Chapter Fifty-Three: The Starks of the North

The Ruins of Baelor

Sansa Stark

They had planned it together. For over a moon, they had slaved over a single tired map, toiling over every step, every word, every little detail that could possibly go wrong.

But here they were, stood in the ruins of the Great Sept atop a temporary barricade that Uncle had built just for this occasion. Tyrion had sent his men to help too, and Sansa was grateful for it. Without this place, they might have had to hold this meeting in the Red Keep, and she doubted it was near large enough for this many people.

It seemed half of the city had come to hear them. Perhaps more. There were banners as far as the eye could see, standing in the ashen wreckage where once there had been homes and shops and cobblestone. Now, there was only scorched ground covered in black snow. Whenever Sansa took a step, her shoes would sink into the watery slush, and it reminded her so much of Winterfell that she could hardly complain whenever it caught on her dress.

She had not sat in on the commander's lessons with Robb and Father. She knew not how to properly count banners, shields, and horses, nor the tents they had set all about in the city. No, she could do nothing of the sort. But she could see with both of her eyes, and it was clearly more men than she had ever seen in one place.

They had heralds set about throughout the square, ready to echo her words for all the crowd to hear. The first would call every word of her speech. The second would call every word of his. The third would call his. Down and down the line it would go until her message was so distorted, the back of the crowd would never understand a single word. Then, the first herald would ride through when she was finished, to echo her words for them all.

It was no perfect system, but there was no other to use. Once, this place had been crafted for speeches, but no longer. The homes were gone, and the steps too. Too much had burned. The words would no longer carry as easily as they once had. Tyrion had shown her that, when she first arrived at the Sept with Jon, Uncle, and the Dra- Daenerys by her side.

It was clear who the crowd wished to see, but Arya had taken her leave of the city already. They had smuggled her through the gates in a wagon, covered in so many blankets, she seemed more like a bed than a girl. They had tried to set her on a horse, as she had wanted, but it was no sooner that they had set her in the saddle than her arm had struck it. Sansa had spent the night trying to scrub away the image of her sister's limp arms as she toppled over the other side. Had Jon not been there to catch her…

Nymeria would have been. The wolf was never far.

For now, there was no need to worry about her. Lord Reed had volunteered to guard her, and Bran insisted that he was trustworthy. Besides, her smith and her wolf were with her, and half of Uncle's guard trailed the wagon like dogs would their master. And Arya was improving. Slowly, but surely. No, Arya was safe. It was the rest of them that ought to be worried.

The last time Sansa had been before a crowd anywhere near this size, it had ended with her on her back, her dress torn to pieces. There had been blood soaked through her smallclothes and Sandor Clegane's helmet glaring down at her. He'd saved her then, but he hadn't been there at the very end. He hadn't saved her from King's Landing, much as he'd offered. He hadn't saved her from the White Walkers – that had been Arya, and Jon, and even Daenerys Targaryen. He wouldn't save her now. No one could.

So too did she miss Brienne, the most loyal knight to ever live, though she had never been given the title. With her, she missed Pod, and the living Bran, and even Ser Davos, though she hardly knew him at all.

It was Theon she most missed though. Theon, who understood. Theon, who had been there at her side. Theon, who ought to be a king, himself.

He should have been beside her. A Stark and a Greyjoy. A brother, mayhaps more.

But there were all dead. And, as she stood before this field of unfamiliar faces, she wanted them all more than anything else. Perhaps that was why she invited Tyrion to stand with her. Perhaps that was why it hurt so much when he refused.

"I fear my bannermen would prefer me to be at their side, my lady," he had told her. She had almost forgotten that he was a lord now – a king now. To her, he was merely Tyrion; she preferred it that way. But to them, he was their protector. They needed him by their side.

So she stood alone with her uncle, her brother, and his brother's consort. None of them were set to speak. Daenerys had spoken her piece, and her uncle had been clear that this was a matter for the North, not the Riverlands. If they were to do this, they would do it themselves.

Mother would be proud, she thought, as she stepped forward. Of all of us.

Jon moved with her, but he had no words prepared and he seemed all the happier for it. She tried her best not to let that annoy her, but it was harder than she would ever admit.

There was little time to gather herself before she spoke, so she savored every moment. Then, Sansa looked to the people. Had she not chosen her words before arriving, she might never have spoken at all. Just recalling them was harder than anything she had ever done.

"King's Landing is ash," she said, loud as lightning. Even so, the first herald had to strain to hear her. Somehow, she made herself louder. "The Riverlands are ash. The Vale is ash. The North is ash." It surprised her how much it hurt to say those words. My lord father's lands. My lands. She smothered her pain, or tried to. Some pains were hard to mute.

She had heard reports that parts of the Westerlands had fallen too, but Tyrion had not spoken to it, and Sansa had never asked.

"The Riverlords and their people escaped. The Westerlords with them. But the North and the Vale could not run. Each stayed to fight, and each lost their people. There are castles unguarded, farms untamed, and ships unmanned." She paused, after the herald stuttered. The crowd remained mostly hushed, and she could hear the dull tones of the others repeating his words. Her words. "The North suffered worst of all. Great castles lie without lords. Cerwyn, Torrhen's Square, Karhold, the Last Hearth." The Dreadfort. The thought of it nearly made her shiver. For a moment, she could feel his fingers crawling over her skin. Blood running down her thighs, tears running down her face, legs running and running and running, and it's too cold, Theon, I can't!

Jon must have seen the look on her face, because his hand went to hers. His burned fingers wrapped around her own, and suddenly, she was not afraid.

I will be in Winterfell soon, she told herself. I am stronger within the walls of Winterfell. She looked to him and smiled. He smiled back, though his grin was tempered by the darkness beneath his eyes and the way his skin seemed to sag. Mayhaps we all are. All the Starks.

And, suddenly, the prepared speech did not seem nearly enough. There was something missing. Words unwritten that needed writing.

For the first time, she caught sight of the black bird perched atop Lord Reed's spear. It nodded to her, eyes white as Arya's had been when she'd fallen from her horse. Sansa set her jaw.

"I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell, the rightful Queen in the North." In truth, she had little claim to the title in the way that Robb had once held it, and Jon, but it seemed the right thing to say. She lifted her burned arm, and Jon's went with it. He looked to her, startled, but she went on. These words came easier than any of the rest, and louder too. "My sister is Arya Stark of Winterfell." She need not have said it, but it earned her cheers and a few morsels of respect along the way, and so she did it every time. Every speech; every discussion. She gathered herself once more, and said with all the grace of one who knew all too well the meaning of her words, "And here stands my brother, Jon Stark of Winterfell."

In the crowd, only the lords reacted, and the kings. Surprise wrought itself across their faces, and whispers started from wherever the banners stood. She could not hear them, but she knew them. Knew the Storm King's look, and Prince Ryndon's interest, and even the Reach King's frown. She did not care for any but Tyrion's. A smile.

He was not the only one smiling. While Jon stood in shock, muted and more afraid than she had ever seen him, Daenerys Targaryen was grinning from ear to ear. Uncle was, too, those his was by far the most subdued of them. But, from Mother's brother, even a hint of a smile was better than what she ought to have expected.

It took time – a second, a half-minute – but the loose hand holding her own tightened. White-knuckled, almost painful, but for once she did not feel Ramsay's fury in the grip. Nor did she feel the rough hold of Sandor Clegane, or Tyrion's soft touch, or the broken bent fingers of Theon Greyjoy, though she might have given anything in the world just to feel that touch again.

No, this was not a grip of anger, of resigned heroics, or pain and fear. This was a touch of joy, and it did not scare her at all.

For, on Jon Stark's face, there was only a smile. A smile that stretched further than she had ever seen it, even when he was just a brooding little boy. For once, though he was still cloaked in his blacks, he seemed to shine brighter than the hottest fires. They ought to have called him "Stark" in one of the battles, for they would never have needed wildfire at all.

There were tears in his eyes and on his cheeks, and both were wiped away before the people could see. She wanted to take him down from the stage, and offer him lands and swords and all the thing befitted to the Stark name. She wanted to offer him Moat Cailin, or any castle he chose, even Winterfell if he chose to share it.

But this was not a time for familial bonding. The people were waiting, and the heralds were watching.

She lowered her arm, smiled at Jon, and went on, "We come today to offer refuge to the people of King's Landing, the Vale survivors, and any others who would come with us."

She had barely made it through the word "refuge" before they were aflame. A hundred thousand voices, each overlapping as the din threatened to swallow them whole. With every additional heralding cry, the voices rose anew. Beside her, she thought that Jon might have spoken, but his words were drowned.

Far from where she stood, new voices were catching. All around, people were coming forward, pushing and shoving and shouting. It was only when Sansa began to speak again that the hushes came, and then the crowd was silent as a crowd could be. Little sounds still were scattered throughout, but most of the masses were silent, and that was what she needed.

It reminded her of Tumbleton, and the thousand voices scared and sobbing and singing. They had not all been ladies then. There had been smallfolk and children too. People who needed her. People who could be her own. People who would be, if she could only finish this speech.

But now came the hard part. Now came the part that could end the Starks, end the North. Now came the promise.

She clenched her fist in Jon's hand. He had not relented enough to squeeze back, but she felt his support all the same.

"We will not be naming lords or knights until the winter has passed." There were more voices then, but the hushes were louder. She could see some of the smallfolk salivating in anticipation of what she should say. "When it has," she said, slowly, "those who have earned the titles will have them. Regardless of birth-" She could not finish the sentence. The shouts drowned her out.

Some in the crowd – hungry, skeletal men and women and children, all of whom reminded her too much of wights – fell to their knees. Others – lords and knights and men of power – shouted against her. Some even charged, but the smallfolk were there to keep them back. Others still were shouting for her, chanting for her, screaming in such joy, she could hardly tell if it was real or a dream.

"Queen!" some cried. "Stark!" said others. But neither of those cries caught wind as well as "North!" All through the city came the chants of "North! North! North!"

In the ruins of the Sept of Baelor, where Father's head had stained the steps scarlet with sin, the city chanted for his lands, his place, his people. They chanted for his daughters, for his son, and for the future he offered them.

For you, Father, she thought.

And as the crowd roared, Daenerys smiled, and Tyrion watched her with confusion etched across his scarred face, Sansa could not help the happy grin from slipping onto her own.

"When I am Queen," she said to herself, not bothering to whisper the words. They would never be heard over the roar of the crowd. Not even by Jon. "I will make them love me."

"North!" they cried. "North! North! North!"

#

She was sat upon her sand steed, staring down at the ruins of the Dragon Gate. 300 years before, Aegon the Conquerer had sat upon his dragon in this very spot. No more than two moons before, it had been Dornishmen. Nine years before, it had been Sansa, riding the wrong way. Sansa, and Father, and Arya, and all those who came with them. All who died somewhere along the way.

My people, Edmure called his men. But they that followed them south were her men. The ones who had died. The ones she had never thought to mourn for. She didn't even remember their names.

It has been many long years, Sansa thought. I was a girl. A child. I could not expect to remember them all.

She would remember these people though. The thousands who were gathered behind her. Once, she had imagined leaving this city with an army of her own set to follow, each cloaked in the finest gold and wearing the finest silver suits, waving Valyrian steel high in the air as they rode off on horseback. The people that followed here now were cloaked in rags and wearing only their skin and hair, armed with no more than their fists and their hunger.

Jon sat beside her atop a horse the color of his cloak. It had been a gift from Dorne, and the sand steeds were faster than any Sansa had ever seen. They had given Sansa her own too – a fiery red like her hair – and one to Arya, and one to Daenerys Targaryen. Daenerys stood atop the silver now, feet loose in the stirrups, trying to catch a glimpse of the city behind the crowd. Sansa wanted to see just as much, but she would not be so undignified as to stand in her saddle.

Besides, she suspected she might fall if she did, and a good queen did not fall on her first ride in a crown, even if the crown was made of ash.

Uncle rode beside her, his charger colored with red and blue banners. His flag rode in behind him, the silver trout waving in the winter winds. Sansa glanced back at her own – the grey direwolf on white – and Jon's white wolf on grey, and smiled.

She had sown their banners in the nights, guided only by candles, for hours. Every night, she worked, over the long moon since the first meeting in Arya's rooms. It had been tireless work, and her burned hand bled often each night, but it was worth it to see those banners rise again. Had she been a girl again, she might have cried to see it. Had I been a girl again, I might not have cared at all.

"Niece," King Edmure greeted her, happily, "My men are waiting, the people are eager, and the septons have proclaimed the Seven as our scouts. All is well for the ride."

Seven do as they like, she thought. I would prefer men. Still, she smiled. "Have we had word from Hayford?" she asked. Arya and the smith would take shelter there, as they awaited the Northern company's march. When word came of its start, they would make for the Crossroads in, where they would reunite. Sansa would not leave them waiting long, if she could help it. She was stronger within the walls of Winterfell, and she would do anything she could to get there quicker.

"The smith is there." And Arya too. He did not say it, but she heard it all the same.

"Good," Sansa said. "We can ride as soon as-"

"Leaving so soon?"

Tyrion was sat atop a golden destrier, armored in red and gold. His beard had been shorn since she had seen him last, and his clothes were far finer. Silks in place of leathers, and velvets in place of plate. He sat in a saddle much too large for his stature, but he hardly seemed to mind. Tyrion hardly ever seemed to mind anything. Behind him rode his standard-bearer, a boy of no older than nine, who wore clothes just as fine as Tyrion's. A Lannister banner hung high in the air, and, despite her fondness for its master, Sansa hated the sight all the same.

She wondered who had sown it for him. She wondered if anyone had at all. Surely there were enough banners in the castle to supply all of Casterly Rock.

If the sight had discomfited her, it made Uncle furious. He grunted at the standard, spun his charger and drove it forward. He offered her a passing parting and graced Tyrion with a call for his pardons, before he rode off to treat with the Stormlanders.

She hardly noticed his passing. She was busy watching Tyrion. In fact, she was so focused on him, she hardly even noticed the crowd pushing past her and heading for the gates. Jon had already left, and Daenerys with him, but Sansa did not care enough to look where exactly they had gone.

"My lady not-wife leaves for Winterfell, I hear," the king told her. "I am disgraced to hear she wished to go without offering her lord not-husband a passing farewell."

"Did you say goodbye to your queen?"

"After," Tyrion said, easily. "Daenerys has company of her own." He nodded to her, but Sansa didn't bother looking. It was Jon, surely. It was always Jon. In Winterfell, they had caught each other by the lips so often, it had sickened her to see. It calmed some since the Long Night had begun, but now she supposed it was due for a resurgence.

She could hardly blame them. Though the thought of kissing anyone made her skin crawl, she could see the allure in having someone by her side. Not a lover, perhaps, but a friend. Someone she could trust. Besides family, they were precious few of those now. Brienne, Theon, and Sandor had been hers, but they were gone. She had Tyrion, she supposed, but he was leaving too.

"Where are you going now?" she asked him.

His smile split his face. "I told you, didn't I?"

"You'll forgive me if I've forgotten. These past few moons have been…"

"Difficult," he agreed. "I'm to Tarbeck and Castamere. There are wrongs that need righting, and men that need work. Winter is upon us, my lady, and they have no farms to till."

"My lady?"

"Ah, forgive me. Your Grace, Her Queenship." He snickered, and she laughed along with him. "It is a rare thing to see a queen crown herself."

"These are strange times."

"And we are strange people. Offering lordships to butchers." He whistled. "Quite the offer, Your Grace."

"Uncle's idea," she said, "and Arya's."

He frowned. "The girl can speak?"

"Write." She smiled. "Which is something you should be doing."

"Oh?"

She smiled. "I'd be interested to hear of your trials in Tarbeck Hall."

"And I suppose I would be remise not to ask after your trials with the butcher lords."

"They won't all be butchers." Few would, if she had a say in it. She did not think she would find Florians or Aemons in the crowd, but she would certainly find better than a butcher. At least, she hoped she would.

"Yes, I'm sure the pig farmers will serve you well." They laughed together, if only for a moment. Then, his face grew grim. "Send me a raven when you reach Winterfell."

"I doubt there will be any." Maester Wolkan had died in the war with all the rest, and the birds had flown south after Sam Tarly fled to the rookery. The few who had stayed had surely starved, if the wights hadn't gotten to them first.

He hummed. "Then I suppose I will have to send my own. Look for a bird, Your Grace."

"I look forward to it," she said, and she was surprised to find that she truly was. "I wish you well, Your Grace."

"The feeling is mutual, Your Grace."

She did her best to curtsy atop a horse, and he did his best to bow. Both were fumbling attempts at courtesy that made them both laugh more than she might have expected. When she finally rode off, it was with a smile on her face. It was a smile that carried for miles, as she joined Jon, Daenerys, and Uncle at the head of the pack. They rode North. They rode home. They rode away. Away from the city that had taken everything from them, and left them with nothing but anger and steel.

Away from this city that had taken Father. This city that had taken her sister. This city that had taken Uncle Brandon and Grandfather. This city that had taken her innocence and her home. This city that had taken the Stark name and trampled it through the mud, until all any could think of when they heard the name "Stark" was treason and dishonor, when that was everything they were not. This city had taken more than they had to give.

She spun in her saddle to catch a glimpse of the blackened streets and the ashen keep, too grey with dust and snow to be called "Red" any longer.

Her sand steed stepped over the crumbled cobblestone, each step careful as a surge of smallfolk followed her forward. The Dragon Gate loomed overhead, cracked and burned and broken, but standing nonetheless. Like Winterfell, she thought; she hoped. Like us.

Jon shot her a smile as they passed through the other side. A wide expanse of snow and ice and leafless trees greeted them, glittering white with the silver snowfall flittering down from the branches with each twinge of wind. So far south, the bright winter sun caught in the clouds so perfectly, leaving the world the pinnacle of a Northern summer snow, and, for a moment, it was all she could do not to break down in tears.

Oh, there were corpses as far as she could see, piled in places and left untouched in others. In some, she could see claw marks and places where teeth had torn through flesh. Black blood pooled around them, and splatters of it coated beneath the snows. But, as the smallfolk came to fill the fields, the bodies blended in the scenery, and all there was were people. Northern people now.

My people, she thought, and it filled her with a pride she never thought she would feel. Mayhaps that was why Uncle cared so much for them. They are mine, and I will keep them safe. The way I couldn't for Brienne. The way I couldn't for any of them.

The ones who were not hers followed just the same. The Frey survivors, the men of the Riverlands, the scattered people of the Vale, and even some of those of the Westerlands. The Braavosi came too, and the Lorathi, all on their way to Duskendale or Gulltown, White Harbor or Maidenpool. The Blackwater was too filled with scattered burning ships and broken wooden tools, corpses that might rise again, pirates hiding in ice sheets, and the Pentosi and Norvosi making their ways back home.

The world was riding with them, and none of them against.

Daenerys drove her steed into a canter and then into a gallop. Though the horse could not have run often in snows in its time in Dorne, it must have grown used to the unsteady ground in the time since. Not once did it slip. Not once did it lose its footing. Not once did it falter at all. Nor did Jon's, as he raced to catch his woman, laughing and smiling all the while.

Sansa stayed with Uncle Edmure. Sansa stayed with her people. Her smile did not fade. Not once.

A/N: That's right! We have finished our last chapter in King's Landing! Woo! And the smallfolk have somewhere to go and potential opportunities, should they not like their new rulers! Woo!

So, for anyone who asks: no, Jon Stark was not the plan. According to my outline, it was supposed to happen eight or ten chapters from now. I guess Sansa didn't agree, because man that was unexpected. Dammit, impulsive writing style!

What the plan initially was involved smallfolk taking refuge in the North with the potential for them to rise as lords. Still feudalism, but beginning to show greater respect towards the smallfolk, as the best among them can earn positions. Whether this will revert to familial succession, or if this will remain the system for as long as the Starks rule the North, is a question for after winter. I don't think they've settled on that just yet. But that was the initial plan, so now we've all that and Jon Stark forced his way in much too soon.

Anyway, another time skip next time, because Dany really wants to go visit Rhaegal, so she'll be taking a bit of a detour next chapter, while the Stark forces travel North, and I avoid a travelogue. Oh, and a certain thing people have been looking forward to for a little bit will happen. See you then!