Author's note: This story is based on the original characters from Game of Thrones, but I have altered a few key facts. It takes place in an alternate universe but still in Westeros. Enjoy!
The bonfire was lighted, and the citizens of Winterfell were all assembling outside the city walls to say a final goodbye to their ruler, Lord Ned Stark. The weather was unforgiving as usual, but the people from the North were accustomed to the cold. No snow was falling today though, but the sky was dark and covered in grey, heavy clouds. From the burial place outside the city, Winterfell looked quite monstrous and gothic with the tall walls made from stone. The ravens were circling above the city, either looking after it or spying on it. The colour of the grass was different shades of brown after the hard frost and snow had been tormenting it for the last couple of months, and the trees had lost their leaves long ago.
"All hail the deceased Lord Ned Stark of Winterfell, ruler and warden of the North. We will never forget the work he has done for us. He spent his life protecting and serving our realm, and now he has found peace. May the Gods have mercy on him", the minister Zakeus called. He was standing in front of the great bonfire, on which Lord Stark was lying. He was dressed in his ruler's clothes with his hands on his chest, and his facial expression made him look like the proud and strong ruler, he had been. The priest kept talking about Lord Stark's life before lighting the fire. The flames quickly consumed the wood in the cold and soon the flames were dancing around the dead lord, consuming his flesh.
All of Winterfell participated in the ceremony, because Lord Stark had been very popular and loved. He had secured peace in the North and made the capital rich and well-fed.
Closest to the bonfire was Lord Stark's widow, Lady Cersei Stark, formerly Cersei Hastings. She was in mourning and her dark hood was covering most of her face to conceal her tears and swollen face. Their marriage had been arranged, but happy. Her hair was blonde with a hint of grey and her age around 40. She looked older than she was, but the time since her husband's passing had taken its toll on her. She was no small woman, but she was lean and muscular. The time in the North had made her like this. The life here was sometimes rough, and she had not been used to it in the beginning when Lord Stark had brought her here with her infant daughter, Sansa. Cersei had been wed to Lord Ludwig Hastings from Southguard, but shortly after their marriage, he was killed in battle and the Hasting empire had been scattered all over. Ned Stark had known her for years and loved her just as long, so he gladly brought her and her daughter to Winterfell.
Now Cersei was mourning her second husband, and wiping away the tears, she tried to make her face presentable. Her deep blue eyes were still magnetic and they were so powerful that you hardly noticed her big nose and narrow and tiny lips, which were almost without colour. Her skin was pale like the rest of the people in the North, but she had not been born this way. The time living in the cold had changed the colour of her face, but it suited the rest of her appearance.
She looked like she was barely able to stand, but her son was steadying her. He was a tall boy with a strong body like most northern boys. His name was Joffrey and he was 16 years old, eldest living son of Lord and Lady Stark. His hair was a bit curly, blonde and too long. He had a hard face and unfriendly features. His eyes were pointy and alert, his nose big like his mother's and his lips dark red. He never smiled and mostly preferred being alone, either practising with his sword or studying the ancient books. He had no real friends, only a couple of squires to help him and protect him.
"Don't cry like that, Myrcella. Father would not have wanted you to cry", a girl standing beside Lady Stark said to a little girl with golden curls. She was barely ten years old and clutching a doll inside her embrace. She was pretty, with eyes like her mother, the Lady Stark, a round face and childish features. She was wearing a blue dress even though she was attending a funeral. Her mother had told her not to wear it, but the little girl had insisted since it was a gift from her father.
The rest of the Stark family looked at the girl, who had said the words, but she didn't seem to mind. She just stared into the flames, biting her lip.
"Arya, she is only a child. You would have cried too if you were as young as she is", another girl said, looking at the angry girl with sorrow in her eyes. Arya moved her head and looked at her with a hard expression on her face:
"No, Sansa. I doubt that", she said and turned her head away again.
"It's father's funeral, for God's sake. People are allowed to cry at a funeral", Sansa responded. Arya sighed heavily and turned her face towards Sansa again.
"It's my father", she said harshly.
Sansa knew that – nobody let her forget it. Lord Stark was not her real father, but he had been like one to her all her life. She loved him dearly and missed him as much as her siblings. Most of the time, she did not think about her heritage and Winterfell was home to her. She knew she wasn't a real Stark, but it never really bothered her. She had been living all her life here in the North, getting fairly along with her brothers and sisters but she did not have a warrior's mind like her father or Joffrey and Arya.
She had always liked school and was a clever student, knowing a lot about agriculture. That had come in handy as she was helping out planning how to make the most of the fields. She enjoyed being outside and spent most of her time in the fields around the crops and plants. Lord Stark had discovered her talent early, and he was happy to see her make use of her head. He had loved her like his own daughter and had adored her easy and calm personality. She had a mild temper and never acted out – in contrast to her siblings. The twins, Martin and Arya, had been the worst. Before they were able to walk, they were already planning how to conquer all of Westeros to make Winterfell the mightiest city in the world. They had wanted to be kings of the entire realm, and this desire had not vanished as they grew older. They had aggressive spirits and no concern for others, who were standing in their way. They had been best friends, and mostly Arya was the one leading the way. Martin had been a sweet boy most of the time, but his friendship with his twin sister had coloured his view of life. When he died at the age of 11, the entire North had been in mourning for eight days, as he was the born heir to Winterfell.
Sansa had liked Martin and she was still suffering from nightmares about his death. Sansa did not look like her siblings that much. Joffrey, Martin and Arya had the bodies of the northerners with green eyes like their father, and their appearance made them look like they were small, angry warriors. Sansa was a redhead, and her shoulder-long hair was braided down the back of her head and decorated with a light blue ribbon and a jewel. Her eyes were blue like her mother's, and her skin was pale with pretty features.
"Don't forget how you wept at Martin's funeral", Joffrey leaned in and whispered into Arya's ear. Her eyes were instantly on fire and she regarded her brother with a look of hatred. Her brother just smiled a vicious smile and laughed silently. Their mother gave him a small shove, but only to make him participate in the funeral mourning, not because she was mad at him. She never was – to Arya's great frustration.
Sansa watched how her sister was burning from the inside with fury, and she saw how she clenched her fists ready to punch Joffrey. Her mother gave her an angry and disapproving look, which only made her clench her fists even harder. Arya looked into the fire one last time before taking her leave. She walked out on the funeral and down to the stony road called The Long Road, which led away from Winterfell. She turned around and looked at the big city she called home. The fire was burning outside the city walls, and from this distance it was easier for her to watch. She had been close to her father, and he had taught her everything he knew about warfare and how to rule a realm. Numerous times he had told her what a great leader she would make when she grew up, and this had always led her to believe that she was going to be her father's successor. She had always liked the idea of her becoming the ruler of Winterfell, and after Martin's death she was first in line to take the role as ruler. Martin had been born before her, so he had been the rightful heir and before his death, she had never questioned that. It was a custom, and she had never thought of being the ruler herself then.
Now, however, both her five-minute older brother and her father were dead, and she was the eldest Stark child. Sansa was older than her, but not being a real daughter to Lord Stark, she had no claim to be the ruler, and it also seemed to suit her just fine. She had no ambition of ruling anything related to wars and politics. Arya had often wondered what Sansa really wanted in life. They had never been close, and Sansa seldom told people about her thoughts and dreams. However, Arya did know that Sansa was good at spinning the realm's fields into gold, making even the most delicate seeds grow in the frosty soil. Thereby, she served her land well, and Arya appreciated that now that she was about to take the position of protector of Winterfell herself.
Out on The King's Road outside Winterfell, the wind was relentless, and Arya felt cold standing still, looking at the dying fire. The citizens were now singing songs to praise her father, but she did not want to join them. She did not want to be close to Joffrey or to face the rest of her family after Joffrey had humiliated her. She hated that boy – he was nothing like Martin.
She stayed out a bit longer, patrolling The King's Road while holding on to her sword. The darkness was falling, and here in the North it fell quickly. The cold wind had made her cover herself in her fragile and thin funeral dress that was not made for a warrior, but her mother had made her wear it. Her maidens had combed her light brown hair and curled it, but as soon as she was out of sight, she put it up so it did not bother her face. She felt uncomfortable in the dress, but having her sword with her made her feel more at ease. She pressed the grip of the sword against the palm of her hand before heading home to attend the funeral feast. During the feast, the new ruler of Winterfell would be proclaimed. She smiled at the thought and felt a bit excited. All of her life had led to this event. Being the ruler of the North was what she was born to do.