SANSA
The courtyard of Winterfell stood prepared at dawn, swept clean of snow and ice, with every Stark retainer positioned according to rank and purpose. Sansa had risen before first light, her handmaiden carefully arranging her hair in the Northern style with subtle Eastern accents she had learned from studying Ruyan. Her blue dress—the finest she owned—had been carefully selected, its embroidery depicting direwolves with silver thread that caught the morning light.
"They're coming," Arya whispered beside her, bouncing slightly on her toes despite their mother's warning to maintain decorum.
Sansa didn't reply. Her attention was focused on the precise formation of the Stark household—her family in the centre, her father and mother at the focal point, with Robb and Princess Ruyan positioned slightly to their right. The Princess stood perfectly still, her posture immaculate as always, dressed in a gown of pristine white silk with understated grey accents that honoured the Stark colours without diminishing her own status. The ornamental pins in her hair glinted silver and gold, catching the weak northern sunlight with deliberate effect.
A statement, not decoration, Sansa thought, recalling Ruyan's lesson on visual diplomacy.
The thundering of hooves and rattle of wagon wheels grew louder, and Sansa felt her heart quicken despite her determination to remain composed. Not with the childish excitement she might have felt a year ago—dreams of gallant princes and golden-haired knights—but with the sharp awareness of what this royal visit truly signified.
The king doesn't ride north without purpose, she had overhead her father tell Robb.
The royal procession appeared through Winterfell's gates in a flood of crimson and gold, Baratheon banners snapping in the cold northern wind. A massive figure atop a black destrier led them all—King Robert Baratheon, First of His Name, looking nothing like the heroic warrior from her father's stories. Behind him rode a golden-haired boy on a blood bay courser, his face haughty and beautiful in equal measure.
Prince Joffrey, Sansa recognized immediately, noting the Lannister features that dominated his appearance. Her gaze catalogued him with new precision—not merely handsome, but projecting an entitled confidence she now understood as deliberately cultivated rather than naturally earned.
The courtyard fell silent as the king dismounted with surprising agility for such a large man. Sansa observed the subtle shift in her father's posture as he prepared to kneel—and then Robert Baratheon was before him, his presence filling the space between them.
"Ned!" the king boomed, his voice echoing against the ancient stones. "You've gotten fat!"
Her father's raised brow was quick as a knife. "You're one to speak," he replied—and then they were embracing, laughter echoing against Winterfell's stones like old ghosts shaken loose. Sansa watched the formality dissolve into genuine warmth, noting how differently power could manifest—sometimes in ritual, sometimes in its deliberate abandonment.
King Robert took her mother's hand with an almost courtly flourish. "Lady Stark," he said, voice softening. "You've not changed a bit."
Catelyn smiled, measured and warm. "Your Grace. Winterfell is yours."
Then Robb stepped forward—taller than the last time the king had seen him, posture steady, expression held just enough between pride and restraint.
"And this, I suppose, is the boy they say grew into a lord," Robert said, his gaze sharp with both memory and surprise. "The boy who married a legend."
As King Robert greeted her brother, Sansa's attention shifted to the moment she silently anticipated: the king's acknowledgement of Princess Ruyan.
"Your Grace," Robb said, bowing. "May I present my wife—Princess Ruyan of Yi Ti."
Ruyan stepped forward with unhurried grace, her silk robes catching the morning light like water over ice. She offered a measured bow—no curtsy, but something older, sovereign to sovereign.
Robert stepped before the Yi Tish princess, his massive frame towering over her slender figure. Yet, Sansa had learned that power was not merely a matter of physical presence.
"Princess Ruyan," the king said, his voice moderating into something resembling formal respect. "The Yi Tish flower who's taken root in our frozen North."
Ruyan's response was a study in precise diplomacy. She performed a subtle bow—not a Westerosi curtsy, but a movement Sansa recognized from her lessons: the formal acknowledgement one sovereign gives another. Neither subservient nor excessive, it conveyed exact recognition of mutual status.
"Your Majesty," Ruyan replied, her accent lending a musical quality to the words. "I am honoured by your presence at Winterfell."
Sansa marked its precision—not just posture but calculation. The North bowed with weight. Ruyan bowed with intent.
The king laughed, genuine amusement crinkling his eyes. "Gods, Ned, Proper as a septa, and still looks like she's carved from sunrise. Ned, you didn't say half enough in those letters." He turned back to Ruyan.
"When we heard Ned's heir had married an Eastern princess, half the court didn't believe it. The other half wagered how long before you fled back east."
"The North has many virtues worth staying for, Your Majesty," Ruyan replied smoothly, her composure unruffled by his familiar manner.
"I'll take your word for it," He nodded in return before clapping Robb heartily on the shoulder, laughter booming again through the courtyard.
Sansa felt his gaze sweep over them individually—Arya standing to her left, Bran beside Rickon on the right. His eyes lingered briefly on her, and for an instant, she braced for comment. But Robert only smiled, warm and weather-worn, and said, "A fine brood, Ned. Gods, they've grown."
Jon stood just behind them, still and silent. The king hadn't looked at him. Of course, he hadn't. Ruyan once told her to watch who is praised and who is left out.
Sansa dipped a flawless curtsy as the king's gaze met hers, her practised smile in place.
Farther down the royal line, Sansa noticed the queen emerging from her wheelhouse and beyond her—Tyrion Lannister, dismounting awkwardly but moving with sharp, deliberate steps. His mismatched eyes flicked over the assembled household like a man counting pieces on a gameboard. When his gaze paused on Ruyan, something calculating flickered behind his expression—but he kept his distance, observing without comment.
As the queen approached, Sansa watched the interaction with newfound awareness. Where Ruyan had offered King Robert a bow between equals, her acknowledgement of Queen Cersei was a masterclass in subtle distinction. She inclined her head—a diplomatic courtesy—but did not lower her eyes or curtsy as a lesser noble would to a queen.
"Your Grace," Ruyan said, her voice perfectly modulated—neither warm nor cold, merely correct.
Queen Cersei's smile remained fixed, though something flickered in her green eyes—perhaps recognition of the deliberate protocol distinction. "Princess Ruyan," she replied, her voice honey over steel. "How rare to find imperial blood so far from civilization's reach.
"Civilization follows wisdom and courtesy — and I've found both in the North," Ruyan responded, her expression unchanged despite the veiled insult.
And still, the court would call her exotic, never equal.
Sansa caught the imperceptible tightening of the queen's jaw, the subtle narrowing of her eyes. To most observers, the exchange might have seemed unremarkable—pleasantries between highborn ladies—but Sansa now recognized the careful dance of status and acknowledgement being performed before her.
After the king's greetings concluded, King Robert turned to her father, his expression suddenly solemn. "Take me to your crypt, Ned. I will pay my respects."
Queen Cersei stepped forward, her smile thinning. "We've been riding for a month," she said, her voice honeyed but with an edge beneath. "Surely the dead can wait."
Robert acted as if he hadn't heard her. "Ned," he said, his tone brooking no argument as he clapped a heavy hand on her father's shoulder. The look that passed between the two men contained volumes – memories and grief that Sansa now recognized as something more significant than mere old friendship.
As the king and her father walked toward the crypts, Queen Cersei's face momentarily hardened before smoothing back into its practised smile. The dismissal had been public, unmistakable, and – Sansa realized – deliberately humiliating.
Prince Joffrey approached next, his golden curls gleaming in the winter light. As he offered formal greetings to Lord and Lady Stark, his gaze swept across the assembled Stark children, lingering noticeably on Sansa herself. She felt the weight of his appraisal—not merely appreciative but assessing, as one might consider a valuable object. Once, such attention might have thrilled her. Now, it is registered as information to be catalogued and considered.
When Joffrey reached Ruyan, he performed a bow more elaborate than necessary—a young man's attempt at courtly gallantry. "Princess," he said, his voice carrying the practised charm of someone accustomed to deference. "The rumours of Eastern beauty didn't exaggerate."
Ruyan acknowledged him with a smaller version of the bow she had offered his father—recognizing his royal status while subtly indicating the difference between a crown prince and a reigning monarch. "Prince Joffrey," she replied. "I trust your journey north was comfortable."
"As comfortable as any journey north can be," he said with a dismissive shrug that spoke volumes of his opinion of their homeland.
When it was Tyrion Lannister's turn to be presented, Sansa noted with interest how he approached Ruyan with studied protocol—bowing lower to her than he had to any other member of the Stark household, his mismatched eyes sharp with intelligence.
"Princess Ruyan," he said, his voice carrying none of the mockery Sansa had noticed in his earlier interactions. "I've read what little we have of Yi Ti's scholarly works. I'd be honoured to discuss them during our stay."
"Lord Tyrion," Ruyan acknowledged with a precise nod—neither the equal-to-equal bow she'd given Robert nor the minimal acknowledgement she'd offered Cersei, but something in between that recognized his noble birth without elevating it to royal status. "The library of Winterfell is at your disposal, as is my scholar, Master Wei, should you have questions."
As the courtyard's formal arrangement dissolved into practical matters of unpacking and settling the royal guests, Sansa felt a light touch on her arm.
Princess Ruyan stood beside her, gaze resting lightly on the dispersing royal party. Her voice, when it came, was soft as snow.
"Some gazes linger longer than courtesy requires."
Sansa didn't answer right away.
"I saw," she said finally.
Ruyan inclined her head—not confirmation, not praise, just acknowledgement.
And then she was gone, vanishing back into motion before Sansa could speak again.
As the bustle thinned and servants scattered to ready the feast, Arya appeared at her side, her face scrunched in confusion.
Arya frowned, then looked sideways at her sister.
"But then who's higher...?"
She didn't finish the question.
"That depends," came a voice from behind them.
Tyrion Lannister had approached without a sound, his gait awkward, but his eyes sharply focused.
"In Westeros, queens wear crowns. In Yi Ti, though not common, daughters can inherit thrones."
Sansa stiffened slightly. She hadn't realized he was close enough to hear them.
She watched Arya absorb the information, furrowing her brows as she tried to make sense of it. Sansa, meanwhile, felt the pieces align in her mind.
"So in birth, Princess Ruyan ranks higher," she said slowly, meeting Tyrion's gaze.
"But in Westeros, only King Robert outranks her. Except… she doesn't outrank him either. Not really. Not under him. But not beneath him, either."
Tyrion's eyebrows lifted, then settled into approval.
"Precisely, Lady Sansa. A nuance many adults fail to grasp."
He gave them both a slight bow before turning to go.
Sansa's gaze followed him momentarily, her mind turning over the exchange.
It struck her how few spoke to her plainly and how rare it was to be heard without being softened first.
And then another thought struck—how easily Lord Tyrion had heard them.
The courtyard had thinned, but it had not emptied. Conversations carried, even when whispered.
People noticed. People listened.
She would remember that.
NED
The crypts of Winterfell had always been home to Ned in a way the living castle above could never be. Here, in the cold darkness where the Kings of Winter and the Lords of Winterfell sat eternal vigil, he felt the full weight of what it meant to be a Stark. The air was colder than it had any right to be, even in the North, as if the presence of the dead somehow pushed back against the warmth of life.
The torchlight cast long shadows as Ned led Robert down the winding stone stairs, deeper into the heart of Winterfell. Robert's breathing grew laboured, though whether from the descent or the oppressive atmosphere, Ned couldn't tell. The man who descended with him bore little resemblance to the powerful warrior who had once wielded a warhammer that few men could even lift.
"I'd forgotten how damned cold it is down here," Robert said, his voice echoing against the ancient stone. "How do you stand it, Ned?"
"It's the way of the North," Ned replied simply. "Cold preserves."
They walked in silence past the stone lords, each with their direwolves at their feet and iron swords across their laps to keep vengeful spirits at bay. Generations of Starks, watching and waiting.
Finally, they reached her. Lyanna's statue stood in quiet repose, the stone carver's work capturing something of her wild beauty, though Ned had always thought it failed to truly capture her spirit.
Robert stepped forward, his breath misting in the cold air. He reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as they brushed against the statue's cold cheek.
"Why did you have to bury her in a place like this?" he asked, his voice thick with emotion. "She should be on a hill somewhere, with the sun and clouds above her."
"She was a Stark of Winterfell," Ned replied softly. "This is her place."
"She belonged with me." Robert's voice cracked slightly. "The only thing I ever wanted, and he took her from me. I kill him every night in my dreams."
Ned remained silent. What could he say? There were things about Lyanna that Robert had never known, never understood.
"Do you remember how beautiful she was?" Robert continued, lost in memory.
"I remember," Ned said simply.
Robert's hand fell away from the statue, and he turned to face Ned, his expression shifting from grief to something harder. "I need you in King's Landing. I want you beside me. As Hand of the King."
Ned met his gaze, steady. "I am needed here, Your Grace."
Robert pushed on, voice thick with emotion and something sharper beneath it.
"You think I only want your counsel?" He shook his head. "I want your blood. I want our houses joined like we always said. Your daughter and my son."
Ned's jaw tightened. "Sansa is already betrothed to Domeric Bolton. It was necessary—after Robb's marriage. The North needed balance."
"A Bolton?" Robert said, spitting the word. "You've given your daughter to flayed men?"
"The match was made carefully," Ned said, firm now. "He's earned her."
Robert turned from Lyanna's statue, pacing once before stopping. The anger slipped again, replaced by something more desperate.
"Then bring the younger one. Arya. Let her grow up in court. With Joffrey. She's wild, but they'll grow together."
"She's still a child," Ned said, voice flat.
"They all are, until they're not," Robert muttered. "Let her be raised beside the boy she might marry. It's the right path, Ned. Don't say no again."
Ned looked at the man before him—not the king or friend, but both at once and broken in equal measure.
"I will speak with Catelyn."
Robert nodded, accepting this small concession. He turned back to Lyanna's statue, his expression softening once more into grief.
"She would have wanted this," he said quietly. "Our houses joined."
Ned said nothing. The dead kept their own counsel, and whatever Lyanna might have wanted, it was the living who would bear the consequences of the choices made now.
"Come," he said, lifting the torch higher. "We should return. They'll be waiting for us."