Sansa II
The Great Hall of Harrenhall had not changed in the twenty and five years it would take for her to first step foot in it.
No, wait, no remnants of lion's sigils whatsoever. Other than that, it is the same. Covered in the bats of my great-grandfather's sigils instead. Yellow and purple-black... Just like some of the dresses mother held dear, made by her mother when she was alive. Gods, then my grandmother's brother, Lord Walter Whent is lord here now. Another Great-Uncle, dead before I could meet him.
"Lord Whent has been most gracious to allow us to host the coronation inside his Sept," whispered Princess Elia Martell, as if she was sharing a secret.
She held onto her arm, her beautifully lacquered nails of red curled gently on the inside of Sansa's elbow. The last someone had held onto her in such a manner, it had been her brother Jon. The Queen-to-be hands' were smaller, but surprisingly no less calloused.
"It should be his honor, to hold the coronation of the King and Queen," she said, softly, and blinked at the smile that Elia sent her.
Lovely and warm, and not feigned, as far as Sansa could see.
"Come, you are to sit with us at the high table."
Sansa gave a nod, not surprised.
She thinks of herself made into some sort of symbol of the victory that Prince Rheagar had made over his father when she had emerged from the wildfire. Why else would the Princess dress her in black and red, the colors of his house, in a gown from the Princess's own closet? A beautiful gown, a careful blend of silk and cotton, and scaled designs of red silk thread meant to resemble a dragon's hide, with painted and dancing dragons all almond the hem of the voluminous skirts. Just like the cloak the Prince draped me in. It was a gown of Dornish design as well, with a glimmering belt of what looked like tempered dragon-glass. Rubies glimmered there, as did they glimmer down the bodice and skirts of the full dress. Her hair had been woven with hairpins of more dragonglass and rubies, made in simple put fetching braids of four strands around her temple like a crown, the rest left loose to flow and gleam with the pins.
It was the most decorated Sansa had been in a long time.
Being Queen in a time of scarcity, in Winter, had left little room for such… Frivolity. She remembered vividly the look that Daenerys had sent her way when she had approached the grounds outside in the crown of her brother, Arya's last gift to me, torn away before the wildfire, and a dress of simple black and white embroidery of dancing wolves. A contrast to her splendid gown of lush silks and furs and wools, her strange three dragon crown of jade and jewels glimmering white-gold hair with, of all things, bells...
Sansa blinked, carefully, trying to dispel the image of her would-be murder from her mind.
"We must look too splendid to be ignored," said Elia, lips painted a fetching red, the same red she had placed on Sansa's lips.
She was dressed in a gown that was similar to Sansa's borrowed one, but distinct from her's. Silks in the orange of Dorne, splendid yellow and red streams of flowing fabric so light they danced like fire as if she was the sun itself brought forth. Her jeweled belt was gold and covered in gleaming orange and red gems to look like suns. Her hair was styled similarly to Sansa's, save for the gorgeous golden crown on her head.
Sansa heard the whispers as she and Elia and her lady passed.
Maiden of Fire. Witch. I have become this to these people. Do they think me the next woodswitch, to cast prophecy? Am I the settlement of the Kingship that never passed? Did not the ink dry, Bran? Somehow, I think calling myself Sansa Stark, the future daughter of the North will be less believable than calling myself their Maiden of Fire. I cannot say a word of my queenship. It has been lost to me again.
"My love," said Prince Rheagar, beaming at the sight of them.
He was handsome. Sansa could not deny that, and she could see why her Aunt Lyanna feld marriage to Robert Baratheon to be in his arms. She cannot understand, however, how Rheagar had left his wife for her. He seemed truly, and utterly in love. It was only a year until her Aunt's 'kidnapping' and no strife seemed evident. As much as she could pull together from Elia's words before their nap, Prince Aegon, Young Griff, had yet to be born or conceived. She had only spoken of her beloved daughter. So their love would not wane in any time frame that made sense. Perhaps it was not as many guessed. Perhaps as the Conqueror King of old, he took two wives. Jon wasn't a bastard in the end, but the document of his parents' marriage made no mention of Elia.
"My King," Princess Elia returned, smiling wider.
Elia let go of her arm, and Sansa felt herself relax at the distance. And stared unabashedly as the apparent King and Queen moved together. Intimacy and love, an echo of what she vaguely remembered of her parents. So distant a memory. But it further confirmed her theory that Elia had allowed Lyanna to marry her husband. Why else would she be hidden in the Princess's homeland? Sansa wondered what would happen now. The ink, like Bran would say, is not yet dry. It has been smudged and drawn into a different tale, a new hymn is being sung by the coming of Sansa Stark once Queen…
And then the King to be turned to Sansa.
Eyes, indigo, lovely, the same shape as Jon's. She had never noticed it to be different from their family. But she saw the shape of his cheekbones, the curve of his brow in the King's face. She watched his lips part ever so slightly, and realized Jon's were like them too, but thinner, more Stark-like in fullness.
"My lady," his voice was smooth and deep, and Sansa knew in song it would be perfect. No wonder her aunt had wept when he sang.
She moved to her knees, courteous and careful. Lowered her head when she had vowed to never do so again once she was crowned. But this was a different game, and she had just become the weakest player on a field she did not know. Alone, friendless, with only the charity of the people in power. And Sansa knew without a doubt she was at this man's mercy. At the mercy of another foreign King with her kin lost from her.
Please. Please be as kind as some stories claimed, the stupidest part of her, the one who still chirped and sang, covered in feathers, pleaded quietly.
"Your Grace."
He startled her greatly by reaching for her shoulders, near kneeling himself. He is taller than Jon and Griff. He pulled her to her feet with a gentleness that reminded her of the fragility of his Mother in wake of her treatment from the Mad King. And much like his wife, he brought his arm to the crevice of her elbow. His hand was larger than Jon's. Elia flanked her other side, her own arm coming to twine with her's again. They began to walk. Sansa could do nothing but follow. Like much of her life, eyes followed her every step.
"Was your rest enough? Elia mentioned you were both to sleep until the feast," his voice was concerned, and he seemed genuine in it.
Sansa was not so easily swayed by the man's impression. She had not slept, at all, next to the princess of Dorne. Only closed her eyes and waited with feigned relaxation until it was time to dress.
"I am well, your Grace," she returned, careful, and precise.
"My name is Rheagar," he said invitingly.
She thought of Rheagal then. Gentle jade-green dragon her brother rode. Their supple scales touched with glimmering bronze. Eyes as intelligent as Ghost's. She thought of riding that dragon with Jon grinning the entire time as she screamed most inelegantly and then whooped as she never had before. Sansa never thought she would fly, yet she had, atop a dragon with her siblings, Arya clinging to her back and her to Jon's as he steered. Rickon had been laughing. Bran had cried with emotion of sorrow or joy that he had forgotten how to express-
Sansa blinked.
"Yes, King Rhaegar, I know of it."
He frowned, and then his hand squeezed her arm gently as they reached the high table. They stayed silent, and Sansa did not say a word to the great uncle she had never met beyond basic pleasantries. Though she did note that her cheekbones had come from his family. Her mother's and Arya's had looked just like that. She did not flinch as most of Westeros stared unabashedly at them. She had never heard a crowd so silent. Save perhaps when Queen Daenerys had announced, again, with her nephew-husband Griff, at her side, she was the Queen of all the Kingdoms before wrenching the crown from Sansa's head.
"I was told your name is Sansa," The now King said, carefully, as he extended both the chair of the new queen, and her's, "Yet I have not been told of your House."
House Stark. I am of House Stark. Sansa took a breath.
"I am not of the Seven Kingdoms. You would not know it. Thank you," she said, as she sat on the chair he extended to her. At his right.
I am not. I am of the kingdom of the North, the Highlands as we had thought to call it, the three kingdoms as it is yet to be, and you shall never know it. Every lie is sweeter with the truth.
His wife was placed next to her. She tried not to think as to why.
"You are of… Essos?"
He sat elegantly but with carelessness. His gaze did not turn to the hall and stayed on her.
"Beyond."
Beyond time of it.
"Your House name?"
Sansa thought, careful and wondering in a single second. And made herself smile easily. With pride, for perhaps she could make something still her's. She was tired. And it would not do to lose her name again. Never again would she turn to Stone, or anything but who she was.
"Stark. I am of House Stark of the Kingdom of the Highlands," she said smoothly.
He stared.
"Sansa of House Stark. Sansa Stark."
The name, like always, sounded of a melody. It was why her father had chosen it, and why her mother had approved of the Northern name.
"Yes. Descendant of what you call first men and andals, King of Westeros. Our history tells of our ancestors landing in your North, gaining their gods before they went beyond in the Age of Heroes."
There. Wherever I am taken after this, I will be able to pray to the gods of my father, in peace. His brow furrowed. Believe me, believe me.
"And your words?"
"Winter is Coming," she said, simply, as it was the only thing she could think to be true. Winter always came.
As did the Snow.
Snow had always come for Sansa. Summer snow in Winterfell. Snow on the cliff edges of the Vale. She wished now the brother that refused to be called by any other name but Snow would indeed, come for her again. She had gone to him, once, fled her second wedding with gallant Harry of the Vale with the demand of his armies instead. Demands of fealty to the ties of blood through her and her cousin Robbert, and to care for her poor cousin poisoned to near-death by the man keeping her prisoner.
Ser Harry had been moved, and incensed when she had told him of plots from the acting Lord of the Vale, and promised to save her with no marriage at all. A miracle, or perhaps a debt he wished to collect upon if he had lived beyond the Battle of Bastards. Her maiden's cloak of Stark grey still on her back, warm with the blood of the man who called himself the father of Alayne Stone had become her banner...
She wished to laugh. To scream.
Winter is Coming. Family, Duty, Honor. As High as Honor... My pack, do not fail me as you had before.
"Winter is Coming. The same words of our House Stark."
She did not flinch. Only furrowed her brows.
"... A House of your North?"
"Yes. The House of Stark, Wardens of the North, Winter is Coming. Perhaps you share a common ancestor if you share your name and words. You know of the Seven Kingdoms?"
She shifted.
"News comes to us but rarely. We are a self-sustaining Kingdom, and I think we rarely do trade. But occasionally ships come from afar. I think we last heard of your wedding with the Princess of Dorne."
"I have never heard of your kingdom."
Of course, you haven't! It has yet to exist.
"We are not grand nor rich. And we are far from even Essos. We do not encourage outsiders."
"Who rules your people?" His voice sounded fascinating.
Sansa refused to name herself a queen. Did not like the nature of the conqueror she had seen evident in this man's sister. The same blood ran through this man's veins. And though he would no doubt be plagued and busy with the ruling of the Seven Kingdoms, she would sooner die than be a bargaining chip in his eyes. Let him keep his Maiden of Fire, his powerless symbol of magic and kingship, she would keep her true homeland safe and no one would ever know of her origins. He could never reach her Highlands, anyway, but Sansa had lived this long by keeping her tongue.
"King Crow."
He was, after all, my heir. Bran considered himself no longer a Stark. Arya refused, and Rickon was barely beyond six. I could trust no other with the North.
Indigo eyes blinked. A charming half-smile appeared on his face, a touch quizzical.
"Crow?"
"A title given to our King in his youth, I believe. His given name was Jaehaerys," she replied.
She had called desperately for Jon when she had first arrived in the past. It wouldn't do to claim herself sister to a King. She was already on shaky ground to have kept herself a Stark.
"That is of Valerian origin," said the King, sitting up just a touch straighter.
She gave a careless shrug.
"His father was of Valerian descent, I believe."
"King Jaehaerys the Crow, curious. And his House?"
Sansa shifted.
"The King had no House," beyond mine,"Our monarch had been chosen after years of political strife with a faulty dynasty… He was originally a bastard named Snow. But he defended the Highlands with honor and duty, and our people felt him the best choice."
And they had. Until her brother had looked at her and made himself instead the Queen-maker, kneeled at her stunned feet and called her his queen instead.
"A thing you seem adept at, choosing a monarch. Your coming has made me a King, my lady."
And Sansa knew then, he would never let her be free in this strange, twisted version of the past.