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Jon and Sansa are looking over battle plans when it happens.

The shock has worn off from returning home not only to find Bran returned, but Arya as well. (Although of course, its still unclear whether Bran really returned at all). Either way, it took a lot for him to let them out of his sights, but both claim a higher calling than making battle plans, so its back to the team of two.

“Was there anything else that happened in the South that I should know about?” Sansa asks for perhaps the third time.

Jon shakes his head. “I went over most of it at the council. Danaerys is a good queen-” this earns him a weird look that he ignores. He’ll have to have a word with Davos about gossiping apparently. “-despite our differences. I wanted to return to speak with our bannermen before making any rash decisions.”

“Such as, bending the knee to another southern king. Queen, rather,” Sansa corrects herself, and frowns.

Guess the reunion couldn’t last forever, Jon muses, before remembering something.

“Oh, there was one other thing.”

“Oh?”

Jon shrugs. “Nothing particularly important in the grand scheme of things, but perhaps if you can spare the paper, you should send a raven to Theon.”

Sansa arches an eyebrow. “Why, what would he want of me?”

“He asked whether you were alright.”

Sansa’s other eyebrow raises. “And why were you unable to tell him that I am doing perfectly well?”

Jon shrugs again, but now his sister is glaring, and he begins to think he’s done something wrong.

After a snap decision, he decides to lie. He’s terrible at it, but Sansa is looking a bit off-putting. “Oh, you know, he’s busy representing the Iron Islands-”

“I thought Asha-”

“-Given that his sister has been imprisoned by Euron-”

“What.”

“-So he was looking for the Queen, and we just happened to cross paths briefly-”

“You said he asked-“

“-but nothing was able to be said, of course, because I was-”

“Jon.”

“-mining, as well as speaking with the Queen, at different times, of course-“

“JON.”

Jon thinks he really is an awful liar. He’ll have to talk to somebody about that, but Littlefinger is the best at it, but he doubts the man would give him lessons after he almost choked him out on his dad’s grave. Perhaps that was also not well thought out, either.

“Jon,” Sansa’s hand is to her forehead like he’s giving her a headache, “Just tell me what happened.”

Jon tells her what happened on the beach. “…He was quite weird about it, too. Theon always used to talk back to me, but if I didn’t know better, I’d say he was shaking. Maybe the water was cold. Doesn’t matter, the man’s a traitor and an asshole.”

Jon looks at Sansa, who doesn’t look pleased. Actually, she looks downright pissed.

“What?”

“Jon…”

“What? Theon’s a traitor-”

“And you think he hasn’t gotten his due for it a thousand times over from Ramsay? Don’t you understand why he was shaking when you put your hands on him? I don’t expect you to be friends, but don’t you dare threaten him again.”

“Sansa, you can’t order me. I’m a king now-”

Before he can even react, Sansa draws back her hand and slaps him across the face. Hard. He actually loses vision for a moment after the blow lands.

“I don’t care whether you are a king or a bastard, Jon. That man came back from the dead almost the same as you did. You both bear scars. In future, I’d ask that you refrain from tearing his open anew.”

Jon is so shocked he doesn’t realize he’s on the floor until Sansa helps him up. She smooths her dress and bites her lip.

“I… apologize,” she says, not at all helping with Jon’s shock, “I have an unfortunately strong reaction to men pulling their rank on me.”

Now the shock abates and the shame rushes in. Jon feels terrible about what he said to Sansa, and although he can’t quite dredge up that depth of feeling for Theon Greyjoy, he can respect his sister’s wishes.

And the force of her hand. Gods be good.

The next day they take a private family breakfast, which is fortunate not only for the enjoyment of the Stark siblings.

“Gods,” Arya breathes when Jon walks into the solar, “What happened to you, Jon?”

He saw the mark in his glass earlier in the morning, but he’d hoped the discolouring wasn’t as severe. He’d put it all to bad lighting, his face couldn’t be that purple.

Apparently, from even Bran’s holier-than-thou countenance marred by shock, it really was.

Sansa looks up from her letters and porridge and gives a sort of tiny scream.

“Were you attacked?” Arya continues, suddenly grave, “Who did this?”

Bran appears to be so confused, his eyes roll back and, oh dear, now they’re clouding in a way that is certainly not natural, what in the hells is going on.

“I just…walked into my door,” Jon lies, more unconvincingly still than yesterday with Sansa, “It was late after our council and I stumbled on my way in. I guess I don’t remember my way about the castle in the dark like I used to.”

Arya looks unconvinced. Sansa is shovelling porridge into her mouth like it’s her first meal in years. Jon doesn’t know what Bran looks like cause he’s just decided not to look in his general direction for the time being.

“Tell me who did this,” Arya said, “and I promise vengeance to be swift and unmerciful.”

Bran chooses that remarkable time to return to the land of the living with one word.

“Sansa?” he asks incredulously, sounding for all the world like their usual younger brother, despite his recent sojourn into the visions of the past.

“Wait, what?” Arya asks.

“Sansa struck Jon,” Bran says.

Sansa looks up from her food and gives a sort of uncomfortable smile.

“Did I just make your list, Arya?” she asks.

Arya looks at her like she’s grown a second head. “She did that?” she asks, turning to Jon for clarification.

He can’t think of a better explanation, given Bran’s input, unless maybe Sansa pushed him into a door and it was somehow accidental…no, that’s rather stupid, and anyways Bran would probably oust him for his lies with another disturbing hop into the past. So, he shrugs and nods, before sitting down. He may as well eat and keep his body healthy, especially if his dignity is slowly dying before his eyes.

“Holy shit,” Arya says.

“Language,” Sansa chides.

“You hit Jon! With the force of a hammer!”

“It was an accident, I let my emotions get the best of me, and it will never happen again.”

Arya frowns. “So you wont teach me how to hit like that?”

Sansa immediately goes red. “I don’t think its as much a question of form as it is…spontaneous.”

Arya is rendered speechless by that, but only for a couple moments. Now she turns to Jon.

“What did you do?” she asks, eyes gleaming.

“Uh,” he says, eloquently, looking at his other sister for help.

She clears her throat. “Jon made a bad diplomatic move in the South.”

Arya’s face falls a bit. “That’s it?” she asks, a bit plaintively.

Jon is about to nod when Bran cuts in again. “Jon threatened to kill Theon Greyjoy after he asked how Sansa was doing.”

“Well it was a little bit more severe than that, I’d say,” Jon cut in after he saw Arya’s face, “It was the first time I’d seen him in…a while.”

“I appreciate your anger on my behalf given that he betrayed Robb as well as fake-murdered myself and Rickon-”

“Thank you, Bran.”

“-However,” his brother continues abruptly, “I agree with Sansa.”

Jon frowns. It stings, though at least Bran didn’t slap him. That would have been too much. “I’ll take that into consideration.”

Arya looks rather out of her depth. “Theon did what now?”

“I’ll tell you later,” Sansa says, swallowing, “It involves…Ramsay.”

The name is like night descending on the breakfast table. Arya grips her spoon like she wishes it was a knife.

“You wish you’d killed him,” Bran says, inquisitive.

Arya nods, but catches herself. “No, no I don’t.”

Bran raises an eyebrow.

“I do, sometimes,” she admits, but turns to her sister, “But you deserved to. I remind myself that it was right that you gave the sentence.”

“And wielded the sword,” Sansa finishes, a small smile hiding on her face, “I only wish Theon could have been there to see it.”

“Maybe you could write him about it,” Jon says before he can think better of it.

Sansa’s eyes flash with fury for a moment before she laughs at Jon’s expression. “I think I will,” she says, “And I’ll let him know that I am well, and that he always has a place at Winterfell.”

No one contradicts her. No one probably dares to, Jon thinks.

“Now,” Sansa continues with that small smile, “Lets all try to think up a better excuse for Jon to tell the bannermen about the unfortunate state of his face, shall we?”

It’s a lively discussion for the breakfast table, if perhaps a rather embarrassing one for Jon himself.