Chapter Text
Unprecedented times seemed to be the moniker of the day as Sansa Stark discussed the future of their Kingdom, the first monarch of the North since Torrhen Stark. An omen, that the days of the Valyrians were behind them, that this era of foreign rule had finally closed its last chapter.
"You're not going to convince me to stay," Arya said, perched sideways on a chair that had been upholstered by their grandmother, looking hardly like the Queen's sister, current heir to this budding throne.
"I'm not asking you to stay," Sansa retorted, waiting for her maid to finish arranging the pleats of her gown, "I am merely asking you to postpone your leaving. And stop picking at the embroidery."
Arya moved with an annoyed flick of her hand, stoking the fire restlessly.
"You don't need me here," she said, almost petulantly.
"Yes, I do. Bran is South, Rickon, Robb, both gone. Jon is banished, and I am alone. I need somebody by my side, some semblance of family." She tilted her chin up in the mirror, smoothing her bodice. "We are still Starks, after all. This is our home, our subjects, our dominion."
"Do you really believe that, or do you just not trust anybody else with it?"
Sansa turned her head slightly, scowling at her younger sister. It didn't hold quite the vitriol it did when she was twelve, but it was scathing nonetheless.
"Alise," she said at once, the small girl's head popping up from behind her. "Have Nelson pull you fabric for a new dress, you've outgrown that one," she said with a tilt of her head, the girl nodding and hurrying out of the room, shutting the door firmly behind her.
"You shouldn't say things like that," Sansa turned on Arya, "we've had enough tumult as it is." Arya waved her off, taking her own turn in the mirror to brush her shorter hair.
"She's young and has lived through much."
Alise had been foisted upon her once the Starks had liberated Winterfell, and had seen her in much worse shape than she stood now. Sansa flicked her sister's hands away, picking up a wrought hairpiece without a gemstone or ribbon in sight.
"You treat her like a pet, she's becoming a young woman. Sending her for new clothes?"
"Even you can remember the discomfort of ill-fitting clothes, Arya."
"And it matters to you that much?"
"Yes. Everything matters to me now, it's my duty, my responsibility."
"I think you place too much burden on yourself, nobody can be everything," Arya said, those piercing eyes looking right through her as she stood still, allowing her older sister to expertly twist her hair from her face, pinning it back elegantly but not completely femininely.
"You're one to speak, I've heard your List of Names," Sansa teased, stepping away.
"Just promise you'll spread the burden," Arya said seriously, shifting from foot to foot.
"Interesting that you give that advice now," she deflected again, but her sister's rough hand grasped firmly at her arm.
"I live a very solitary life, a solitary profession. You are the opposite." The two sisters looked at each other, understanding passing through that lone contact.
"I'm glad it was you," Arya continued. "If it couldn't be Robb, I'm glad it was you." A small concession, a tiny victory in the aftermath of so much loss.
"I'm glad you're the one who fled," Sansa whispered, "I would never have survived on my own. I'd make a rather horrid assassin."
Arya quirked an eyebrow, "Actually, past performances would say otherwise," she jested, smiling at the giggle that overtook Sansa.
"I'd made a shit queen."
"I don't think so," Sansa said seriously.
The coronation had to be small and bare, a much needed beacon of hope and portent for the future in a time of such uncertainty. It would not ordinarily have been the things of epics or poems, but a hush of reverence oversaw the affair because of its honesty, its earnest nature.
It was the thing of her people, missing ostentatiousness and replacing it instead with functional respect. It was easy to gather all of her sworn lords, her soldiers and knights, ladies and scattered families all swelling the city of Winterfell.
At the same time, it was an extra weight knowing she was alone. Familiar faces, yes, her people she knew so well, had to as she commanded them away from the Bolton usurpers and through the Long Night, the mouthpiece of their distrust and reticence towards that Dragon Queen, another Targaryan that did not survive long. A handful of others as well, men who followed her brother, family from the Eyrie, Brienne, her loyal sworn sword, and Podrick, Brienne's squire, populated the gathering.
A feast following the momentous occasion was a given, though Sansa had to force herself to relax her shoulders, pull them down from her ears lest she ruin the lines of her gown. Again, so different than her time as Lady Lannister, her mind felt alive as she conversed with her lords, the ladies of families that had lost their men, so similar to her own, who pulled the dredges of their houses together with a firm grip and resolute stubbornness she recognized all too well.
It was Lady Eddara Tallhart that captured her enduring attention. Her sharp eye reminded Sansa so much of herself, and the way the lady felt comfortable enough to point out some of the men's foolish behavior sent the two women giggling like girls. A very different woman than the young girl she had only met a few times, who guarded her dolls jealously and refused to share cards in the drawing room.
Sansa could not help but note the concerns, demeanor, and geniality of each of her noble guests. Lords Manderly and Umber had counseled her correctly, after all, that she would have the build a new council, and her pickings were rather slim. An extra weight would be placed in her designations, for they would be the first royal council in centuries, not counting Robb's wartime appointments.
She was discussing the problem of the Maesters with the Lords Manderly, Umber, and Reed when the center of the room began to clear and some entertainers took the stage, beginning with dancers and their stringed accompaniment, the fluid shapes and coordination mesmerizing to many, cups flowing steadily for the past few hours.
Her attention was diverted, knowing it was important that the troupe was recognized by her for their duties to be considered acceptable, and noticed another group, puppeteers, huddled by the entrance. Podrick Payne was next to them, gesturing and arguing with one of the men. They kept their disagreement quiet and subdued enough that it was not immediately apparent to the captive audience, but Sansa watched him stand his ground, and eventually two of the puppets were passed to the back and placed inside a bag, a fanciful lion and a three headed dragon.
There was no point in disguising her stare as she watched Podrick shake the man's hand and the two parted on good terms, bowing to the troupe and leaving them with a smile. She refused to feel admonished as she returned her attention back to her lords to see Lord Umber watching her knowingly.
The issue of Maesters would not be solved during a feast, and the men eventually scattered to their families and entertainments, and after catching the end of the routine in the middle of the floor, clapping graciously, she left her dais as the next routine assembled itself.
"Podrick, a word," she said, startling him as he was sitting with a few of her knights, who all rose to attention at the sight of her.
"Yes, my lady," he said, before turning a deep shade of pink, stumbling over his words as he corrected himself.
Perhaps it was her own constantly-refilled glass of wine, but she found his blunder endearing, not insulting. His stuttering was rarely an issue anymore, but Podrick the Squire that she was accustomed to was small and chubby faced, clumsy in motion and in words, rarely able to address anything but her feet. She smiled inwardly at the memory as she brought him to stand near a window, a small circle of privacy for their conversation in the whistling wind that snaked through the opened glass.
"You were having a rather heated discussion earlier with the puppeteers, it seemed," she said, always testing those close to her. How much would he admit to, and how honest and objective would he be with the events she witnessed.
"Ah," he said, fidgeting with a strap in his armor, worn and ill-fitting now, it was still the garish red of his old house allegiance. A bold decision, to wear the Lannister getup, surely the only reason he was not more thoroughly bashed for it was because of his well known allegiance to Brienne.
"I recognized some of the scenes they had been practicing, in the hallways earlier," he started, looking at her earnestly. She had not noticed he was now taller than her, a slight dip in his chin as he spoke lowly.
"And, well, I made the assumption that you would not like to have political satire at your feast. It is only that I remember how you used to react to it, in King's Landing," he said quickly, as if she was doing anything than listening patiently to his explanation.
"I would feel so bad, when you would cry at the skits that made light of your family, how you used to sob in silence so nobody would look at you. I know you would not react the same now," he said beseechingly, "but there are other stories they can prepare, ones that wouldn't poke at wounds so fresh to everyone in attendance."
He wasn't comforted by the blankness in her look.
"I deeply apologize, Your Grace, for my overstepping of my duties. I did not intend for anyone to notice what was happening. I only wished to not cause strife or tension at an event so momentous to you and your people."
The words could have been cloying or subservient, but Podrick had always had an easy conviction to what he said. It was a quality that set him apart from the duplicitous Southron lords and ladies, how straightforward he was.
"I commend your attention to detail, and that you so accurately predicted my feelings on the matter," she said, almost laughing at how he sagged in relief.
"I did not mean disrespect."
"I do not feel disrespected. I admire your forward thinking. It is a positive quality for someone in your line of work."
"Squiring?" he said, a teasing tone behind his words, making fun of himself for his diminished title.
"Yes, and professions beyond," she said cryptically.
She had had the thought herself, that Podrick practically required the protection that a higher title would provide him. He had enough glory and commendations to support that title, but there were many barriers. He was not a Northern man, therefore not her subject to knight, he had duties to Brienne that she would not take away from her most loyal knight.
Most importantly, she had never knighted anyone before. Northern men hadn't been knighted by the Warden in the North, but now it was a tradition and an honor that many houses deemed important, something to continue. Even with a newfound ability to knight certain deserving subjects, there was no conceivable way Podrick Payne of the Westerlands would be a possible choice for the first to receive this new and coveted title.