II.

The man - their grandfather - ushered them through the Godswood in the predawn light that just edged over Winterfell's ramparts, stretching shadows into long, twisted things. The halls were quiet, the courtyards empty and Jon, Sansa, and Arya did their best to not stop and gape at Winterfell during its heyday.

Rickard constantly turned back, quietly murmuring to them to continue moving until they entered his solar - their father's solar - and found themselves sitting in comfortable chairs before the fireplace as the heat steamed the water off them.

"I am sorry I cannot offer you tea," he began, pushing instead heavy cups of some sort of mead toward them, from a decanter on a sideboard. "But this should help warm you up."

Sansa was the only one who took it with thanks, while both Jon and Arya took it, stared at the cup, and then put it down without tasting the liquid sloshing inside. Rickard took no offense, instead of sitting behind his desk and steepling his fingers in front of his mouth as his icy grey eyes flicked from one Stark to another.

"You have travelled through time," he finally said, once the silence stretched long. Jon violently flinched.

"But from how far in the future..." the Stark trailed off, but his eyes landed on Sansa. "You must only be a generation away - with that hair, and Brandon's betrothal - your mother must be Catelyn Tully."

Slowly, Sansa inclined her head.

Rickard breathed, a long exhale as he closed his eyes. "Then going to King's Landing is the right thing. I will demand trial by combat and save my heir and return him to Winterfell."

Arya snorted, and Rickard's eyes shot open, a heavy frown pulling at his mouth. The girl caught his eyes and shook her head. "That won't work."

Rickard's brow furrowed.

Sansa leaned a bit forward and tentatively began, "My father was not Brandon Stark, Lord Rickard."

The man's eyes widened as he slowly came to the realization and then he slumped, heavily, in his seat. His eyes, once so icy and sharp, were dull. "I see..."

"What year is it?" asked Jon, cutting through the tension. "If you're planning on going to King's Landing to get Uncle Brandon, then Harrenhal has already happened, has it not? And Ly-- Lyanna has already left with Rhaegar?"

Rickard's head snapped up. " Left ?"

"Jon," hissed Sansa, twisting in her seat to shift a glare at her brother-cousin. Even Arya turned, in the seat between the two, to thump him on the upper arm. "Shut up!"

Jon winced at the tiny, hard hit and resisted bringing his hand up to rub at his arm.

"Left?" repeated Rickard, his voice rising in pitch sharply. "You imply that she left willingly and

was not taken by the Prince?"

Jon winced. "It's... it's a rather delicate situation, to be fair..." Sansa sighed, loudly.

Rickard's ire left him, and he found himself utterly baffled by these grandchildren of his, looking from one to another. As the fire warmed them, he took a moment to survey them with a Lord's eye, rather than the familial, that he had been previously. The fact that they had not recognized him told him that he was long gone by the time they were born and that whomever their father had been, they had been kind and loving toward them.

But now -- he saw the Valyrian steel on the oldest's back. While curls like his were common Stark features, there was something in his face that was different and unique enough to the sisters that perhaps they weren't as closely related as Rickard first though. But his clothes! The young man was dressed for war in the most mishmash of clothing: chainmail, armour, boiled leather arm braces, and steel greaves, the dirt and blood even the water couldn't clean from his face and neck... whatever had happened in the future, wherever they had come from... it was not peaceful and Rickard's heart clenched.

The eldest girl was no doubt closely related to the Tullys, which determined that she must have been Brandon and Catelyn's -- with her long, auburn hair and Tully blue eyes; but her long face was all Stark, as was her strong chin and willowy height. She was the perfect Southron lady, with her manners and bearing, but what she wore was in contradiction to that. She, too, was dressed in Stark colours of grey and black, with her grey fur-lined cloak and the black, boiled leather armour that covered her chest and arms. Her face was thin and there were smudges under her eyes, signalling long, restless nights and worries.

But the youngest -- oh, how Rickard recognized that feral tilt to her chin, the flash of defiance in her eyes, and the snarl on her pulled-back lips. The youngest girl, Arya, had the wolf's blood in her. She too wore leather armour, but also trousers tucked into boots, and Rickard's sharp eyes could spot the numerous pockets and sheaths that hid numerous blades and other tricks the girl coveted. She was a warrior, and Rickard had no trouble thinking that Brandon would equip a daughter of his with good, castle-forged steel, or encourage her to be taught the blade! But -- would Ned?

But when the redhead had said that Brandon was not her father... he knew then that he would fail in King's Landing. Of course, I would, he thought bitterly. When would Aerys honour or combat fairly? It left a sour taste in his mouth, knowing that he was dead. That Brandon was -- would be? - - dead.

Ned would step up as Lord of Winterfell. And Jon Arryn -- for all that he was a good friend to Rickard -- had filled Ned's head with House Arryn's words rather than their own and that the boy was more Southron than he thought. As High as Honour, ha! He would be unprepared for leading the way that Rickard had trained Brandon.

He wanted to ask: Was Ned a good father to you? What he a good, strong leader for the North? How did he handle the Boltons? Was the North prosperous, did the White Harbour bring more bounty to us? How many Wildling attacks have there been, and have the northernmost Houses

struggled? ... how much have you struggled, my grandchildren?

And the struggle was apparent in these children: the eldest girl whom he knew now to be Ned and Catelyn's. And with a shrewd eye, he could spot similar features in the younger girl's lithe body. They were sisters, but the boy...

A knock on his solar startled Rickard from his thoughts, although none of his uninvited guests jumped.

"Lord Stark?"

Rickard stood and strode to the door, opening it the merest slit and glared out at the Maester. "What is it, Walys?"

"My Lord, are you breaking your fast with Benjen this morn? There are also many ravens for you to attend should you decide to depart..." the reedy voice on the other end of the door inquired.

"Not today, Walys," instructed Rickard, his voice firm as he looked at the man through the crack. "I am not to be disturbed for any reason."

"Very well, my Lord."

Rickard shut the door firmly and latched it, turning back to the three Starks in his solar, each watching him with careful eyes.

"I cannot keep you locked up here," he finally sighed, returning slowly to his desk but standing beside it instead of sitting. "It is best that you are announced to the household." His eyes flicked over the two girls. "I realize you are both sisters, but your red hair is too unique for us to confidently call you a Stark."

Something bitter was on the girl's face before it washed away. She nodded demurely, folding her hands in her lap, her cup discarded earlier. "I understand."

"What are your names?" Rickard finally asked. He jerked his chin at the only one he knew. "I know you are Arya. What are you called?"

"Sansa, Lord Stark," the redhead chirped. "Jon," retorted the eldest, shortly.

"Jon and Arya are cousins from my wife's side," said Rickard, eyes firm on them. "You look Northern enough to pass as Starks from my great-uncle's side. You, Sansa, are too unique for the North. We don't have your looks."

"Kissed by fire, she is," grinned Jon, which made him look entirely younger and softened the dour look on him.

Sansa rolled her eyes.

"My sister married into House Royce," continued Rickard, ignoring the byplay. "You are a daughter of hers. She had three and all married South -- the Lords here will not think differently if there was a miscount."

Sansa nodded. "I know House Royce, my Lord." Rickard started, momentarily. "You do?"

She did not add more to that, but it was enough that Rickard stared at her, hard, for a moment, before turning away. He stood by his solar window, overlooking the Godswood. Taking a deep breath, he wondered what to do next: his son was still in King's Landing, a prisoner, and his daughter was missing, although by the sound of what Jon said, a willing captive.

He had prayed for help from the gods, and his three grandchildren appeared dripping wet and dressed for war. He could read the signs, he knew what it meant. With that in mind, he clasped his hands behind his back and turned on his heel to face his family, with a grim visage.

"I -- when you emerged from the reflection pool -- I was asking for help," he began, haltingly. He was a Lord , a Stark , and Starks did not beg. "I believe the gods delivered you to me. To help me in what to do, to ensure House Stark does not fall."

The three shared glances, unreadable ones. Arya slit her eyes and crossed her arms, muttering, "It's a fucking long list."

Rickard bristled at the coarse language coming from her mouth, but the tightening of Sansa's eyes and Jon's frown made him pause, and slowly, he reached for his desk. "What do you mean?"

"Other than our other brother, Bran, we're all that's left of House Stark," replied Sansa, her voice matter-of-fact.

"And Bran sacrificed his life for ours," added Arya, making Jon and Sansa glance at her. Jon's voice was low when he asked, "What do you mean?"

"I was the last in the pool," answered Arya, "And I saw the Night King behind him just before I sank."

Sansa's eyes closed and Jon turned his head away, pained.

Rickard, however, blurted out, "The Night King?" even as his hand fumbled for purchase on his desk and he slipped, all but collapsing into his chair. "Surely not. Surely! The Others and wights of the Long Night are stories."

"I wish that were true," sighed Jon, running a hand through his curly hair. "But sadly, they're real. We've been fighting them for a year now, on and off at different locations. The Wall broke and the Night's Watch defeated. We were... we were making a last stand at Winterfell when Bran told us it was over and we lost."

"You think of Aerys' war," began Sansa, carefully, "You think of Robert's Rebellion as we will know it, and that it is the war you should be concerned about. It is not . We fight a greater war, for all the people of Westeros. A war for the living."

"But--" Rickard broke off, snapping his mouth shut. "Our plan -- to consolidate power amongst us so that we'd have alliances..."

"Oh?" asked Sansa, a curious lilt to her voice.

"Brandon's betrothal to Catelyn Tully would ensure the North and the Riverlands were tied," began Rickard, "And fostering Ned and Robert Baratheon with Jon Arryn in the Vale meant they'd be close with Jon's heirs; even then betrothing Lyanna and Robert would bring the Stormlands and the North together."

"So, you would have the North, the Riverlands, the Vale, and the Stormlands," stated Sansa

calmly, although there was a tinge of amusement to her voice now. "To what purpose? There are Valeman and Storm lords who are Targaryen supporters. Surely you weren't thinking of disposing of the dragons."

"Of course not!" snapped Rickard. "It was to consolidate power behind Rhaegar. Whent convinced his brother to host the tournament at Harrenhal so Rhaegar could suss out who was loyal to him and who was loyal to his father. We wanted to call a Great Council."

Jon groaned, burying his head in his hands.

"And then overthrow Aerys?" finished Arya with a snort, adding her voice to Jon's groan. "I'm sure that would've gone well."

Rickard glowered. "It would--"

"Not," interrupted Sansa coolly. "That would never have worked. Aerys is too stubborn, too insane. He would never have given up power willingly and we'd be right where we are now, on the cusp

of war. Only, perhaps, with different players. And, for all the weight you wish to throw behind Rhaegar, he's not a good choice either, as you now know."

"You said Lya was willing!" barked Rickard, glaring hotly at the three.

Sansa and Arya turned to Jon, who squirmed under the weight of their eyes. "They were married, I

know that much. But that doesn't mean that either of them were smart ..." "Prophecies," muttered Arya. "Fucking prophecies."

I don't know what is happening, thought Rickard, off-balance, and his heart thundering in his chest. He had no idea what to do - what step to next take. These three grandchildren of his were as maddening as Aerys but without the love for wildfire.

"I know getting your son and daughter back is important," began Sansa carefully, her voice modulated so that it was calm. "But when you do get them back -- your eyes must be north. They must be beyond the wall."

Rickard shook his head. "It's preposterous. Insane! Others - and wights - and the things beyond --"

"They're all real," finished Jon simply. "I've fought the Others. My friend killed one. I've seen Crastor sacrifice his sons and continue to marry and breed his daughters for more for the Night King's army. I've seen entire villages destroyed--"

"Why would you see them?" sneered Rickard.

Jon levelled a stare at the older Stark that made him want to shrink back, his eyes icy cold. "Because I was Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, my Lord, and I've lived among the Free Folk. I call some of them my friends and brothers, as well."

"They're Wildlings !"

"They're better suited for the war to come than you," jeered Arya with a jut to her lower lip. She turned to Jon and then Sansa. "We're wasting our time. We can find ways to raise money in Essos and buy free companies to fight for us. I can work for the House again--"

"No!" shouted both Sansa and Jon at once, causing Rickard to blink and rear back.

"House...?" he began, but the two older siblings began talking over one another. "Absolutely not, Arya--"

"You shouldn't go back there, it isn't right!"

"They did right by me--"

"It's not whether they did or not , Arya--"

"What is this 'House' you are talking about...?"

Arya scowled and crossed his arms. "It would earn us enough coin--"

"You told us before, Arya!" argued Sansa, a tinge of panic on her voice and with the widening of her blue eyes. "You lost yourself to them! You became no one! You live and breathe for them, and not for us."

Rickard's eyes narrowed. House - no one - Essos - his eyes widened. The House of Black and White? The Faceless Men?! His granddaughter became a Faceless Man?

"Lord Stark." Sansa turned to Rickard, imploringly. "I understand your situation. I, too, have been a prisoner of King's Landing. I understand your fear and concern for Brandon."

Rickard's eyes shut, pained. Morosely, he muttered, "My son will be executed in King's Landing." There were awkward looks between the three of them.

"And my Lyanna?" He grimaced. "What do you know of her future? What does it mean for House Stark and her willingness to be with the Prince?"

Jon opened his mouth but then just as firmly, shut it, with a frustrated look.

"I asked for help," the older man reiterated, his voice quiet and thin. His grey eyes swept the three, a slump to him that betrayed his worries and fears. Behind him, through the glass, pale morning light filtered through thick, fluffy clouds, pushing through and breaking the overcast pallor the day began as. "I need help. And the Gods sent you to me."

It was strange, watching the three look at one another, speaking without words but mere tilts to their heads, the widening of their eyes, a brief flutter of their eyelids or twist to their wrist and flick of their fingers.

"The focus must be on the Long Night," began Jon apologetically.

Rickard nodded, his large hands gripping the edges of his seat, so hard the knuckles turned white.

His entire frame was tense, shoulders and back straight.

"But--" continued Jon, and Rickard's eyes snapped toward him. "Our knowledge and being here can be helpful. Between myself, Sansa's skills, and Arya's abilities, we could... change things. Make things better for the North so that it's in a better position going forward."

"Yes," gasped Rickard, ready to promise anything. The three future Stark grandchildren sighed in relief. "Yes, of course, please--"

"A promise made in front of the Heart Tree, my Lord," concluded Jon sternly. "We will dedicate ourselves to helping House Stark, so long as House Stark and the North helps us in preparation for

the Long Night to come."

"Shall we go to the Godswood and promise now?" asked the elder Stark.

Sansa waved a hand. "We'll begin in good faith, as family."

"Very well," agreed Rickard. "I realize you will help Brandon and liberate him from King's Landing -- although I don't know how -- but how with Lyanna?"

"They're not together at the moment, I believe," began Jon cautiously, "Rhaegar and Lyanna... If the timeline matches up."

"Thank the Gods," breathed Rickard. It'll be easier to take her back, then. "Although he has left three members of the Kingsguard with her..."

No! Rickard's grimace was deeper this time, and it showed as a pained twitch to his mouth. "So, she is to remain with him."

"Well, actually..." began Arya with a tiny, mischievous grin, but Rickard did not hear her, lost in his thoughts as he spoke out loud.

Jon cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. "We can help with that. We can help... with all of it." Rickard stared, then demanded, "How?"

"Will you listen to us?" began Sansa, folding her hands in her lap. "Will you listen and trust the words and judgment of children much younger than you?"

"I'll have to, won't I?"

Sansa's blue eyes pierced the older man but whatever she saw, it was what she wanted, so she nodded and began: "Ned is in the Vale. Send for him to return to Winterfell."

Rickard nodded, slowly. "A good idea. I would much rather have my remaining children safely in Winterfell."

"Jon will join you in travelling to King's Landing," continued Sansa confidently. "Even if you demand trial by combat, Aerys will choose fire as his champion. Bring a retinue with you that will travel back north with Ned, securing his place."

"I can do that," said Rickard. He glanced at Jon. "But - if you join me in King's Landing--"

Jon's mouth twisted into a wry smile. "Don't worry. I'll be fine."

Rickard frowned.

"Arya will join you until you arrive in King's Landing, and will then continue to Lyanna's side," said Sansa.

Rickard sat straight. "You know where Lya is?"

"Dorne," replied Arya, her voice bored. She was twirling her thin rapier around, slowly grinding a hole from its sharp tip through the carpet at her feet. "I've never yet been to Dorne, but since I was in Essos, I'll be used to the heat and the people. I'll stay by her side until Sansa gives me further instruction, although I already have an idea of what she's planning."

Arya sent Sansa a small, wicked smile, and Sansa merely fluttered her eyelashes in return, a tiny smile on her thin lips.

The redhead turned back to Rickard and turned her tiny smile into a full beam. Despite the warmth in the gesture, it did not fill Rickard with warm and fuzzy feelings.

"Do not worry, grandfather. I have a plan." Her grin turned the slightest bit feral, and at that moment, Rickard saw the wolf in her - the Stark blood shining strongly through her Tully looks and Southron airs and graces.

"And my plans always work."

[TBC...]