Arya braced herself for the onslaught she knew was coming, masking her fear behind a stone face and a spine like an iron rod. Her doors were pushed open as a furious Ser Rodrick Cassel entered the hall. He'd been the master of arms at Winterfell before she named him Hand of the Queen, and she trusted him above all others. She'd known him for as long as she could remember. From the time she took her first steps, he knew she was a fighter. She had fallen, stumbled and bled on the cold cobbled grounds of Winterfell, and fallen and bled again, but she never gave up. Cassel had given her her first sword, a tiny wooden thing, no larger than a stick, but certainly blunter. Arya knew he regretted it a few hours latter when her Lady Mother had caught her daughter sparring with her precious rose bushes.
And now she sat in the Great Hall, splendid upon the stone dais, no less regal than any of the Starks that had ruled the North before her. Yet there was a sadness in her grey eyes, a pain that even she could not mask.
The Hand bowed before her.
"Your Grace, we are lost." He said, reigning in on the tremor in his voice. "A raven just arrived bearing tidings from the west. We have been defeated in Torren's Square. Not days ago the Ironmen have raided and burned Deepwood Mote. Before nightfall they will be at our gates. Bolton gathers his men to the south. It would seem at least some of Karhold have pledged themselves to the bastard; I fear the villages of the Gift fair no better under Wildling attack, and..."
"I know full well of the situation at hand, Ser Rodrick," she interrupted, her voice strong in the dusky hall, calmer than it had any right to be. "Spare me the bloody details. We both know what must be done."
His eyes grew wide as he comprehended the meaning in her words and in her eyes. "Queen Arya, head my council, abandon the castle, take your brother and flee under the protection of the reserve. There are yet those who will welcome Starks and give you shelter. We can always return when our foes are diminished. You know we can not hope to fight a war on three fronts with only a couple hundred men."
When he looked into her face, he could tell he had lost her. Her eyes were glazed over with a far away look that told him she was no longer in the hall, but far away. All off a sudden, with a sharp intake of breath, she was back.
"I am no craven, though I might be a fool," she murmured, her voice low. "There may yet be a way,"
"I beg of you again, Arya, flee, take the boy and go before it is too late."
Her look bore no disdain but it was unshakable. "Take Rickon then, him and half the reserve. Beth too, if you wish. Ride to the Crannogmen. They will find you. Now, before it is too late."
"And you, my Grace, they will welcome you with open arms, I beg you, come with me."
"There must always be a Stark in Winterfell," she countered, her head held high, her eyes unrelenting. "Take him before the hour ends. That is a command."
For hundreds of miles around Winterfell, the North was besieged by three enemies at once. The Lannisters in the South bore them no great love, and surely would join the fighting as soon as her kingdom seemed vulnerable enough to fall quietly under their hoards of sellswords. Would that the late King Robert were alive, he had respected the North, and her great King father. But with him gone, King's Landing was a mess of squabbling houses, each with an opinion on who was the true heir to the King. Arya cared little for which royal arse graced the Iron Throne, but she knew that Tywin Lannister would grown ever more power hungry without the late king's supervision. He had already sent several groups of soldiers to probe the North for weakness.
Regardless, her lands were burning and drowning simultaneously and her smallfolk had no choice but to flee or to die. Those who had abandoned their homes were now in Winterfell, camped in makeshift tents in every corner of the grounds. Loath her though they may, she presented a friendlier option than death from the Ironmen, capture by the wildlings, or flaying, courtesy of the Bolton's.
She wished that her father, once her King, were here to guide her and subdue her foes. It was only after his untimely death that the Second Greyjoy Rebellion had begun, soon followed by the Bolton uprising and the resurgence of wildling violence.
Arya quivered as her maid pulled her hauberk over her chest, the cold steel biting at the bare skin of her neck. I wonder if she will mourn my death, the queen mused as she dressed for battle. Her people bore her no great love, she knew that well. When she looked into the faces of her Northmen, she could see the disdain they bore for her. She knew they would have rather had her dead than her brothers, mother, father, and sister they had all loved so fervently. They took her for a stranger, a foreigner. She had been taken from her home before her fifth name day, sent to Starfall as a future bride and hostage. She'd be there still if grey scale had not taken her betrothed before he reached manhood. Arya had watched his face turn to stone, and felt herself harden as well. She was always out of place in Dorne, the Northern blood in her veins never gave her peace there. She had the Winter in her as much as her brother had before her. He knew it, and she loved him for it.
Upon her return to Winterfell he had greeted her with as much love as any long lost sister had ever found, he had even seemed to accept her for who she was. He did not scold her for her sullen face or her unconventional choice in clothes. Robb gave her all she could have wished for and more. He let her ride into battle at his right hand, and in death, had left her Ice, the great sword of the Starks. Yet she had not been able to protect him from the Bolton men who ambushed them and cut his throat. She had gone into a frenzy when she saw his blood, her blood, staining their unworthy blades. She had slashed and killed like a madwoman, but there where too many. Only by the God's Grace had Ser Rodrick managed to throw her over his horse and escape to Winterfell.
A day later, Robb's body was found hanging by the side of the Highroad, flayed and mutilated, swarming with maggots and crows.
She could not forgive herself for her inadequacy, and neither could the Northmen. She could see the hatred in their eyes. She knew they wished it was her who was skinless, and Robb who lived. They loved him nearly as much as she did.
Some had wanted to crown Rickon in her stead, but in such dire times there was no strength to spare on matters of inheritance; the boy was barely nine, and more a wolf than human. At 15, as a woman grown and the only other living Stark, Arya was ruefully given the throne.
She never wanted to be Queen. She wanted to be a knight, or a Faceless Man on the isle of Braavos, a noble outlaw, mayhaps, or a dragon rider like in Old Nan's tales. Yet she was a Stark, and she did her duty well. She donned gowns of black to mourn her family, and ruled the council in the Great Hall as befit the Queen in the North. Yet they spared her no love for her effort, and she never seized to feel the accusations in their glares.
She was an Ice Queen though, as impenetrable as the Wall, Arya reminded herself. She touched the great sword of Valyrian steel that was her birthright for reassurance and mounted Nymeria, her Dornish sand steed. She sat tall and proud, facing her reserve. They were few, no more than a hundred men, she knew, but all were mounted. They were some of the best the North had to offer, and she did not intend to let then fall unblooded, lost to fire. They held no great respect for her, but were bound to Winterfell and the North by their blood and their honor, as was she. In that, they were inseparable.
The light had just faded to the west as she mounted her horse. The night was dark. The moon was new and even the light of the great Northern stars seemed dimmer. Mayhaps the Gods had listened to her prayers after all. Arya was never one for speeches and she knew no words could win over frozen hearts. The North never forgets. She speechlessly hefted Ice over her head, signalling for her riders to rally.
When they returned, dawn was breaking. Arya could scarcely keep her consciousness as she swayed in her saddle. She was drenched in blood - some her own, some Theon Greyjoy's, a layer of which had frozen over her cold mail. Mucus, grime, and gore covered her helmet. She wondered if ever a Queen had looked less regal. Yet she was alive, and most of her men too. The siege on Winterfell had been broken, and they would live to see another day. The Gods were good.
She raised her eyed as the portcullis was draw up, opening the entrance into the stronghold, and for the first time since the night, truly saw her men's faces. They were worn and bloody, stained with war fever and sweat, yet their eyes were radiant, and they all trailed upon her. Their eyes spoke of solemn respect.
As she trotted into the courtyard, a sound like crashing waves rushed to meet her. All around her, the smallfolk of the North stood, cheering. In her confusion it took her several seconds to comprehend their chants. "Arya!" They cried, "Queen in the North!" And all around her, a sea of people knelt, some throwing roses under Nymeria's hooves. "Arya! Arya!" The cries filled her ears, her mind and her heart, and for a moment, she was no longer grieving; for a moment, she felt herself melt.
Summoning the last of her strength, she lifted Ice into the air, slicing through the the crisp morning air. It was on fire, burning, burning in the sunlight.
So this is what it feels like to be Queen, she thought, surrounded by the song of her people, by blood, Ice, and fire.