The trumpets sounded and before Winterfell was fully aware of what was happening, King Robert's interminable convoy began to stream through the castle gates. Steel-clad knights rode bolt upright, silk banners fluttered, and destriers snorted steam into the cold air. The North rarely saw such pomp; rarely too did the Starks.
They stood clustered together, presenting a united front as they always did. Eddard Stark, ever the mannerly lord, had rallied his household around him to greet their formidable guests from Kings Landing, and his household was enthusiastically playing their role. Less eager were the Stark children.
Rickon was whining and fidgeting. Bran stood sullen and silent, resentful that he had been pulled away from his adventures on the walls of the castle. Robb was standing tall and dignified, assuming his solemn role as Robb, heir of Winterfell. Arya was flushed with fury, directed towards her mother and Septa Mordane, who had forced her into a humiliatingly girly gown mere minutes beforehand. Her mood had blackened further when Jon and Fat Tom had roared with laughter at the sight of her, scrubbed pink and trussed up. She frowned fiercely and vowed to herself to restore her dignity as soon as these ridiculous formalities were over.
Sansa glanced sideways down the row of her siblings. She noted the frowns on Bran and Rickon's faces and Arya's obvious disdain for the occasion and rolled her eyes. She wasn't surprised. Only Robb's behavior was fitting for the presence of a king. Beyond Robb stood Jon.
The sixth Stark. He was dressed as finely as Robb was, a deep grey cloak swept over his shoulders and the direwolf sigil stitched on his breast. In this clean morning light, he looked as much a lord as her father did, standing tall and proud, his shoulders back and chin high. The cold air brought out the best in him, flushing his cheeks and catching the blue glint in his eyes. Inside the castle he was still a boy, perhaps, but out here he was a true man of the north.
Sansa drew in a sharp breath. The deep connection she shared with her brother was something she kept close and secret. Thinking about him in the bright sunlight, surrounded by her family, felt wrong. Strange and wrong. She came back to herself as the lengthy formalities dragged and dragged. Her mind wandered over a thousand things. As her father and Robert spoke and spoke and spoke, she picked out faces in the king's convoy. There was beautiful cold queen Cersei, surrounded by her three golden children. There was handsome, strong Jaime Lannister, the infamous Kingslayer. There, two feet below him stood the Imp, unimposing as ever. There was stern, dour Tywin, the all-powerful Hand of Aerys II.
The mighty Lannisters of Casterly Rock had not troubled themselves to greet the Starks. Sansa's gaze eventually settled on Jaime and Cersei, the twins of the Rock. Both fair of hair and fair of face. The whispers that sometimes reached Winterfell…the rumours muttered in quiet corners…any family as great as the Lannisters would invite speculation, she knew, but there was something different about Jaime and Cersei. The scandalous suggestions had shocked her and fascinated her in equal measure. She had stored the stories away in her mind, turning the words over and over. Were they vile or sweet? She couldn't bear to settle on either opinion. She often came back to House Targaryen, where brother and sister defied the laws of gods and men and lay together. And always, she came back to herself and Jon.