Strength

"The real man smiles in trouble, gathers strength from distress, and grows brave by reflection," Thomas Paine.

The sound of steel against steel has something in Sansa's stomach twisting, sharply, a feeling so strong she feels bile rise in her throat, crawling its way with a burn. It wasn't an unfamiliar sound. In fact, until recently, Sansa had thought the sound so commonplace, so integral to the Force of the North that she had dismissed it. Hardly ever registered it as men and women trained in vain to try and save humanity from the death brought by the Second Long Night. She knows not, now, in the body of child how that sound had become so sinister within the light of the sun she so long missed.

Perhaps, in her body of twenty namedays, she had been able to suppress her ill feelings so much better, honed, a cool mask that she had earned. Perhaps in the wake of the peace of the Winterfell before they came had allowed these fears, these anxieties buried down deep to rise to the surface. To plague her more vividly.

Sansa found that none of these reasons really mattered to her. All she knew is that her jaw is clenched so tightly she felt the ache all the way to her temples. Breathing through her nose was soft and forcibly slow, and her hands were clenched in a mummer's show of a demure clasp in her lap. Knuckles white, hands trembling with the strain. Her eyes blinked rapidly, the memories of steel against her delicate flesh, of moments of the camp of the North against the Others muddled together in rapid succession:

The sound of steel against her flesh was too familiar to her. The sharp whistle of the sword as it was swung rang in Sansa's ears, followed by the dull thud of the flat of the blade smacking against her bareback. It rang in her ears again and again. The series of blows was a mixture of a dull, deep-seated ache that rattled her teeth in her skull and the sharp pain of the sharp sides of the sword pressing into her skin. She breathed deeply as she dared, trying not to move too much as the blows kept coming, as she felt her blood start to well up, a hot sticky trickle down her back.

She was strangely numb to this at this point. Even the showing of her breasts to green eyes made her feel… Nothing. The shame of before, the sheer hatred at this forced humiliation was gone. All she felt absently was the tears that she still shed as the blade hit against her back, again and again, an echo of the sensation of her blood going down her back. She cannot stop the tears. It is a reaction of her body against pain, natural and all too sweet for him. He watches it all, a look of faked solemnity as he proclaims her a victim of traitor's blood.

Sansa stares wordlessly ahead, through her tears, voicing her hurts with small whimpers and moans that brought those green eyes a new light, new delight at her pain. She faked it, too numb to feel anything really, but knowing too well what her part was. Staying silent made Joffrey furious, made him push his Kingsguard into swinging their blades harder. So she performs for him, makes the noises, just another mask she wears to protect herself. Eyes, hundreds of eyes of the court stared at her, some looked away, but most did not. Most looked with hungry eyes at her rosy nipples, curiously morbid and awed at the way her once smooth and creamy flesh of her back was turn molten and purple, shades of green and yellow of healing bruises fading, the red inflamed flesh of ill healing, the crimson of blood flowing down it all in delicate trails.

Sansa forced herself to blink, to breath deeply.

Brienne's Oathkeeper landed harshly against the neck of a Wright, cleaving it cleaning from its shoulders. It was a dull, cracking sound. Sansa felt the urge to wrinkle her nose in disgust, as chips of frozen blood fell onto her face, as she watched those unnatural eyes glow blue and cold. Brienne smashes its head beneath her large boot in the following movement. She brushes off the blood with impatient, gloved fingertips, trying not to scream as Jaime Lannister gripped her arm, pushing her harshly off of her mount in a desperate move. She lands on her feet, not quite nimble, stumbling away from her nameless horse. His lone hand is quick to reach for his blade, drawing it with a sharp sound that rings for a fraction of a second before he hacks into the incoming Wrights who had attacked her horse in horrifying quickness.

The poor beast is spared but sports long red gashes across its side. Sansa moves forward and smacks it across its rump, sending it riding ahead as soon as she assesses that it would not be able to carry any of them to safety. She hopes it makes it back to the gates, leagues away. Jon and Arya alike would recognize the horse she had begun to favor if anything. Around her, the outer people of the camp gather as many weapons as they can, torches and axes and swords. Women and men alike come forward, sounding alarms at the newest attack. She is thankful she had chosen to keep the children within the relative safety of the walls of Winterfell.

"Their patrols are getting too close to the outer camp," cried Brienne, lips red and chapped from the cold so common now, part in anger, "You should not have risked yourself, my Queen!"

Sansa bites back the snarl in her throat as she watches the monsters come in greater numbers. Her trips to Wintertown within the walls of Winterfell to distribute supplies were commonplace, but it was not enough. She knew that the people outside of the walls resented those within, unrest clear and desertion a problem that they could not afford. But there were so many. In its semi-ruined state, there was no way that they could house every person who was fleeing from beyond the remains of the Wall. The Free-Folk, those few survivors from the Night's Watch, not to mention the Houses from across the Seven Kingdoms and the High Queen's own army that had all gathered to Winterfell as a means to stop the Second Long Night. She had begun to go out into the camps in hopes of boosting morale and settling some of the unrest, delivery supplies, and assurances.

"You know as much as I that this was necessary," she tells her sworn shield, her voice, for once, dips in frustration. She loathes to explain herself, least of all to anyone who isn't Jon or Dany or Tyrion.

She knew her limitations as 'Queen'. She knew her title was empty and pending. She knew that she was simply a symbol- the eldest, 'true-blooded' surviving child of Eddard Stark- the gentle child so cruelly kept away from the North. A banner to rabble about, to cry and cheer for. But her duties amongst the people were the largest. High Queen Daenerys, bless her gentle heart, was constantly called foreigner with her commanding and unrelenting fortitude. Too strange, too out of the bounds of normal and acceptable femininity of most of Westeros(And how Sansa admired her for it). Jon, though beloved, was a man and meant to be at the forefront of the war effort in the eyes of many. Such a duty was something that fell to her shoulders, she who despite the circumstances of the recapture of Winterfell, was seen as the gentle Westeros lady, if of the Northern variety.

"The Wench is right, your Grace," said Jaime, his voice, quiet and subdued, "You should no longer make these rounds."

Sansa looks to him, watches as he lifts his forged, steel hand, pointing across the snow.

Blue eyes, not of a Wright stare across the field, a little too tall for a man, even one of giant's descent. Sansa feels her blood turn to ice, at the sight of the Other who commands this platoon of Wrights. Hands tremble a fraction for a second, but she bites the inside of her cheek until she tastes blood, copper, and iron, hot and almost sweet in her mouth.

I am warm and alive yet.

"No," she mummers, half to herself, half to her sworn shields as their blades sing against the frigid air, "That is exactly why I can never stop."

She straightens her already straight shoulders, hand half clasped to the dragon glass dagger within her sleeve. She breathes the frigid air, so cold that it burns her lungs. She relishes that burn relishes how it signaled that she was still alive.

"GLORY FOR KING JON, GLORY FOR QUEEN DAENERYS!" She cries, clear and loud, deep from the pit of her stomach. She has no intention of using her blade unless as a last resort, but she understands the theatrics of raising her own blade high above her head, unsheathing it quickly, watching it glitter in the firelight, "GLORY FOR THE KING AND QUEEN!"

The resulting cry of the campers, despite everything, lighten her heart. They roar, like direwolves in the wind, crying for their King and Queen. When they call her name as well, she is pleased, the simple, twisted bronze circlet on her head never lighter. Iron, steel, fire, and dragon glass sing as they are raised in the air in a cacophony that promised death to the creatures coming to slaughter them all.

"GLORY FOR THE KING AND QUEENS!"

She felt half caught between her memories and the display in front of her. Ice, in all its glory, a dark gleaming beauty, slashed through the air with deadly force. It was such a large blade, so long and board, that in most hands, she knew it would be swinging, slashing mess. No better than a slab of iron or a club. In her father's hands, however, after nearly five and twenty years, Ice was no slab of iron to slash about. It was controlled, precise movements, long-reaching, and powerful strikes even to her somewhat untrained eye. He was power and control, precision and heavy blows. Against Syrio's shorter, thinner blade, it was a large contrast. Syrio danced, about, his untamed blade an extension of himself, a limb that weaved and dipped between the harsher strikes of Ice. He was precision and grace, beauty and death in every light, moving step.

They hardly touched, as Syrio danced around her father, but when they did the sound of steel against steel raised the fine hair on the nape of her neck.

Breath Sansa, a voice, a voice that sounded suspiciously like her King, older and soothing, rang through her head. She took a steadying breath, through her nose, and forced her hands, clasped in front of her, not to tremble, Breath Sansa, a different voice. Higher, steady, the woman Arya had become. Firm and even, Sansa took another breath. It is merely an echo, a comfort to remind her when she had been among people touched with horrors beyond what she had ever expected in her life as a Lady.

She takes strength in those, in the memory of people lost. While she has gained the innocent version of them, the last of her family, the one to stand through their own horrors were forever lost… She was glad for it. So glad to be back in Winterfell and prevent their fates.

But she thinks part of her will always mourn them no matter what.

"Not bad, Eddard Stark," called Syrio, smiling, his white teeth a startling contrast to his darker and tanned skin. He lowered his sword, his nameless blade, and gave a flourishing bow.

Her father said not a word, lowering Ice, his breath rapid as he nodded his agreement to the Former First Sword of Braavos. The only other indication of his pleasure was the slight twitch of his lips to signify his enjoyment, he returned the bow, politely with a shallower movement. Not out of disrespect, but because her father was really that out of breath and could hardly bend at the waist. Arya, beside her, had, unconsciously as the spar had progressed, leaned forward, her grey eyes wide and her small mouth slightly parted in awe. She vibrated in her seat, hands twitching in her impatience.

"That was amazing!" cried Ayra, lunging to her feet. Sansa, despite her own feelings, could not help the smile that appeared on her face at her sister's enthusiasm. Grey eyes sparkled, pale lips parted in awe, and Sansa saw a ghost of the woman she would become, softer than her memories, but just as achingly fierce and beautiful, "Sansa, wasn't that amazing?"

"Yes," she spoke and noted with relief that her voice showed no indication of her distress, she was getting better at tempering herself. She stood, brushing her hands gently against her soft-spun trousers, "That was very well done, Master Syrio, Father."

"Too tense, yes?" asked Syrio, pointedly, as he turned to her. He was still smiling, but his dark eyes were so intent, so focused on her nearly flawless mask, "Arya leaned forward to see better. You leaned back."

Sansa felt the need to scowl. The Braavosi man read people so incredibly well and despite her best efforts, she was no exception. It was part, she was sure, of being such a good swordsman. Such a good teacher. But it was not something that Sansa didn't enjoy nonetheless, so used it in the last years of her adult life to be able to hide her true emotions from anyone, even those close to her. The fact that Syrio could see so through her fragile mask bothered her more than she cared to admit. If one man could see her, whose is to say that more would not?

Her vulnerability in face of the likes of Petyr Baelish or someone just as observant as him… She knew she was fighting her own body's natural reactions, knew that she was allowed to be more relaxed in the general safety of Winterfell… But…Part of her, most of her, still relished the safety of her courtesies, of the control that her captivity of the Lannisters and later Petyr and Ramsey had forced her to adopt.

"Sansa?" and that was Father, his mouth forming a frown.

She bites back a sigh.

"I never expected steel to sound like that," she replied, calmly, "It unsettled me."

Understanding was in her father's eyes at her calm admission, while Syrio raised a brow.

"Though you are a long way from using live steel, Sansa Stark, you must not let this hold you back," Syrio, deliberately sheathed his sword, before he went to his pack. He removed two short daggers, simple but beautiful things made of delicately wrought handles and slender blades. They were beautifully simple, without true subjects of adornment, just lines in patterns that she vaguely recognized as Braavosi.

He extended them to her, handle first and sheathed. Reluctantly, she took them both. They were heavier than the dragon-glass dagger she had used to keep in her sleeve but lighter than the current steel dagger she had in her boot. I perhaps need to get my own instead of some reject from the Smithy.

"Run them against each other. Hear the sound. Let it fall away from you."

Sansa licked her suddenly parched lips.

"I will ruin your fine blades."

Syrio gave a casual shrug.

"I care not. Do as I say. Girl!" he said, turning to Arya. Arya was bouncing on the balls of her feet, eager, "Take out your blade. We shall see if such a demonstration of Westeros sword-forms versus Water-Dance has taught you anything."

Arya beamed, already retrieving her wooden practice sword. Sansa took that as her own prompt and sat back on the floor, daggers in hand. She had only had a handful of lessons with Syrio, none of which involved the actual use of swords, even the wooden training ones, but rather instead conditioning of her body to support the Water Dancing form as she was much older than Arya and 'set' in her ways. Most of it had to do with speed and endurance of holding a blade without tiring and her balance(the one thing she was better at than Arya at this point), but some had to do with Syrio's vague knowledge over her fear of swords.

Her most difficult one to date was to hold actual swords to choose a sword from Syrio's rather extensive collection to find something suitable for her (A sword would eventually be created for her, or so said her father in regards to her and Arya, but only when they had mastered the form to some extent to take into account their physical ages). Her hand did not stop trembling for the entire process and Syrio had not said a word to it, only stared her down as she went through blade after blade. She thinks he had pitied her but had forced her to go through every blade until she had found one, longer than most blades, but needle-thin and feather-light in her hand. It had taken all she had not to throw the blade away from her, as Syrio had nodded his acceptance.

Something about this exercise, however, felt more terrible.

Breathing deeply through her nose, Sansa ran the steel daggers against each other. The sound, though softer than the sound of two full-sized swords slamming against each other, was similar enough. Nearer to her than the clash of Syrio's and her Father's spar. It sent something down her spine, a cold trail of spiders, made her stomach turn. Sansa forced herself to make the sound again, allowing herself a frown and furrowed brow of concentration at each sharp swipe. Sweat beaded on her brow. She forced herself again, holding herself as still as possible to prevent herself from flinching.

"You did not tell me you feared blades," said her father, calmly, as he sat next to her.

He crossed his legs, a heavy bundle slung over his shoulder and Ice in hand. He did not look to her, only began the process of inspecting the ancestral sword with care, hands running along the blade's flat, trying to find imperfections in the dark gleaming steel after the spar. Part of her wondered as she watched her father set to clean and polish the blade if her Uncle Brandon would have been as meticulous with the care of the blade. What little she knew of him, made her think of a man that would have been ill-suited to be Warden of the North, a Wild Wolf. His foolish actions, in her mind, to challenge the Prince to a death battle over his sister only assured such a thing to her. She thinks, despite how horrible it was, that it was best that it had fallen to her father to rule the North in his stead.

Sansa made a deliberate move to look away from her father as he turned to look at her, focusing on the gleaming steel in her hands. It was beautiful, in a strange way, these instruments. Gleaming beauty, flawless shine, and careful craft that even she could admire. But she knew all too well the pain such beauty could inflict. She sets her jaw and she ran the blades together again, harsher than before. Sparks flew.

"It did not seem important," she says, quietly.

And it hadn't. It hadn't been important in her future-past, she had mustered through it, nearly unaware of it. So much for her to do, so little time to linger in anything, let alone her silly fears. Now it would have to be put aside again. Sansa was nothing if not good at wearing her masks and soldiering through things like this. Her father sighs, a heavy gust of emotion.

"It is important to me."

Warmth came to her chest, tears to her eyes at the simple words. Her father reminded her of her King- a reflection as before her King had reminded her constantly of Father. Simple assurance of the love and care she had so missed in her time away from the North. She pushed back all sentiment with another harsh drag of steel against steel.

Later. In the dark of your bedroom, where you can properly reval in this love. Not yet Sansa, not today. You still have so much to do.

"Father… I assure you, this is just one more thing for me to do."

He hummed.

"It is not something you have to do alone. Sansa," he whispered, placing a hand on her shoulder, "Allow me to bear this burden with you as well. It is just one more thing to share between us, is it not?"

She blinks. Opens her mouth to protest, and do so violently.

The lone wolf dies, and that is pure Bran in her mind.

She tenses before she lets herself slump. Wordlessly, though not without cursing herself for her very human weakness, Sansa presses herself against her father's side. She runs the blade against each other again. It is not a cure-all. The sound eats at her mind and makes her stomach turn still. But it eases something in her all the same. Her father's warmth is not all curing.

But it is enough.

She runs those blades together while Arya learns the proper steps, and then she is taught how to care and sharpen blades with those daggers. Syrio does not take them back, even after they are sharpened to perfection. Instead, he instructs her to keep them close and when she has time to run them together again and again. He even gives her a belt, to hold them to her person. To care for them as she cares for her hair or her dress. Reluctantly, Sansa agrees, before she leaves her sister to her much longer, and through the lesson, both her and her Father leaving more or less at the same time, only pausing for a moment to their chambers to at least remove some sweat and changing out of their training clothes, Sansa herself relishing the change back from her well-tailored breeches into a proper dress.

Despite everything, she feels more comfortable in her dresses. She, over the last few moons, had, as a sort of side project, had taken to remove any traces of childish influence from her wardrobe. Sansa, child though she may appear to be, was very decidedly not one. She made a point to keep the clothing appropriate, never making anything too daring nor too adult, loathed as she wished to. But she had at least taken to remove the influence of her childish adoration for the South. She redid her image as she had in the future-past, taken in the influence of Northern designs of gowns, of patterns of wild wolves, and simpler, more geometric stitchwork. Straighter cuts, covering and secure, tight and regal and more taciturn. Jewelry non-existence save for a silver locket with the running direwolf of her sigel and a ring with the same design with the leaping trout of the Tully banner added a gift her mother had made for her at her seventh name-day, that fit on Sansa's tiny thumb.

Her love of silk and lace, though present, was delegated to only dinner gowns meant for feasts instead of everyday use. Her delicate slippers were discarded for well-worn, supple boots more appropriate for the outdoors of the North. She took care to dress well, as always, aware of the image she projected. A grey gown almost white, soft and rich velvet and delicately spun linen and wool, in layers meant to protect her against the cold, stitched with running wolves(her family's wolves, all along her hem), with blue winter roses, the exact shade of Tully blue stitched carefully among the wolves. She had arranged her hair mostly down, a careful tumble of fire pulled back in a braid around her head, a mimic of the simple crown she used to wear.

She looked… Young. Painfully so, as she carefully assesses herself in the mirror. All that looks at her is the sweet bird that left Winterfell to die. For a moment she felt a disconnect to her reflection. Sansa looks at her round cheeks, at her large doe eyes, and at the cherubic plump lips. And she feels lost and wondering if it had all been a dream, after all. But then she sees pieces of herself, a hint of her long neck that looked odd in a child, the slight strength of her cheekbones from around the layer of childish fat. And her mannerisms helped to remove the child she had been. But her reflection, to Sansa, was just another mask she had donned. Just another one to use to her best advantage to correct the future that was possible.

She steps out of her room after she had carefully pinned her long, grey fur cloak, over her shoulders, touching the large snarling direwolf pin that holds the cloak against her. She was placing her fine fur-lined gloves when her father left his rooms, changed into the doublet she had created for him, a large mother wolf stitched snarling upon his breast.

"Only a few Houses left," says her father and she sees that his arm extended. It is almost comical how much taller he is than her. But she reminds herself that come a few years she would be only a few fingers span shorter, "I expect them to be within our Walls by nightfall. The feast shall begin, and on the morrow, we will begin discussions."

She takes his arm, strong and what had been a distant memory to her. Sometimes she is overwhelmed by it. But at the moment, she is only feeling settled.

"Indeed. Any further word from King's Landing? A delegation perhaps to oversee the changes in the North?"

"Nothing of the sort, Sansa. The King's Hand has declared this a local matter completely, with the approval of the King," spoke her Mother, beyond regal in a pure blue gown, stitching a mixture of red and grey of her sigels, with direwolves and jumping trouts made along all of the dress.

Sansa admired her mother's work and the contrast her fair Mother made against her Father's simple grey and white attire, as she delicately threaded her arm through his arm. She felt something at ease at the gesture. The estrangement between her parents had distressed her, especially in the wake of what she knew was a happy relationship, broken so horribly as it had. One of the few I know of.

"However, I received word from my Father, your grandfather. He says he wishes to better discuss any changes to our trading agreements in person. I believe he's also using this excuse to make my brother Edmund take a little charge of Riverrun."

"It's been so long since Grandfather has come," says Robb, cheerfully, extending his arm to Sansa. She moves away from her parents, and notes with amusement that her brother was dressed almost identical to their Father, save for a single line of stitchwork in of red and blue geometric work of around the collar of his doublet, with Grey-Wind stitched howling against his breast. Some of her finest work- even as when she had had a steadier hand.

"I don't remember him," she mentions, as for her, it had been perhaps four and ten years since she had seen him last. She had vague memories at best.

"He was tall and red of hair," said Jon quietly and she smiled as he threaded his arm through her's. His doublet was pure white(he would never take the Black) and the stitchwork on Ghost was so fine, done in a slightly darker shade of white that she could not help but beam at how well he wore it.

"Well I've never met him," chimed Bran, cheerful and voice boisterous. He was so young, she thought with a sigh. Summer was on his breast, stoic and the calmest depicted of the wolves.

"Yes, you have. We just don't remember," said Arya, rolling her eyes. She wore her own doublet as well, looking smart and fiercely comfortable.

Sansa had provided the girl with a few dresses because part of her would always wish for her sister to try and look somewhat like her station demanded. But Arya had yet to wear them as far as Sansa could see, the young girl content in trousers and doublets.

Some things never change.

"Everyone hush. We must look smart."

So they did, a pack, all matching clothing that screamed of both wealth and of unity. Before the Gates of Winterfell, they set a table of bread and salt, of water and wine, waiting as they had for the past few days for the rest of the Houses of the North to come into their protection, to attend their Lord's command. Sansa, wondered, as all of the delegations of the last Houses of the North came past the gates of Winterfell if this was how Robb felt when he called the banners. The sense of both anticipation and fear, the calculated way she made note of their attire and form of transport, of the number of their entourage. To see all the banners of the North within its walls was both heartening and made her feel so tired in that moment. While the majority of the Northern houses had arrived well in a timely manner, the lack of urgency of their Warden being held captive had lead to a few stragglers.

When she sees him, it takes a moment for her to steady herself, to remember that it cannot possibly be him, as she watches the sigil of vivid red against pink. Our blades are sharp. Once, those had been her words as well, if by force, but her words nonetheless. Winter is Coming. Hear Me Roar. I have had many words, and they have all shaped me to some extent. And it isn't until he dismounts, next to his traitorous father, that she realizes the differences. Because Lord Bolton smiles at the young man, and he is much too old to be Ramsey, as he looked to be six and ten already. Tall and broad, standing in the sunlight, she realizes that it is the brother slain by another. Perhaps she is colored by her memories of his bastard brother, but she thinks him softer looking, she would say kind if she trusted anything with the name or connection of Bolton.

She blinks, rapidly as she watches Domeric Bolton shift uneasily on his feet, looking about Winterfell with interest. His eyes, light and almost silvery, are keen, the pull of his mouth open in what looks like appreciation. His hair, dark and long, hangs handsomely and easily past his shoulders. When his father touches his shoulders for his attention, she sees happiness in Roose's face and a smile upon Domeric's, returning his father's expression. She blinks, having never seen such an expression on the Lord of Dreadfort face so… At ease.

Ramsey more than likely murdered him. Or so said Theon. I must save him and keep Ramsey as a bastard with no resources.

She made a point not to stare at him, nor his father. It did not mean she was unaware as they made their way to the Stark Family and watched as they made the exchange of salt and bread. She nearly sneered in the wake of that, but made no outward reaction, simply dipping her head politely as they passed, a long line of other bannermen needing to do the same meaning that the courtyard was too full for them to linger. Though she did note that Domeric cast a lingering glance to her. It is logical, she thought, for him to look at me. I am the eldest girl child of his liege lord, it would be odd for him not to think of me as a potential bride. Especially since my father has made no inclinations of a Southern marriage for me. But the man was six and ten and she ten namedays, his interest was more a curiosity than sexual attraction. She took comfort in that- and that his words would never be her's again.

In the end, the Boltons were one of many and they passed with no incident. But for Sansa, something eased in her stomach to see them being so passive figures. And I will keep them there.

The rest of the Houses of the North came, and with them, they adjourned inside, heading to their rooms to prepare for the feast that her mother and she had arranged for the night of all the North within the walls of Winterfell. Sansa shed all of her attire, applying light perfume, and re-did her hair into something a little more elaborate, held up by steel combs of snarling wolves, something she vaguely remembers ignoring most of the time before they had been taken away in King's Landing by Cersei. Her dress was a fine silk one, but simpler than her welcoming gown on purpose, just white, pure, and threaded with the grey of her house in geometric patterns and grey Myrish lace.

She leaves her room to spot poor Arya, in a dress, loose and free following. It is a match to Sansa's, save for less lace, and a touch more ribbons that Sansa had thought would look handsome on a child of six-namedays. Arya's expression, however, leads her to believe that she rather be back in her trousers.

"Mother made me," she says by explanation, tugging unhappily at her long, loose sash, which was supposed to be tied neatly, around the girl's thin waist.

Sansa finds herself smiling, a true one of sheer delight at how free and uncensored her sister was at this age. She walks forward, hands reaching. She fixes the sash, careful to keep it from constricting Arya, tying it smartly in a bow, before she let it fall against her sister. Careful, her hands' flutter, smoothing down curls and slightly out-of-place hair.

"You look lovely."

"Don't lie. You're the pretty one."

The accusation is plain, the self-depriment even more so. Sansa only turns her sister around. Grey eyes look at her, wide and soft. The hurt of childish jealousy and years of tension, already present between them so early in their lives… Sansa wonders at foolish youth. At how time changed your perspective.

"I love you," says Arya, quietly, hardly audible over the din of the scattering camp, "All I ever wanted was for you to love me back despite how different we were."

Sansa does not stop the tears then, at the whispered words of her little sister.

"I love you too, Arya, I always did, I was just insanely jealous of everything you were, are. Beautiful, fierce, and wild. A true Northern woman. Everything I couldn't be."

"If I recall, Father is quick to say how much you look of Aunt Lyanna."

Dark brows furrow.

"So?"

"She was said to be beautiful. How can you not be pretty as well?" she reasons, carefully.

Arya looks at her, really looks at her. As always, Sansa sees the wisdom in those grey eyes, a certain ability to see the truth. She smiles, slight, there, and Sansa's heart is lighted. They find their siblings a little way's down the corridor, dressed as they are in even finer clothing than the day, standing about to enter the Great Hall in something that gives semblance of ceremony. When her parents emerge, well paired, Sansa stands between Robb and Jon, arm looped through their arms as Arya and Bran settle behind her, little Rickon she knows, is already in bed, and Theon is already at the feast as per his own request.

"Sansa?" that's Robb, uneasily next to her, walking carefully behind their parents.

"Yes?" she mummered, softly.

He blinked, his arm curled around her's as they made their way to the Great Hall. Jon was stoic and uneasy with the thought of being allowed equality so outwardly, but it had been at her mother's and her own, insistence.

"He called the banners? All of them?" he was careful to censor his words, as Arya and Bran walked behind them.

The awe in his voice, the disbelief, made her almost smile.

"Yes. For his father's sake."

Robb smiled and laughed, shakily.

"It feels like it would have been so much for one of five and ten to handle."

"He became King. Make that what you will."

Robb's hold on her arm tightened. Jon, next to them, just sighed.

"So did his brother."

She allows a cool smile.

"As did their sister. Circumstances lead to everything, and they handled their burden as best they could."

"Some more than others," mummered Robb, furrow tightening.

"Hush. No frowns when we enter the Hall. Please."

Robb, young as he was, did a fair job of schooling his expression as they entered the Hall. Sansa had seen it full, many times in her time leading Winterfell with the High Queen and King, but there was a difference, she thinks, in the general air. The roar upon their entrance was like thunder- shaking the very walls, the majority of the people looked both well fed and well dressed, and their eyes… Their eyes she did not see the same despair she had so commonly seen on the expressions of people. She does not realize she had felt the same despair until it is lightened by the sheer amount of fierce people she sees before them, alive, full, and unharmed by the Southern War. All of them cheering for her father, for their Lord, the man they would have gone to war for. The man they respected and would follow more than an untested boy.

There is hope. The North is not yet divided. Be damn anything South of Riverrun. Dany can cause them all to feel her might, I will guard these borders for the Queen. Winter is Coming.

And it will meet us all with both fire and blade in hand.

EDIT: 01 AUGUST 2021