Sansa stark is seventeen years old. She stands five feet and seven inches tall. Her hair is auburn in soft light, and red in the sun. Her eyes are another noteworthy feature, a hue known at coctail parties and ladies tea-circles all up the East Coast as Tully Blue.
Her father was a Stark of Portland. Maine, not Oregon. His family aquired it's weath and status years before felling trees in the vast Maine woods for lumber to ship to the Boston yards in the industrial revolution, and also held considerable stock in the iron works of the nearby town of Bath. Ned Stark was a man of consierable wealth and prestige, an honest man who made an honest fortune and provided full healthcare coverage to all his employees and donated a hefty sum to St Jude's childrens hospital every year.
Ned Stark is dead. His wife, Catelyn Stark, whos maiden name was Catelyn Tully (of the Philidelphia Tully's) left their home on the coast of Maine a year and a half ago with her eldest son, Robb, now the sole heir and major shareholder of the Stark fortune, on a jet that is confirmed to have safely landed in Miami, where they had business. The Stark household servants, who are invariably long-time family friends, as are the kitchen help and the groundskeepers, expected the Lady and Robb's return in early December. Soon it became a question of wether or not to decorate the Stark mansion for Christmas as usual, when they did not return as expected. They eventually went ahead, the usual traditions being holly and strung cranberries, an eight foot tree strung with white lights and handmade ornaments of the five stark children made when they were younger, of popsicle sticks and glitter-glue, and Rudolf the red-nosed reindeers made from construction paper and a nose of shiny red felt.
On the second friday of the month, which also was heralding the first heavy snowfall of the year, Miss Mordane had the groundskeeper get them a tree. She had Bran come into the hall to oversee from his wheelchair, where he sat watching the servants erect the very large evergreen they had felled from the property that morning. Hodor helped the groundkeeper right the tree in the treestand, muttering Hodor to himself as he did. Snow was melting on its dark green branches, and it smelled of the clean Maine forest. Quiet and deep, with a stillness that Bran felt in his soul, a pregnant, knowning stillness. Not like the stillness in his crippled legs, which felt like broken things and tasted like pennies.
The plump Miss Mordane bustled about, getting Rickon a stool so he could hang the decorations higher. Bran told him that he was clumping them together, but he had definite idesa about the ornament placement on this particular tree. His was the only face still bright with joy at thetrimming, Miss Mordane and the groundkeeper with his LL Bean boots and thick plaid jacket stood with worry etched onto their old faces. One of the younger kitchen girls was making sugar cookies, another Stark holiday tradition, and the smell wafted through the big empty house, warming it from the center even as the late afternoon turned blue and dark as the wind blew from the North and the white winter sun sank behind the treeline at the edge of the grounds.
Normally, they played Christmas records, Jon and Robb smelling like the stables as they threw open the door, letting a gust of freezing air blow in making the hearthfire shudder and then roar all the louder. Miss Mordane would fuss about them, shrugging them out of their jackets like they were still ten, and Arya would run by with a fistfull of cookiedough, having just avoided the swift swat of a wooden cooking spoon. Bran's mother would call after her, chiding affectionately, and Arya would double back to jump on Jon's back, piggyriding into the main hall where the tree was being trimmed. Eddark Stark, never one to miss the holiday traditions, was home from work already, seated on the couch with two Malamutes at his side, one gnawing on a rawhide, the other a pickeled pigs-ear. Sansa sat at her father's feet, humming along to the records that played as she carefully strung cranberries and popcorn from a needle onto fishing wire to hang about the mantle. The fire in the hearth made her cheeks flush with color and Ned smiled when he thought about how much his eldest daughter resembled his wife, whom he watched hang a ruby-red bulb on the tree, brushing pine needles from the front of her dress as she took a step back to examine their work.
Bran remembered the year before like it was yesterday. Now there was just Miss Mordane and the groundskeeper, no Arya and Sansa and Robb and Jon. Not even his mother or Theon. He didn't think too hard on his father. He would never see his father again. It still seemed impossible. The larger-than-life Eddard Stark, who presided over the businesses locally and far-off that Bran considered their empire, like his father was the Lord of the land and Winterfell Manor was their castle. But he was gone, and there was no fire in the hearth.
"Liliana's making sugar cookies, Bran." Miss Mordane said kindly, as if she could read the expression on the crippled boy's face. He forced a smile.
"My favorite."