“You are very talented,” Ned said. He remembered Sansa as a child had spent a lot of time on her own or with her mother, separate from her siblings, all of whom had enjoyed more active pursuits. Perhaps he had not praised her enough then for her own, unique interests.

“Thank you, Father,” she said, looking pleased. She looked so much like her mother at that age, it was astounding. “Well, I should return to get ready for the evening. Is everything here still suitable? Please don’t hesitate to let me know if something could be improved.”

Catelyn embraced her. “It’s all perfect. We are just happy to be here with you all.”

“And us, too,” Sansa said. She made to turn back to the door, but Ned rested a hand on her shoulder. “Sansa, wait. I don’t wish to upset you, but may I ask,” he said as gently as he could, “You said you were married to the Bolton heir, but if I’m not mistaken, Roose’s son Domeric died long before we even journeyed to King’s Landing. Did he have another son after I… passed?”

Sansa looked uncomfortable for a moment, wiping her hands along her gown. “No, he had a bastard son already, Ramsay, who was legitimized by King Tommen. That was the man I married.”

“I see,” Ned said. Catelyn watched this exchange with a frown. “And young Theon?”

“If you have ascertained that my firstborn isn’t Jon’s natural son, you would be correct. Ramsay died before I knew I was with child. I…” she looked tired suddenly, looking away. “It’s a horrible thing to admit, as a mother, but I felt very angry toward Theon when he was just a babe. I’m ashamed of it now, but I… didn’t name him for many moons. I didn’t hold him for even longer. Ramsay had already taken so much, and here was one more thing he had forced upon me, even after death. But Jon…”

Her eyes shone with tears that she blinked rapidly away. “Jon showed me how to love my son. It wasn’t Theon’s fault how he’d been born, after all. I wish I had understood that earlier. I can’t imagine a word without him,” she said, pressing her hands to her heart. “I can only be grateful that Jon loves him like his own.”

“Oh, Sansa,” Catelyn whispered, pulling her back into an embrace.

“Forgive me for bringing up such a difficult subject,” Ned murmured. His heart clenched painfully in his chest, watching as Sansa hid her face away in her mother’s shoulder. All his children had faced untold horrors, and he had been unable to protect his family, though he had sworn to.

But Sansa wiped her eyes and shook her head and provided a watery, genuine smile. “Please, it’s alright. The truth is, I am more happy than I have ever been. My prayers have been answered, to see my family once again.”

. . .

Later, Ned and Catelyn entered the feast hall wearing the lovely silver clothing their daughter, the Queen, had designed just for them. They ate merry with their children and their grandchildren. They danced and laughed and felt both sorrow and brilliant joy. They smiled as Sansa and Jon danced among their children. As Gendry pulled a reluctant, smiling Arya along to do the same. As Bran watched from a distance, perhaps not the same as he once was, but present and alive. They yearned for their eldest and youngest sons, and yet they were grateful for what they did have. More than they ever could have imagined.

The next morning, a maid entered the Lord and Lady Stark’s rooms to find it empty as it ever was, a silver gown and tunic folded carefully over the bed.