Sansa wakes to her dark new room. The curtains have been drawn, but the sun from King's Landing is powerful enough to still illuminate the room, creating shapes different to the ones on the room she had on the Tower of the Hand. Most days, she still expects to wake back there, instead of here, in Maegor's Holdfast.
In the not-quite-darkness, her eyes fill with tears. Every time she blinks, she can see the sword that took her father's head, his blood still on it.
Ice. It had been Ice that took her father's head.
When she was a little girl, she wasn't one for scurrying away from lessons. That had always been Arya, wild and skinny Arya, lost for weeks now. Sansa had been a perfect little lady, always on time for lessons, always the one that did not shrink from her duties.
But sometimes, when she finished her duties early, she would sneak into the Godswoods. Sometimes, her father would be sitting at the foot of the weirwood tree, polishing his sword. It needn't sharpening, but Father found solace in the motions. She would climb into his lap, when she was still small enough, and Sansa would reach for the sword.
"Careful, sweetling," he would say every time, batting her baby hands out of reach. "This is Valyrian steel."
She would ohh and ahh, and her father would pass an arm around her, pinning her arms and letting her get close.
It was a thing of songs, Ice was. Big, and light, and shinning dark red under the weirwood leaves. Father would let her get close, close enough it was her red hair that shone off the blade, something resembling her eyes staring back.
That was the sword she imagined knights had on the songs, the one that helped her father come home after battles. It was Father's, and one day it would be Robb's. It would forever protect their family, as it had for hundreds of years.
Instead, it had taken her father's head from his shoulders.
"Lady Sansa," someone outside the door calls. It has a sweet voice, familiar to her. "Lady Sansa, let me in," it says.
For a moment, she could have imagined it was Arya, back and safe, here to show her some way out of the castle. Sansa would chase cats if that took her away from here.
But it is a woman's voice, and not the high timbres of a girl.
She brushes her tears off her cheeks and slips from her bed, coming closer to the door.
"Hello?" She asks. "Who is it?"
"Lady Lalia," the voice answers.
Sansa hesitates.
Lady Lalia had been a presence at Winterfell for over a year. She had followed Princess Cerelle everywhere, shadowing her and following her orders. She had been nothing but kind to Sansa, keeping her company and laughing at Arya's antics and cheering on Cerelle as she spared. Here in King's Landing, she had been much the same, except this time, she answered to the Queen.
Sansa wants to bar the door.
Instead, against her better judgment, she opens it.
Lady Lalia comes inside at once, closing the door and barely taking a look at Sansa before embracing her.
Sansa wants to melt into her. It is the first comfort anyone has offered her since Father had been executed. But Lalia's blonde hair is tickling her nose, and the long red sleeves of her dress blanket Sansa's back.
Lalia pulls away, takes Sansa's face in her hands. Sansa wants to pull away, she does. She looks too much like the Queen to be trusted.
But she misses her mother and her kind eyes and her soft hands, and it feels so good for someone to be nice to her after the last days. Jeyne is gone, their household killed or somewhere far away, and Arya is missing. Lalia might be the last thing she has that reminds her even a little of Winterfell, who knows what living there is like, who knows what Sansa has lost.
"Oh, sweetling, what have they done to you?" Lalia asks, her thumb a feather touch to her purple cheek.
Sansa wants to answer, but her tears choke her.
Lalia leads her away from the door to the center of the room. She looks all around, then she pulls her close and starts to whisper.
"I'm so sorry for what Joffrey did to your father, sweetling."
"My father was a traitor," Sansa says, because she has learned it is what they want to hear, even if her heart squeezes at the thought. Her kind, honorable father, who loved King Robert even if he was loud and crass and fat. Father would have never betrayed him. She had tried so hard to make Joffrey understand. She really had thought she'd succeeded.
Her lips tremble, his head falling off his body, his blood on Ice, his body falling, the crowd cheering.
Lalia just holds her closer and runs her fingers through her hair, letting her cry.
"We'll have to work on your lies," she says, humming under her breath a song Sansa doesn't recognize.
They camp away from Riverrun, leaving the castle for the wounded and the refugees. There is no time to get comfortable when they need to keep marching South. Even Lady Stark refuses to go to the castle, fearing if she sees her father, she might not want to keep marching.
They tell her she could wait in Riverrun, stay with her ailing father until they return with Lord Stark and Sansa, but she would not hear them, claiming Robb needed her more.
The news arrives a few hours before sunset. They were delivered straight to Robb, who'd barely finished dressing, still strapping his armor on, not yet late enough to call it a day. She was still abed, barely covered with their furs, when the messenger had been announced.
Cerelle had scrambled for her dress, and Robb had chuckled at her, coming to help her with the laces she could handle on her own. There was still a smile on his face when he turned to let the man in.
Then the news had been delivered, and all the mirth had died.
She sat there on their bed, staring at the man and not believing what she had just heard.
King Joffrey Baratheon had executed Lord Eddard Stark, after he had confessed to treason against King Robert, in the eyes of the Gods and the masses.
Robb had turned his back to the messenger, gripping their little table, his shoulders hunched. She had been the one to dismiss the man, waiting until the tent was closed behind him to rise, going to Robb at once.
"Robb," she said, trying to reach for him. He had pulled away, grabbing his sword on his way out.
She sat back down, still stunned. Joffrey had executed Lord Stark, and he could as well have doomed her.
She wants to think it will not happen. She had been accepted, after the battle. She now had a place by Robb's side on the strategy tent, right beside Catelyn. Men looked at her like she was someone else, now that she had fought with them. Lord Karstark had thanked her, after, gruff but kind, his oldest son and heir by his side, his arm bandaged but alive after fighting Jaime.
A swing of a sword, and she was respected. A swing of a sword, and she could be killed in revenge.
The news has been spread around camp by the time she leaves their tent. She can see the way the men look at her. Some look at her with anger. Some look at her with suspicion. There are those that look at her with pity.
And those that bow and call her 'Her Grace, Lady Stark'.
She finds Robb and Lady Stark holding each other. She doesn't want to intrude, but they need to get things ready. They need to think about what comes next.
She tries to be quiet, but the ground is covered in branches and leaves, and so her footsteps cannot be silent.
They turn when they hear her approach, Robb letting go of his mother and rising to his height.
She stops a few feet from them, her head lowered, hands clasped in front of her. She would fall to her knees, but something inside of her doesn't let her. She must be strong. There is no audience here, no stubborn lords to convince.
"Husband. My lady. I cannot tell you how sorry I am for the actions of my brother. Never would I have imagined it would lead to this. If there is anything I can help you with…"
"You must know that there is no hope of peace, now," Lady Stark says. Her eyes are red rimmed but hard, and her posture and voice strong, even if Cerelle can see the sorrow etched on her face. "Your brother just saw to that."
"There weren't many possibilities of him escaping with his head before, my lady, I knew that. It was himself who brough this upon them."
Rightful heir or not, traitor or not, to kill Lord Stark had been a foolish act. He was a noble man, and to kill him was a statement that could never be taken back.
"Help us win this war, then. So at least my children can go back home."
There is ice in Lady Stark's voice. Robb seems like he's about to speak up, but Cerelle catches his eyes and shakes her head minutely. She could take this.
They call for a meeting to discuss their course of action. All the Northern lords and the Riverlords come, and it is nighttime by the time everyone gets seated. She takes Robb's left, Lady Catelyn behind them to his right.
And then they start. Mostly, the lords fight against themselves. They renounce Joffrey and Tommen right away, on the grounds of having killed Lord Stark and being a child, which she can understand. No one would want a boy as a king, with a long regency to follow. In this case, most likely, a Lannister regency.
They ask about her, but she shuts them down quickly as some men start to get loud.
"I am a woman, my lords. By law, we cannot consider me for the Iron Throne as long as any male member of House Baratheon is alive. In any case, I am Lady of Winterfell, now. I will not leave Winterfell for a seat on the South."
That satisfies most of them, and they move on quickly to Stannis and Renly. Only Renly has declared himself king after his recent marriage to the Tyrell girl, with the Stormlands' and the Reach's support, but Stannis is still the heir. She tunes it all out at some point, after they argue one over the other. One has the royal fleet, the other the Redwyne's. One has more men, the other a better claim, and so on, and so on.
"Renly is not the king." It is Robb's voice that brings her back to the present.
"You cannot mean to kneel to Joffrey, my lord! He put your father to death."
"That doesn't make Renly king," Robb insists.
"He is my father's youngest brother. After my brothers comes Stannis in the line of succession. If anything, Renly is Stannis's heir, for Stannis only has a daughter. That being said, Renly does have a better army."
"If Bran cannot be Lord of Winterfell before me, then Renly can't be king before Stannis," Robb says, to her as much as to the lords. "We cannot cut through the line of succession."
"Do you mean for us to declare for Stannis?"
That gets them going again, until the Greatjon stands and calls their attention.
"This is what I say to these two kings!" He spits to the ground. "Renly Baratheon is nothing to me, not Stannis either. Why should they rule over me and mine from some flowery seat in the South? What do they know of the Wall, or the Wolfswoods? Even their Gods are wrong!"
That gets some people laughing, but Cerelle almost can't hear them. Her heart is beating loud on her chest. What is he doing? she thinks. They can't just not put someone on the throne. They can't just leave it open for whoever comes along to claim it.
Suddenly, the Greatjon points right to her.
"There sits the only Baratheon I care about. She knows Winterfell, and just renounced the Iron Throne for it! She has fought with us! I reckon we have not seen a fiercer Lady of Winterfell since the likes of Black Aly!"
Cerelle's heart is now beating on her ears, and her chest is tightening. Not like an attack, but out of nerves. Ice is shooting down her back, but her hands are clammy inside her gloves, and out of instinct, she reaches for Robb's hand, who grabs it and rests in on her knee, squeezing tight.
The Greatjon moves his finger from her to Robb.
"And by her side, our Young Wolf! He comes from the Kings of Winter! He is a Stark, who ruled us for thousands of years! Why shouldn't we rule ourselves again? It was the dragons we knelt to, and the dragons are all dead!"
He pulls out his sword, and Cerelle knows there is no turning back. If he speaks life into the thought, there will be no killing it. They won't be able to refuse it, not in front of so many lords.
"There sits the only King and Queen I meant to bend my knee to! The King in the North!"
There is silence. Robb stands, his hand shaking on hers. She stands with him.
"I'll have peace on those terms. They can keep their red castle, and their iron chair too!"
Another sword. Another men bending his knee.
"Am I your brother, now and always?" Theon asks from their side, speaking to Robb but looking at her too.
"Now and always," Robb answers. His voice sounds sure of that, at least. His hand has stopped shaking, but hers hasn't.
Theon kneels too, and swears his sword to them.
Then tens of swords follow, and tens of voices, and all around them, people are shouting 'The King in the North! The Queen in the North!', and, like a wave, they kneel, the steel of their swords catching the light of the fire, the sounds surrounding them.
There is no going back.
Robb looks at his mother, and Cerelle can see Lady Catelyn trying to smile at him, but it falls flat among the concern on her face.
Then Robb looks at her, and she must look terrified to him, because he squeezes the hand he still has not let go, his eyebrows coming together as he tries to convey with his eyes what he cannot tell her in front of so many.
At the same time, they turn to face the men in front of them.
As King and Queen in the North.
Holy shit, 565 followers and 425 favorites- thank you, everyone! I know I'm slow, but this story is comign along, I promise.