The crypts of Winterfell were dark and cold.
A line of stone statues lined both sides of the crypts, dimmer and dimmer until they vanished into the utter darkness beyond. She reached for Needle, but only an empty scabbard greeted her left hand.
"Is she ready?"
"Wh… who are you?" Arya's voice trembled in fright. All she heard was the echo of her voice.
"She's still not ready." Another voice, one far too familiar to her. Robb? Arya turned. His statue had a direwolf for its head, ringed by a necklace of blood. A stone boot trod over a lion's broken neck.
"There's something she must first see, before she faces the dangers ahead." Her father's voice, as cold as the iron sword that lay across his stone lap.
Danger? How could she face danger without a sword? Arya wondered. Maybe she could borrow a sword off her brother, or father, or one of her many ancestors.
"You can take this one." It was Brandon Stark this time. The statue was of her uncle's, next to the statue of Lord Rickard Stark her grandfather, but the voice was of her brother's, as soothing as rustling autumn leaves. Bran? Arya half-whispered. If only the Alexandrians' island had appeared earlier, when Robb had just won Whispering Wood, when Theon had yet to turn cloak, when Bran and Rickon were still back in Winterfell safe and sound. Or maybe even earlier before Father was killed. The Lannisters would have been defeated all the same, but more of her pack would be with her today.
"Take my sword, and take up my cause. Whatever happens, I'll always be by your side. My sister. My Queen."
Her uncle's sword was surprisingly light. It slid smoothly into the scabbard. She would have stayed longer, to talk to her father and brothers, but the mysterious voice spoke again. "Come, child. The shadows of the past may be beautiful, but they shall all melt away at the rising of the sun. Dawn fast approaches. I cannot wait for much longer."
Arya gave the statues one last look. One day she would have proper statues made of them all, of Mother and little Rickon too, resting side by side just like the statues of her grandfather and aunt and uncle.
She crept on, down past the Lords of Winterfell whose tombs lined the crypt. This one was of William Stark, who died fighting the wildlings at Long Lake. That one was of Cregan Stark, the lord who marched the North's hosts into King's Landing during the Dance of the Dragons and all but ruled the city for six days.
She crept past the statue of Torrhen Stark, the King who knelt, the last ruler of an independent North before her brother. More tombs lay ahead, those of Kings rather than Lords, though the statues still looked mostly the same. King Harlon Stark, who besieged the Dreadfort when the Boltons rose in rebellion. Kings Robb, Rodrik, so many Brandons that she lost count of them all. King Theon Stark, who drove Andal and Ironborn from the North's shores alike. King Rickard Stark, who extended Winterfell's rule to the Neck. King Jon Stark, who built the Wolf's Den to guard the White Knife against raiders.
The kings' swords in their stoney hands began to grow shorter, more rust than iron. A few had no swords at all, the blades having crumbled into dust long ago, leaving only red stains barely visible in the darkness.
Still Arya crept on. The kings held swords again, dull green swords engraved with runes so ancient that Arya could not read them at all.
"Nearly there…"
At the end of the crypts was a statue with a drawn iron sword, blood-coloured rust spilling down from its blade. Behind him, light spilled from the edges of two bronze doors. She pushed on one of the doors, but it did not bulge, so she leaned on it as hard as she could. Finally the door began to swing, inch by inch, into a hall of such splendour that even the Red Keep's great hall seemed little more than a mud hut. A huge warrior stood guard. The painted hand on the shield he bore was as green as the vines in his crown.
Six ghosts stood on both sides of the hall. With pale flaming swords, they guarded the nine burning cauldrons in the middle of the room. Their hair were of silver and gold, their eyes gleaming like jewels and stones, of pearl and jade, of tourmaline and onyx, of topaz and opal. And at the end of the hall was a golden throne upon which sat a man whose blood-red eyes blazed as fiercely as the sword in his hand.
"Ah, you have arrived."
The man stood up from his throne. Arya shivered as the man approached, his footsteps thundering, until he stood so close from Arya that she should have felt the warm air from his nostrils. Yet the air was still.
Finally his lips parted. "I greet thee, Brandon's heir, daughter of heroes. Remember what you have seen today."
He curtly nodded and raised his sword in salute.
Then the world began to spin…
Arya could hear the curtains being drawn back, and feel the warmth of the rising sun on her face. She slowly opened her eyes. The clothes she would soon wear for her coronation were neatly laid out near the wardrobe. Her sword too, but not Needle. The Blackfish had presented her with a Valyrian steel sword when they were rehearsing for the coronation two days ago. "This is Retribution, your royal sword made from your father's Ice," he had told her. "You can still wear Needle most of the time, but you will wear this for your crowning, and in the future when you are dealing with state matters as our Queen."
After drawing open the curtains, Karl walked towards her with a small table in his uninjured arm.
"Breakfast, Lady Queen," he playfully announced, his sapphire eye twinkling as he set the table on Arya's bed. Two servants came into the room and put a food-laden tray onto the table. "Toast, sliced ham, and eggs served the sunny side up, straight from our Alexandrian chefs. And some orange juice for you too. Are you ready for today?"
Arya took a small sip of the orange juice. "I… I think I am," she said unsteadily. Was she still in her dreams? Everyone seemed to be asking the same question over and over again. She reached out and pinched Karl on the forearm.
Karl gingerly drew back his arm. "Ow! What was that for?"
"I thought I was still dreaming. Sorry," she replied.
"So do I. I sometimes think I'm still dreaming too," Karl said softly. And Arya knew why. For all the misfortunes that she and her family suffered ever since King Robert's entourage arrived at Winterfell, and the chaos that had engulfed Westeros shortly afterwards, it was still her world, her land. And there were always places in the world where people still lived in peace. Braavos, the other Free Cities, perhaps even Qarth and Yi-Ti in the east. But Karl's people were exiles from another world altogether, a broken world that had been overrun by the wights Karl called 'walkers', nearly as horrible as the Long Night in Old Nan's tales. And now they were whisked to another world altogether, where every inch of soil beyond their isle was strange to them.
"Do you ever wonder what happened to the world that your people left behind?" Arya asked.
Karl shrugged. "What's there to happen? You need people for things to happen, and most of my world is just a burnt-out husk anyway. Not all of course," he added, "but every settlement we knew of came along to your world. Oh, and speaking of our settlements," Karl drew a pistol from its holster. Not the usual Alexandrian gun, but a larger one of Westerosi make, the matchlock Lord Manderly said he would order for Arya's betrothed engraved with the initials KG. "I know names work a bit differently in Westeros, and I will go by Karlon, or Karl with a 'K' when in the North or other places this side of the God's Eye. But the Alexandrians and I spell my name with a C. Some other names are a bit different as well. Dad's just 'Rick' to us."
Servants came into the room again, this time with a chair and a table which they set beside Arya's bed. Then they put another breakfast tray on the table. "Thank you," Carl told them before dismissing them from the room.
"I'll go get changed for the coronation. Enjoy your breakfast with Sansa," He opened the door and walked out, then Sansa entered the room.
Arya broke her fast with Sansa, then it took more than an hour to get dressed and for her hair to be carefully braided. Finally it was done.
"Aww, look at you!" Sansa gently smoothed the last strands on Arya's head, the head on which Robb's crown would soon rest on. "Father would be proud. And mother too. And Robb and Bran and Rickon. If only they were here-"
Sansa reached forward and hugged her sister. "We still have each other," she soothed, gently dabbling at Arya's tears with her sleeve. "You may be our queen now, but I'm still your older sister, so you can come to me if you need anything. And there Jon at the Wall too. When all this is over, we should go to the Wall and visit him," she added. "I wish I was warmer to him before all... this happened. And I wish I wasn't so nasty to you as well. What was I thinking back then? Why was I so stupid? Why did I defend Joffrey instead of you?" Sansa asked in a choking voice, as frail as the crumbly lemon cakes a lady-in-waiting brought into the room and set on the table.
It was Arya's turn to hug Sansa, to wipe away her tears. "You didn't know better back then. Not even I knew Joffrey was that bad. Nor did Father, or he would never have allowed that match. I'll even forgive you for calling me horseface," Arya let out a little laugh. "Maybe we can ask Carl later, and he'll tell us whether I look like a horse. But I guess it doesn't matter anymore."
"It doesn't," Sansa agreed. "Not after the day we left Winterfell."
"I suppose so." That was the last day House Stark was whole, when Arya was still with her pack. Then Jon went off to the Wall. Father went south to serve as the King's Hand, with Sansa following him so that she could be wedded to Joffrey, and Arya herself went too. Mother and Robb and Bran and Rickon stayed behind at Winterfell. And now all four were dead, Mother and Robb slain at the Red Wedding, Bran and Rickon killed by Theon himself when he betrayed Robb and took Winterfell. Arya wondered what she would do to Theon if they ever came face to face again. Will I kill him? She wondered. Father may have raised Theon alongside Arya and her siblings, but he still killed her brothers all the same.
Over the lemon cakes, Arya spoke of her wanderings in the Riverlands, how she had escaped King's Landing with the Night's Watch recruits, her pack dwindling until even Gendry and Hot Pie left her. Of being captured by the Mountain's men along the way, then escaping Harrenhal before they were captured again by the Brotherhood without banners, before Arya herself was stolen away by the Hound. Of the Red Wedding, and fleeing south to the Inn before running into a strange boy who slew the fleeing Mountain's men. Then… the rest, perhaps, was history.
In turn, Sansa shared the many trials she had suffered under Joffrey and the Lannisters. Arya patiently listened to her sister's tales, but Arya's eyes widened when Sansa talked of being wedded with Tyrion.
"Did the Imp-"
"Thankfully not. He was not unkind, unlike many of the other Lannisters. Tywin wanted him to sire a child on me, but Tyrion refused to share my bed unless I would agree to it. The High Septon has annulled my marriage, it would have been much harder if not impossible had the Imp bedded me." Sansa let out a pained little laugh. "I came to King's Landing expecting to one day marry a handsome prince. All I got were beatings and threats of being taken against my will. At least your Carl is anything but like Joffrey. I hope your luck will be better than mine."
Any further conversation was interrupted by a sharp knock at the door.
Another playful knock again. "Ladies."
"Carl, come in," said Sansa.
Carl stood at the doors in front of the Great Hall, flanked by two guards in Stark livery. He was wearing a black shortcoat, black breeches, black shoes, and a black scabbard holding Restitution, the other Valyrian steel sword made from Ice. Even black socks too, Arya saw when he walked into the room. Only the plaster around his healing arm and the shirt he wore were white, with a piece of knotted black cloth hanging from his collar. His hair was carefully combed back, a far cry from the 'wild bird's nest' Sansa often playfully referred to it as. Not that Arya's hair was normally much better, of course. Today was different.
"Everything ready? Let's not keep the guests waiting for too long," Arya's 'handsome prince' beckoned them along.
The entourage grew larger as they approached the Great Hall. Two ranks of musketeers fell in behind the youngsters when they left Maegor's Holdfast, followed by a few more spearmen. Carl drew his sword and fell into place behind Arya, just as they had practiced before.
"Speak slowly when you read out your speech, so that your words won't tumble over each other and everyone can hear you," Sansa advised in a hushed voice. Arya already more than remembered every word of the speech that was written by the Blackfish and the Alexandrians' 'master of laws', a kind lady whose skin was as dark as a Summer Islander's.
The Great Hall was looming over them now. Once the seat of power of the North's oppressors, and more recently the site of their foes' ultimate defeat.
Two massive doors lay in front of them. They waited.
Arya looked behind at her companions. Carl looked more serious than he had ever been, his drawn Valyrian steel sword held upright. Sansa presented a careful smile.
The doors opened.
Arya took a deep breath. "Let's go."
The Great Hall was more crowded than Arya had ever seen.
On the left stood the Northmen and Riverlanders. Arya spotted the banners of Tully and Manderly, of Vance and Piper, of the Westerlings and many other houses great and small. On the right, the Crownlanders and Alexandrians, bearing the stars-and-stripes and those of the Crownlander houses, as well as three unfamiliar designs she had not seen before. These must be those of the local Alexandrian lords, she guessed. The Alexandrians themselves wore similar dark clothing to what Carl wore now. Some had differently coloured ties, or blue instead of black, or skirts and stockings instead of breeches, yet it was clearly of the same design.
But there was no time to examine it more closely. The procession inched its way along the narrow opening that parted the sea of spectators, and the forest of flags.
In the centre of the hall was a makeshift pile, of gold-red standards and crimson cloaks, even bits and pieces of armour with blood still on them. On top of the pile lay an altar nearly as high as Arya was tall, of chipped swords and dulled spears, shattered bows and broken crossbows, even a bent pike or two, every one of them taken from a slain or surrendered foe. And on top of the massive altar, on a grey cushion, rested Robb's hard-won crown.
The crown was a simple thing of bronze and iron, unlike the fancy crowns of gold and jewelry borne by the southron kings. Nine sword-like spikes surrounded the open circlet, warning all its observers of the… consequences of injuring the North.
Why were the gods so unfair? Arya wondered as the procession came to a stop in front of the altar. It should have been Robb who marched triumphantly into King's Landing, it should have been Robb who would rule the North wisely and peacefully now that his wars had been fought. Or marched his hosts to the Wall to deal with the wildlings. Instead Arya would be the one to wear his crown, fight his wars, rule his lands as best as she could.
"This was made to fit Robb. He should have been the one wearing it. Surely it's too big for my head…" She whispered to Sansa.
"You'll do just fine," Sansa whispered back. The elder Stark reverently picked up the cushion on which the crown rested. "I will always support you. The Blackfish and Lord Manderly will always support you. All our soldiers here will always support you. And Carl here will always support you."
"Damn right I shall," Carl whispered back. He leaned back slightly, revealing an Alexandrian pistol. "We will crown Arya now. Does anyone want to… disagree?" he asked out loud. His soprano voice echoed throughout the Hall.
The crowd laughed. Including all of Carl's friends, their Alexandrian guns near their instruments. The several Alexandrians manning the volley gun, resting on the dias and just before the Iron Throne itself. The rest of the Alexandrians too, each and every one also armed with a gun, the rifles that painted this very room's floors red only weeks ago. And at least as many Northmen and Riverlander musketeers, match-fuses dimly burning on top of their matchlocks. Arya could not think of anywhere in the whole world with more guns at the same place, save perhaps somewhere in Alexandria's own armouries.
"Nobody objects? O-kay then. Salute!" Carl's sword clumsily swung down.
The volley gun fired. Grey smoke spewed from its many barrels, as grey as the direwolf of Stark on the massive flag that now hung above the Iron Throne. But the flag had a blue stripe below it, and a blue star shining upon the white snows where the direwolf prowled, and the flag bore the name of the realm which House Stark had faithfully defended for eight thousand years. The Kingdom of the North.
The smoke cleared. The procession continued, skirting around the gear of their defeated enemies. Manderly had wanted the westermen's cloaks and banners laid flat so that the procession could walk upon them, but the Blackfish had disagreed. "We had already done that when entering the city, and there are better ways of provoking the southrons when we need to," Arya's great-uncle had argued.
And not this day, the Blackfish had also stated. It was Arya's day after all. Though the Lannisters' defeat would be plain for all to see, the coronation was chiefly to celebrate the North's victory, and the prosperous and civilised realm that would soon flower north of the Trident.
Behind the now vacated volley gun, the Blackfish stood with a small parchment in his hand, Lord Manderly observing by his left side. And to his right, the dark-skinned Alexandrian woman who helped prepare the coronation set up one of their 'microphones' in front of the Blackfish.
The procession came to a halt. Arya stepped forwards, towards her great-uncle and the 'microphone'. Sansa on her left, Carl to her right.
Arya of House Stark, sister of King Robb Stark the Young Wolf, will you protect the rights of the North and of the Trident, and of the loyal peoples who reside within, lords and smallfolk alike? The Blackfish asked.
Yes, I shall, Arya promised.
Arya of House Stark, will you preserve the peace? Will you defend the independence of the lands north of the Trident river, on the united strength of our realm's people?
Yes, I shall.
Arya of House Stark, will you accept the crown, and take on its dignities and duties, so that the Northmen and Rivermen will be allowed to enjoy the rewards of our struggles, against the tyranny of the Iron Throne and that of the false kings and lords who made to ruin our realm ere the Seven Kingdoms were overthrown?
Yes, I shall.
And so it is done, the Blackfish declared. May the gods old and new grant you and your successors a multitude of our current wealth and splendour, not in the deeds of war, but in the gifts of peace, to the benefit of our realm and the freedom of our peoples.
Sansa stepped forwards, her hands still bearing the grey cushion on which the crown rested. She stopped in front of the Blackfish as they had practiced several times, but the Blackfish motioned to Carl instead. "This victory is yours, boy. Alexandrian by blood, Northman by deed. You will have the honour to crown our queen today."
"Thanks, Ser Brynden." With a nod to Sansa, Carl sheathed his sword then picked up the crown with his good hand. He gently rested it on Arya's head.
To Arya's surprise, Robb's crown fit onto her head. Not perfectly, but well enough that it was not too uncomfortable anyway.
Then Arya stepped before the Alexandrian 'microphone'. She fished out a small piece of parchment from her sleeve, and read out the message the Northmen and their Alexandrian allies had so carefully prepared.
"To the lords and smallfolk of the North and the Trident, and any lands that may yet join our realm, I pledge to uphold your ancient freedoms and liberties, to rule each land as befitting its laws and customs. To convene a Great Council of loyal bannermen, so that voices may be heard from every corner of the Kingdom on matters that affect the whole realm."
"To the Alexandrians we vow our everlasting friendship. The North remembers those who aided us in our greatest hour of need, a debt that shall one day be repaid hundredfold when the right time comes. When our sons and daughters ask us how the North was won, the name Grimes will proudly take its place in our histories and myths."
"To Lords Walder Frey and Roose Bolton, and all who were involved in the murder of King Robb Stark against the sacred rights of these lands, and all those who give them aid or shelter from this day henceforth, I pledge the Northern crown shall uphold their ancient freedoms, liberties, and honors. Freedom of their heads from the rest of their bodies, liberties of their Houses from the burdens of noble rank. The honor of joining the Reynes of Castamere and Tarbecks of Tarbeck Hall, as the Westerlanders say. The Alexandrians say that revenge is a dish best served cold, and to this I add my House's words. Winter is Coming."
Silence.
Then came a deafening 'yea', rattling the high windows above the Great Hall where sunlight shone through. The orchestra started playing a serene tune, the tune the Alexandrians called 'Finlandia' or 'Be Still, My Soul', when the Northmen observed one of the Alexandrians' religious services at their newly set up 'church' inside Maegor's Holdfast.
Arya slowly climbed up the stairs to the Iron Throne on which the North's foes had once sat. The North's new anthem crescendoed, the Northmen singing in voices rough or silky, loud or small.
Northmen behold, the Ice Dragon's eye calling
Back home it leads, even as darkness falls
Our rivers clear, through the great Wolfswood sprawling
From Stony Shore, to Winterfell's stark halls
And rolling hills, where our forebears were toiling
To build the North, a kingdom for us all
Northmen arise, the night of winter's coming
Our foes tremble, when we break treachery's yoke
For every wrong, they know the North's rememb'ring
The Twins of Frey, no more than ash and smoke
The Young Wolf's creed, from the embers echoing
Shall build the North, a kingdom full of hope
When Winter's crown, falls upon the blessed North
There comes a day, when every man's well fed
A land of hope, where the First Men have come forth
A land of grace, where Andal feet have tread
In their footsteps, a land free of our foes' wroth
We'll build the North, for which we fought and bled
A rapturous cheer erupted when Queen Arya of House Stark finally sat on the throne, a thousand Northern blades stabbed towards the arched ceiling.
The cheer came again, clapping and hollering, more sword-waving. And then came the collective cry:
"The Queen in the North!"
"The Queen in the North!"
"THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH!"
~ End of Act 1.0 ~
[A/N: Replying to some earlier comments.]
luffyssjg: Bran and Rickon's respective situations should be addressed in the upcoming story arc.
grievousrommel: The Seven Kingdoms' monarchy had effectively disintegrated after Carl's raid. As for Rick himself, he didn't crown himself king nor did he name Carl to be his hereditary successor as the de facto hegemon; so from some perspectives he had already dissolved the monarchy. As for building a Rome-like republic to be a transition step towards a modern republic - he does not have experience in 'politics' beyond leading a few post-apocalyptic settlements with much lower populations (in the low thousands), his idea for a healthy society differs from both the Roman tradition and modern republics/democracies, and while he has very significant military backing due to Alexandria and especially after recent events, and the Alexandrians are ludicrously rich if they play their cards right, it is still not enough to force his decisions through the Westerosi nobility, especially north of the Trident and south of the Blackwater which are themselves already hundreds of miles away from Alexandria.
The anonymous commentator who keeps commentating on my fics: Thank you very much for your consistent support of this fic; I've always looked forward to reading your detailed commentaries when I'm writing each chapter. And it seems you're quite on-the-mark, though not 100% ofc, when it comes to a lot of the 'foreshadowing' I'm laying down for potential future developments.
To all my readers: Now that the first story arc is over, I might make some small improvements to previous chapters, though nothing that would really change the plot. Thank you for supporting this story, and I hope that it has entertained you enough to be worth your time reading it. And if you have any thoughts, suggestions, opinions do feel free to comment; I cannot guarantee I will take everything on board, but I do read and at least consider what you guys have to say :)