Winterfell's great hall was erupting with laughter as a great feast was devoured. The tables were laden heavily with juicy meats and fresh bread, with cheese and vegetables to go with it. Strong wine was being downed by the barrel, spilling over the sides of goblets and making the rowdy northerners all the more boisterous.
They hadn't eaten this well at Winterfell since the great battle, almost a year ago. Sansa thought back to that night – Jamie Lannister, Lord Varys, Daenerys – to think they're all dead now, alongside millions of others. The Queen in the North's advisors had taken a habit of telling her that the worst was over, the first year had been the hardest and things would continue to improve for their kingdom. Some days, Sansa wholly believed that. Other days, it seemed it could never be true.
Despite those doubtful days, Sansa was proud to be the leader of what she knew was the greatest kingdom in Westeros, even though the North could never be the same as it was, not after all it had seen, not after everything that had happened.
In the first weeks of her rule, there hadn't been food, drink or warmth enough to go around – many of the working men had been killed in the war, leaving the crops untended and the rooves unthatched. Sansa had offered shelter to as many as she could in the castle – mostly children and the elderly, but she had known they were going to need a more permanent solution.
About a month after her coronation, His Grace King Bran of the Six Kingdoms had offered aid to his sister and fellow monarch, in form of men to build and sow, food, and resources to repair what was needed. Sansa had been more than grateful, and things had improved, they had stayed that way, even, but there was an inevitable unrest lingering in the northern air.
"Your Grace? Are ye quite well?" A voice interrupted Sansa's deep thoughts, bringing her back to the room.
"Hmm? Oh, Yes, Ser Darrick, just thinking."
The retired knight sighed. "Worryin', I presume, your Grace?" He came from a small, unknown house, but all of her advisors came from small, unknown houses – all the great ones had been all but destroyed.
She laughed softly. "What else these days? It seems I'll never be free of worry for as long as I live."
Sansa waited briefly for a response, but looked up to see everyone at the table exchanging nervous glances and attempting to nod subtly to each other. She had recently taken to being rather straight with people, so she immediately questioned them on it. "Gentlemen forgive me but is something the matter? Something I should know about?"
"Uh, No. Well, yes." One man stammered. "If we could talk to ye in private, your grace?"
She nodded suspiciously but stood up from the head table and led the four main talkers away to her study. Once she was seated at her desk in front of them, the stammering man, Ser Willem, started to speak. "Your Grace, I'm afraid this is a difficult matter to discuss, but we've been intending this conversation for quite some time, so we just feel – that is to say…"
"Now's as good a time as any?" Ser Darrick interrupted, glaring at Willem.
"Alright then. What is so pressing it must be discussed at this very moment?"
"Well, ye ken, it is very hard to get you at a free time, your grace, and the feast isn't as urgent a matter as other things, so we decided to..."
"Just say it." Sansa was becoming impatient.
A third man, Lord Harrys Candon, spoke up, clearly the most mature of the group. "Your Grace, the reality is, the North is fine. The King is supplying more resources than we need and reconstruction in the castle is near complete. There hasn't been a starving man from the twins to the wall in 2 months and the harvest is sure to be fruitful this season. We will survive, and comfortably at that. Now, there is a more political matter we must deal with."
Lord Harrys had captivated Sansa's attention. "And what's that?"
The fifth party in the room, Lady Catelyn Candon, daughter to Lord Harrys and named for Sansa's mother, had been designated to relay this more difficult matter. "Securing the North, your grace."
It took Sansa barely a few seconds before it came to her. She had heard that phrase before - 'Securing the North' and 'Key to the North'. She knew what it meant, and sighed loudly as she realized. "Heirs. That's what we need. That is what you speak of, is it not?" She stared in all of their eyes.
"Yes, Your Grace." Lord Harrys nodded. "Without them your reign is not at full strength. To end it, your enemies need only kill one person. To secure a Stark rule in the north for centuries to come, there must be a Stark to replace the hole you will leave. Your brothers possess rules and vows of their own, neither of them will father children, and your sister is unlikely to ever return to Westeros. The only way to continue your bloodline is by you yourself, and to do that..."
"I must marry." She finished, saying the words dully. Needless to say, her experience with the institution of marriage was misrepresenting at a push. Her first marriage was awkward, forced, and over as soon as it started. Her second was…. well, her brain had all but erased those memories, buried them underneath a million other things.
Sansa now realized she hadn't even thought of the fact that she would eventually have to remarry and bear children – she supposed deep down she had thought she would never marry again. But that was before she was Queen, before she was the only realistic possibility of continuing the Stark name she loved so much. And if that was to happen, Sansa would have to put aside her own premonitions for the good of her family.
She took a deep breath. "My Lords, My Lady, I admit I hadn't considered the prospect and cannot say I am doing this in full willingness, but I know you're all right and I know I must do this." She stood up, wanting to put off the logistical discussion for one more night. "If you'll excuse me, I'll return to the feast. We can discuss possibilities tomorrow." Sansa walked quickly from the room, tears of fear welling in her eyes.
It seemed they would have a King in the North.