Queen of the North

louisaeve

Sansa Stark is no longer the smiling, polite girl who blushed over the old Prince Joffrey or who stammered and curtseyed in front of the former Queen Cersei. She no longer wishes for fancy ballgowns and sits and painstakingly sews, she no longer recites songs of knights and ladies and honour, no longer giggles over shirtless Ser's.

Instead she is North itself. She is ice and snow and the godswoods and fireplaces all at once. She has retaken the North, become as cold and silent and polite and cool as she need to be and she will bring the all home, all the Starks in the lands, dead and alive and she will lock them away in Winterfell, throwing away the keys and vowing to never be alone.

Sansa's eyes catch over Arya, Arya her wild and uncourtly sister. Dressed in the men's clothing she favours, she is nothing like Sansa. Except she is. Her eyes are the same, they show the same harshness, the same cruelties they have seen, they have experienced. They are both finished with this world, they have both decided that they will not wait for others to take care of them, they will not wait for others to be kind and to take pity on the poor girls of the North. So they found their own ways to defend themselves, with different knives. Arya has her mens clothing, and the hair (it's grown out so much since she's been under Sansa's hair, is long enough to braided now, compared to the short boy's haircut she appeared in), she has her swords and words that Sansa doesn't understand, doesn't want to understand (yes she is just as dark and twisted but Arya is her sister and sometimes it's just better if she pretends that Arya is still the sweet little girl, the sweet summer child she once knew).

But Sansa has her gowns and ribbons and sharp words and her embroidery needles and she has women she's paying, Mya and Brienne and Asha, the few Sand Sisters she's persuaded to come North, and Arya herself, who sometimes begs to be let into her room late at night and patrols with Nymeria when she's restless.

And yet Arya seems to feel like taking herself and he worries to another. The smith Gendry, (Ser Gendry Sansa absentmindedly adds) has been spending a lot of time with her. Arya mentioned once, that they knew each other a series of seasons ago, when they were still travelling to Robb (sweet, dear Robb of the Summery North). She said that they protected each other.

Funny wasn't it, how the sister who always wished for knights and pretty things in summer romances would find herself alone and cold and bitter, facing husbands a many. The only true knight who'd ever saved her (beautiful Sansa, lovely Sansa - no one ever called Arya that) was Brienne of Tarth, and they were both only thinking of men. Instead Arya, who had wanted to be the knight, found a knight herself, who was sweet and let her call him stupid of all things.

Because things like that happened didn't they? And maybe it's for dreams that she's forgotten, but Sansa ignores the little woman who tries to sneak out the door of her rooms, even as Mya nudges Sansa to bring it to her attention. (Sansa knows that Arya thinks she's good, but she's better).

Then they're sewing and Sansa can almost imagine Jeyne is sitting next to her and they're giggling and there are whispers about horsefaces and the latest knight to visit, with golden hair and a matching golden helm. But instead she has Arya and Rickon back and she has her Queensguard, her fierce Queensguard which she loves she thinks to herself (faintly she can hear the words of wisdom shared with her once - love little, sweet dove. The more people you love, the more vulnerable you are - but she shakes the thoughts from her head and reminds herself anyway that if she were a bird now, she'd be a crow . . . or a hawk. And she would rip all of their eyes out).

Brienne knocks on the door, entering with a respectful my lady (she's a woman of honour and respect and courtesies - she's almost too like the girl Sansa, the Sansa that was still a little dove, the Sansa that talked about stories ending with Shae or was wed to the Imp or the Sansa that travelled and asked to be Catlyn of all things). "Your Grace - they have found a rapist," Brienne said unflinchingly, although her face clouded over.

Sansa stood herself and set her shoulders back. She was a queen and a king both, the sole protecter of the North. She was the father and the mother, and she would protect and punish.

They make their way out of the castle of Winterfell, to the town, where a girl stands, a knife held against the throat of a man much older than her and much bigger. A boy stands beside her, and some of the knights, the guards, of Winterfell stand nearby.

"Your Grace," the boy acknowledges with a dip in his head.

Sansa arches an eyebrow at him - such a young man who didn't bow to a queen? - and he continues.

"My sister and I were travelling when she was attacked by this man," the boy stepped forward with grace that Sansa herself was impressed by.

"You let your sister carry the weapons?" Sansa heard one of the men nearby ask.

"She's better with a bow than I could ever hope to be," the boy smiled once more, his teeth flashing, and the man his sister was holding captive struggled a bit, only for the knife held to his neck to draw a small amount of blood.

"My sister carries the House's weapons also," Sansa heard herself say, her eyes flickering over to the girl, who looked to be an uncertain age, but still young. A woman, but a young woman. "The man tried to force himself on you?" She asked the girl.

"He forgot that some girls carry knives," the girl responded by way of agreeing.

"The Gods ask for death of one that takes advantage of a woman," Sansa declared. "Tomorrrow," she nodded at the guards. Her eyes flickered over the pair, even as the guards took the man from the girl. "Come dine with me tonight."

"Your Grace - we have another traveling with us," the boy said, taking charge once more.

"Bring him as well," she said briskly and walked back to the castle, leaving her guards to hurry to catch up with her, having not paid attention.

When the pair entered the hall they were not alone. Another, with hair as dark as night and lips as red as blood and skin as white as snow and eyes as wild as a wolves was with them. He did not walk, instead being pushed on a type of cart which the girl was pushing. Her eyes flickered over it and the dart of recognition chilled her. She had never seen her brother in a cart but there was no doubting it was him. A hand held up, she called for silence in the hall, and walked to the entryway of the hall, where her guests still stood. Arya trailed behind her with an uncertain look on her face, her hand on her sword that rested on her hip. The two stood watching, Brienne and Asha watching carefully, their eyes tracing the outline of the girls bow and the sword she carried.

But it was little Rickon who called out, breaking the silence, with a cry of "Bran!" before he neared his brother and wrapped his arms firmly around his waist.

"Is this my brother returned or is this a witchery?" Sansa asked, her voice harsh, although she wished, she wished, she wished so very hard that it was him. But look alike's (and others who looked nothing alike) had emerged all over the kingdom, claiming to be a lost Stark or Baratheon or Frey or Tully or Lannister or Martell. Jeyne had even been pronounced as Arya and been wed under that name.

"Sansa," Bran said, his eyes reaching hers.

It was Bran, sweet Bran and Arya barrelled into his arms, wrapping her own tightly around his shoulders and kissed his forehead in a not very Arya way. "Bran," Sansa's little sister breathed out, and hugged him tightly.

And Sansa smiled wickedly, her lips curling up. Yes a Stark would always be in Winterfell. Or in this case, four.