A/N: Final chapter folks!

Chapter Sixteen

She arrived like a princess, dressed in Myrish lace with fine Braavosi jewels gracing her creamy neck. She was painted up like a queen and the people of the north, from the Stony Shore all the way to the Karhold, came to watch her coronation. She was the very picture of a Tully but her firm hand and measured gaze was pure Stark. The people had already benefited from her leadership for since her return she had rebuilt Winterfell to its former glory and secured their borders. She had gifted them with two years of safety and peace. They were now entering the second year of the Long Winter; their stores were packed, their spirits were high, and they looked to her for guidance. The first few months in particular had been cruel; with every morning there seemed to be a new corpse to burn...some coated with frost while others were gnawed at by starvation...but they'd come through. The wars in the south were long over; the Dragon Queen sat on the Iron Throne and she sent her fond blessings.

Sansa knelt before the weirwood tree, its red face twisting grotesquely, as she made her vows. She promised to protect her people and to rule with a fair hand. She was given a crown wrought from iron, the very duplicate of her brother Robb's and the kings of old, and it sat securely within her auburn curls.

There was to be a great feast afterwards, but instead she stole away to her late mother's solar. She rarely got any time alone and so it gave her the chance to recollect over the previous months without anyone else butting in. She thought about her new life...about the bad and the good. She'd watched as the frozen corpse of a wildling babe was torn from its mother's grasp and seen the savage glint in the eye of a man executed for consuming flesh. She'd ordered a man to be flogged for thievery and even banished a crooked merchant for cheating his clients. And yet there was goodness too, in so many little ways. For example she'd taken in dozens of orphans and watched as their pinched faces became round, and overseen a marriage between two lovers that would over wise be impossible. There would be many hardships plaguing her reign but on the other hand there would be many joys too. Their numbers were growing erratically, evidently the cold and the despair of the Long Winter brought people together more often, and so Winterfell was once again swarming with people.

Sansa was rarely left alone and the pain of losing Rickon had dulled to an occasional ache. She had Arya and Jon still and of course her faithful maidservants Leah and Jeyne. She had also taken Myrcella Lannister to foster, on the request of Deanerys who wanted her as far away from court as possible (Tyrion had sent Tommen back to Casterly Rock), and she was still the same sweet girl of her youth. They never spoke about the late members of her family and Sansa was determined to leave it in the past. She had beaten Cersei Lannister at long last...but the victory tasted bitter. She wondered if Tyrion felt the same way.

She pressed her forehead against the glass of the window and sighed. She heard the door behind her open and didn't need to guess who was there.

"How did I look?" she asked quietly.

"Like a queen."

Sandor was much the same as ever, though as promised he'd stuck by Jeyne. He sat beside her at meals and offered his arm when the ground outside was slippery...but they never danced or clasped hands. He treated her kindly, affectionately almost, but never once had she seen him brush back her tawny hair or kiss her cheek. Jeyne seemed perfectly happy with the arrangement and for that alone Sansa managed to stomach it. She'd offered to see them home to Clegane lands and pay for any restorations but they were determined to stay here in Winterfell, to her relief and sorrow. She didn't ask why and she didn't push it, though she knew one day Jeyne's belly would start to swell and when that day came she wouldn't know what to think. Her own belly remained flat and empty and she resigned to the fact that one day she too would marry...but not just yet. She disliked the idea of marrying any man, her trust in them was still raw and stilted, but she desperately wanted children. She wanted three little auburn haired boys she could name Robb, Brandon, and Rickon.

He stood behind her and she felt his breath on her neck. "They're missing you."

"The Battle of Blackwater was six years ago to this very day. It's been six years since you stole me."

She could've sworn she felt his hand brush against her waist but knew it was impossible. He never touched her now, not even by accident. It was a rule he lived by.

"Would you pass me my crown?"

She carefully put the crown back on and then checked her reflection in the looking glass. Her face stared back, blank and full of worry, and she pinched her cheeks to create some colour. It should have been a day of celebration but all she felt inside was a daunting dread. Her shoulders felt heavy under the weight of her vast responsibilities. She loved Winterfell and its people and would never abandon them, but sometimes she wished she could sail away back to Braavos and live without a care in the world.

"It wasn't a lie, was it?"

She looked at him, her hands hesitating by her sides. "No."

It was all she would say. All she could say now.

He was no longer her Hound and she was no longer his Little Bird. She had severed those ties for both their sakes.

"I used to know what you were thinking..." he muttered. "Always. Even if I didn't like it."

"No more?"

He smiled grimly. "You've outgrown me, your grace."

Her smile was bleak but her courtesies, as always, were polished to a perfect gleam. She swept down to the great hall and on the way passed by Winterfell's servants, who cheered and shouted blessings. She'd just reached the great hall when she was petitioned by one of the kitchen maids. Jon and Sandor were waiting for her by the doors but nevertheless she paused kindly.

"Happy tidings to you, your highness," the woman curtsied, blushing to the roots of her hair. Her dress was frayed at the cuffs but her eyes were full of life. "My daughter's just birthed a beautiful baby girl. She'd like to name her Sansa, if it please you."

The impact of her words crashed over Sansa like a bucket of cold water. To hear this woman, who had survived both Theon and the Bolton's, ask for her blessing felt sweeter than anything in the world. To hear her say "if you please" as she had once done to please Septa Mordane... That phrase had been her armour down in King's Landing and now it was being used to her. Sansa had to blink away a sudden rush of tears and, to everyone's surprise, leant forward to kiss the woman's cheek. "It pleases me very much. Thank your daughter for me." A babe, a beautiful little girl named Sansa, would truly gladden her heart. She felt humbled.

Jon held out his arm and she took it appreciatively, still beaming at the woman's kind gesture. It was just the thing she needed to raise her spirits. Jon was dressed in his usual black attire and refused to wear the costly scarlet cloak Daenerys had made for him. He'd visited the capital twice now, each time returning with fresh news and complaints, but he only really seemed comfortable here in the cold. He escorted her through the doors and the hall erupted in an explosion of cheers and music.

Her people were a loud coarse bunch, but they were also honest and warm. She proudly stood before them on the dais and commanded them in a carrying shout to break open the casks of ale. The high seat stood empty behind her and she hesitated before sitting down. The wood felt hard against her back but she hoped she would get used to it. She felt a flicker of emotion when she thought about her lordly father and how he would look so solemn and grave when he took this seat. It was a seat for duty, not pleasure. From her high position she watched the feasting crowds below and accepted a goblet of ale from a visiting lord.

Arya was sitting on one of the closest benches, dressed for once in a gown of soft grey. She was now technically a princess but nobody dared call her it to her face. Beside her sat a strong young man with jet black hair who she recognised from the armoury. Leah informed her under her breath that his name was Gendry Rivers and that he and Arya were currently – for lack of better words - fucking. Sansa laughed at that and watched her sister with a secret smile.

Later she danced with all who asked. Bold northern lords vied for her attention and she listened politely, but it was obvious she had eyes for no one in particular. She danced once with Sandor and twice with Jon.

Perhaps one day she would ask him to marry her again. Perhaps she wouldn't. Perhaps she'd marry no one. All she knew was that if she had to marry someone it would be him. She wondered what he'd say to that.

She sat back down on her seat, panting after a particularly fast paced dance, and Leah sat by her feet. She squeezed her hand, grinning, and Sansa fondly stroked back her hair. "The seat suits you."

She dearly hoped so.

Thus began the reign of Queen Sansa, the first of her name.

A/N: I literally cannot believe this is over. I've been writing this story for over a year and it's horribly emotional to say goodbye to. I puzzled for a while about how to end this and hopefully it'll be enough - I didn't want to leave you with a long winded drabble. Sorry if this isn't how you wanted the story to end but I'm happy with it...bitter sweet endings are always the best. Thank you to everyone who has read, followed, and reviewed this little creation of mine. So many of you have been beautifully supportive and it's honestly kept me going. Love to you all!

xxxx