An AU, where should I continue the story the previous events will be explained. But I will give a quick, brief background.
The Stark childrens ages are different from what they are in the books/series. Jon was twelve when he left for the Wall, a year before Sansa, Bran and Ned all went south. Sansa was nine at the time, Bran six. A year later, Ned was killed. Bran went missing (as opposed to Arya) while Sansa remained prisoner. Robb marched south (Sansa and Robb story lines follow as they do in ASOIAF). Winterfell is not burned down, one of the Iron Islanders does, however, kill Catelyn and Arya (who was nine at the time of her death). Brienne eventually rescues Sansa from the Vale, she reclaims the north as Winter has arrived. (Gone a grand total of four years.)
I have changed a number of aspects to make the story a bit darker and more twisted. Winter is not very nice. Like really, really awful.
'A war before winter will be the death of us all.' Her father had once told her. 'Should war hit before the coming of winter, set sail for the eastern lands, you shall live longer. For winter is dark, and cruel and unforgiving. And I would rather you survived in the unknown, than suffer in your home.'
She had been warned all her life that winter was bad. Winter was harsh. Winter was cruel. Oh, if only she had listened. Perhaps then she would not be suffering so. She is crippling, breaking, shattering and there is nothing to hold her together. She, like all her people, is becoming another tortured soul, waiting for death to finally claim her.
When her father told her war before winter was bad, she had not truly believed the depth of his words. She had not understood. But six years in, and she realised he had made things sound better than they really were.
Winter was cold, cruel and unforgiving. It took whatever it pleased, and there was little she could do to stop it.
She was trying. Gods, how she was trying.
The green house flooring was heated – like the rest of the castle. The hot, under ground springs flooded through the walls, the floors – heating up the building, giving everyone some form of warmth. Food was able to grow in the green house due to the heated flooring – weak, tasteless food; but food none the less.
Everything was rationed. And every persons needs were put before her own. She had become thin and brittle, but she stood tall where the rest of her family had fallen. She was all the north had left. Whoever was truly left in the north that was. Her estimate was that there was some three hundred people remaining in her castle.
She often wondered how many others survived across the kingdom – had other lords let her people into their castles? Had they had enough provisions?
It ate at her. Wondering how many survivors there were or would be after winter was over, was driving her into madness. But there was little else for her to do.
The War of the Five Kings was one she wished had never occurred. She had began wishing that Robb had never began a march south to Kings Landing. She had wished that they had never ventured south in the first place, so that perhaps her father could guide her through her first winter. Perhaps it would be her helping her family through the tortured times.
A decade. She had thought bitterly. Why must winter be a decade, when all other seasons get a mere five years?
Though her parents had told her that summer had lasted seven years, and she dreaded to think what that might mean for their winter.
Perhaps if her family were alive, things would not be so difficult. She would not have to watch so many deaths, and help so many ill. She was down to a mere four healers. And for three hundred people, it was simply not enough.
She felt bitter and angry. Hating her people for being so weak. Hating Jon for abandoning their family. Hating her family for abandoning her. Hating herself for hating and hurting so, so much.
When Old Nan had told her of Winter Madness, she never once thought it was she who would succumb to the darkness, the all encompassing abyss that was dragging her further into madness as each day went by.
And so when each day ended, she would lay in the bed of her childhood and she was scream and cry and sob and pray to whoever would listen to her, because she could not cope. How was a nearing insane child, supposed to rule and protect a land that was decaying and succumbing to the winter?
She had been eight and four months the last time her family had all been together. She had just turned nine the last time she had seen her mother and sister. She would never see them again. Not until the winter claimed her too and she was taken to wherever their souls may be.
She was nineteen years of age, and was far from ready to rule a kingdom. Far less looking after decaying, withering, tortured souls who – like her – want to die, but are too afraid of giving up.
"Where's mama?"
And the children – or those that were left – just made her hurt.
Smiling bitterly, she lowered herself so that she was eye level with the five year old. "I am so sorry. Your mother is-" And her voice caught, because she hated having to be the one who does it. Having to be the one that shatters yet another part of these people.
"No."
At least she did not have to use the word. The boy had witnessed enough death for him to know what had happened. But despite being born into the bitter and cruel world, he still could not bring herself to believe that it could happen to him.
"I am truly sorry, sweet child. Death comes for us all, and unfortunately it was your mother who was chosen this time round." Her words were not kind, but neither was she.
The boy whimpered slightly, and tears trailed down his cheeks. Pushing herself forward, her arms wrapped around the nine year old boy. A winter child, whom she had prayed for personally.
Gods, please, do not let him die. He is one of the few children left. Please, Gods, do not take him from us. Not yet. Not now. Not during the cold and cruel winter. Let him know the sun; truly know it. Please, my lords, let him discover spring at the very least.
But prayers seemed to be feeble attempts at preventing the inevitable.
Rickon was as parentless as she, and a part of her wondered if it was meant to be. She questioned the Gods that night, asking if the child the slept soundly beside her was to replace the babe she, herself, would never have. It was cruel and selfish to want a child she did not make, but Rickon was quiet and kind and helpful, with a spark of something wild in his eye. Everything she had once imagined a son of her own to be.
It was later that next day she was called to the throne room. She wanted to scoff at the fact it was even still called that. Yes, there was a throne and yes it was sat in a room, hall even. But the room was littered with torn and worn cloth and furs. Littered with odd bits and bobs that belonged to people whose faces she had long since forgotten.
But she sits on the throne, a useless crown placed above her head and her back is straight, her hands fold on her knees. Fold in the way she knows she cannot. For a queen must be strong for her people. Even if those people are simply ghosts waiting to come.
Old Nan once told her that only monsters survive the world.
Perhaps it would be best if they all died.
The people that appear in front of her, she does not recognise. There are two men and a young woman, who clutches a young boy to her. The four look frozen, and she is surprised they have survived the journey to the castle. Ice and snow cling to them and they are shivering in the centre of the hall.
It is as the man stood just in front of the two others looks up at her that she recognises him, though she does not allow her face to demonstrate such recognition. He is older, as is she. His eyes are sunken, and far darker than they once were – though his eyes were always dark. His hair is limp and his skin is almost blue. Blue like the icy blue of Robb's eyes. His skin is tight and taught against his face and his full lips are cracked and look almost purple. A scar runs from the bridge of his nose and down across his cheek, meeting his chiselled jaw line. Its white and silver, standing out against his frozen skin.
He kneels in front of her, his clothes baggy on him, just like hers. She tries not to dwell on the sickly thin wrists hanging loose from a once tight dress. He utters not a word and her heart feels as if it is breaking, because he should not be bowing to her. But he is paying fealty to her all the same. His dark eyes staring at the sword he has placed on the ground in front of him.
She wants to run at him; grab him; shake him and beg. Beg for him to hold her and talk. Beg him to prove that he is real and that her mind has not truly cracked and that this is some sick, twisted fantasy her mind has conjured up for her.
She would not survive the fall from such a trick.
Her spine remains straight, and her gaze is steely as she looks at him. She cannot forget herself; forget who she is. But then, is that not what she has been doing from the moment she left when she was nine years old? Forgotten. She can barely remember who she is.
There are days where she cannot fathom the difference between who she was as a child, as the scared teen, the bastard Alayne and the icy, mad Queen of the North that she has become.
"My queen." His voice is rough and dry, and so different from the voice in her memory. But it is the two words that hurt her. They stab at her heart, and she is sure the stinging at the back of her eyes is the desire to cry.
Say my name. She thinks. Why? Why would nobody ever use her name? She has been waiting for six years for someone to utter a word she has almost, completely forgotten. And he cannot even utter it in her presence. It hurts. Burns at her chest and she resists the urge to sink her teeth into her bottom lip.
She forgets herself. Her lips curve upwards into a feral half smile. "Queen of what?" She asks, her voice a dry, bitter laugh.
She had returned home and did what she could to prepare herself and her people for winter. But what did a parentless, a family-less, thirteen year old girl know about preparing for winter. She brought as many people as she could within the castle walls. She helped them, healed those she could, she talked to them and respected them and for what? To watch them die from famine, illness, decay. Death roamed the land. No blood was spilt. Oh no. Death was icy and white and oh-so cold. Taking lives in what should be a safe haven. Taking each soul whenever it could.
Her kingdom was that of corpses. Frozen bodies and white snow. Her kingdom was a white, barren, icy landscape. Her people were either all corpses, or starving, broken people waiting for death to claim them.
"Queen of what, Jon Snow?" And she laughs a mad, broken laugh and tears drip down her cheeks because she is not a queen. She will never be a queen.
Her mask has fallen for the first time in a while. And her laugh is hollow and mad and broken. It feels so good to let someone see just what winter – what life – is doing to her. She trusts Jon. He can see what she really is: Mad. Bitter. Broken.
He does not flinch. He simply stares at her with a broken look in his eye as her laughter subsides.
She stands. Wishing that he had already spoken her name. Wishing that he had even called her sister. Not queen. Never queen. But what did he know? He abandoned his family to become a ranger of the Wall.
She walks towards him as he stands. She is shaking on her feet, tears drying – freezing – on her cheeks as she gets closer to him. He has seen her, seen that she is broken – mad, even. Yet he does not back away, does not move from his spot on the floor. She is more grateful for that than she supposes he will ever know.
Her dry, brittle, twig like fingers grab his face. A palm on each cheek. His skin feels dry and cold, but she is unsure whether she is just feeling her own flesh pressed against the bones in her hand, or the skin on his face matches that of her hands. She pulled his head down slightly, pressing a kiss to his forehead.
"Welcome back, brother."
His eyes are shut and she lets out a shaky breath as she tried to pull up her walls once more. The people – her people – cannot see her failing. Cannot see her breaking. Never has she been more relieved than in that moment, as she rests her forehead against his – feeling him. Feeling the cold that grips at him. He is real; flesh and blood and broken spirit, just like her.
"Winter has come, and brought you home." She whispered.
And his dry laugh nearly scares her. "This is not home, Sansa."
She sucked in a deep breath as her eyes met his. Sansa. Sansa. Her name. Gods, it had been so long since she last heard someone utter her name. She savoured the sound of it as she pulled away from her brother.
"Home is where the heart is." She responded somewhat bitterly.
Her heart would forever remain within the castle. Her heart tore when Jon left. It froze with her fathers murder. It broke with Bran's disappearance. It shattered with the death of her mother and sister. It turned to dust when Robb died. And the dust lingers in Winterfell. It will remain there, with her. No matter where she finds herself, she will always wish to return home because it is the only home she has ever, or will ever, know.
Her eyes moved to her brothers three companions. And she realised she had made the worst possible first impression. But they looked too frozen to care.
"Welcome." Her voice snapped back to the tone she used when speaking with her people – those she lives to serve. "I will have someone show you to a spare place to sleep."
Robbs chambers. Arya's chambers. Brans chambers. Fathers chambers – perhaps Jon would want those...
She turned her gaze to Brienne. "Robb and Arya's chambers are still...unused. Please take our new guests there. And show Jon to his old chambers, unless he would like fathers."
It was not out of cruelty that she did not give the chambers to her people. It was to prevent fights. If she demonstrated any form of favouritism it would risk her queenship – or whatever form of 'leadership' it was that she had. And so everyone slept in the various large halls there was too spare – body heat would help cover up the bitter cold that occasionally leaked into the castle.
It was only as her guests – because they were not her people (Those on the Wall were a neutral party out with society and so she had no authority over them, despite the fact Jon had paid fealty to her.) – that they got the spare chambers. Chambers she did not dare go near herself in fear of what she may feel should she enter them.
Only as Jon walked past her, did she notice the wolf behind him. How she had not noticed the creature before hand was beyond her. Verging on four feet high, with almost glowing silvery blue eyes. Fur that she assumed was once a beautiful white was limp, mangy and blood stained. She watched, confused as to what a wolf was doing following her brother.
She had forgotten she knew how he found him.
Then again, she had a terrible habit of forgetting everything.
"Gilly, Samuel and Samwell"
Those were her brothers companions. Three year old Samuel looked much like his mother; a slim girl, the age of 'Twenty and two years now, methinks, ma'am.' Gilly had tangled, dark hair and beautiful brown eyes. Almost a head smaller than Sansa. But looking on the younger girl, Sansa could see the strength in her. She saw the hope in the girls eyes.
Sansa was sure she had never laid eyes upon someone quite so beautiful.
Soft, gentle hearted Sam with his wide, kind smile. Cheer and hope hidden in his sunken pale eyes. He was tall, almost six feet high, she believed. He was round and jolly and twenty three years of age, the same age as her brother, if she remembered rightly. He had full, cracked lips and a rounded nose. He was as large as he was tall. His heart was as fat as he, and she warmed to him almost immediately.
All he wanted to do was help.
And finally, she had a maester.
She sat with them to dine. Gilly, Samuel and Samwell opposite herself, Jon and Rickon – who was too terrified to leave her side.
Rickon liked Samuel but the wariness in his eyes as he looked at the younger boy did not escape Sansa's notice. Rickon was scared. Scared of losing another person. But so was Sansaa, and she was welcoming them in with almost open arms. After all, Jon was her brother and he would forever be welcome at her table. Whether he wanted to be welcome or not.
Home is where the heart is.
She lost her heart a long time ago. But with her brother returned to her, perhaps she can forge something akin to a new one.
Yes, Rickon is kicking about – Catelyn gave birth while Ned was away.
