Sansa Stark stood still, her posture perfect, as her handmaids moved around her like shadows. They worked in silence, fastening the intricate laces and adjusting the fur-lined cloak that draped over her shoulders. Winterfell's dim light, filtered through frosted glass windows, cast a soft glow over the room, illuminating her reflection in the tall mirror before her. Her auburn hair was gathered and pinned elegantly, its rich red strands gleaming like copper in the weak sunlight. There was a time when she would have fidgeted under such attention, feeling the weight of the crown she was about to wear. But now, as Queen in the North, she was used to this ritual. It had become part of her armor.
Outside, the wind howled softly, carrying with it the bite of the long winter ahead. The snow fell thick and steady, blanketing Winterfell's stone walls and courtyards. But inside, the room was warm, heated by the large hearth where a roaring fire crackled and hissed. Yet, despite the warmth, Sansa felt cold.
Her mind drifted, wandering as it often did these days, back to a year ago, to the events that had forever changed her life and the fate of the North. It had been nearly twelve months since Jon Snow—her brother, her cousin—had killed Daenerys Targaryen, the dragon queen, in the throne room of the Red Keep. Sansa had heard the tale, though she hadn't been there to witness it. The once-powerful queen, felled by the man she had loved, in the very heart of the kingdom she had conquered. A tragic end to a woman who had believed she was destined to rule. But perhaps, Sansa thought, it was inevitable.
Jon had paid the price for his actions, as he always did, burdened with the weight of doing what was right. He had been exiled beyond the Wall, back to the cold, harsh land of the Free Folk, to live out his days in solitude. A fitting punishment for a man who had never wanted power, never wanted the throne.
But what of her? Sansa had remained behind, the North in her grasp, the title of queen thrust upon her shoulders. It was what she had wanted—what she had fought for. And yet, as the days had turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, the weight of the crown had grown heavier. The North had always been her home, but now, standing at its helm, she questioned whether it was what she truly desired.
Her handmaids worked quickly, their movements practiced and precise, but Sansa hardly noticed them. Her thoughts were elsewhere, on the long nights when sleep eluded her, when her dreams were haunted by visions of the past. The white walkers, with their cold blue eyes, still invaded her dreams. Sometimes she would wake, her heart pounding, as if the Night King himself was standing at the foot of her bed. Other times, it was the sight of King's Landing, burning beneath the fury of Daenerys's dragon, that haunted her. Flames devouring the city, turning it to ash, as Daenerys had stood on the back of Drogon, her face twisted with rage and madness.
Madness.
Sansa had seen it in Daenerys's eyes the first time they had met. There had been something unsettling about the dragon queen, a darkness hidden beneath her beauty. Sansa had never trusted her. Even when Daenerys had pledged to fight for the North, to defeat the white walkers, Sansa had remained wary. She had seen too much, endured too much, to be easily swayed by promises of power and glory. Daenerys had been dangerous, and Sansa had known it.
But there had been others who hadn't seen it, who had been blinded by Daenerys's charm and beauty. Jon had been one of them, and for that, Sansa felt a pang of guilt. She had promised Jon she would keep his secret, the truth of his parentage hidden from the world. But she had betrayed him, told Tyrion, and set in motion a chain of events that had led to Daenerys's downfall… What had she hoped to achieve by it? Did she want Jon to take the throne, to be king of the Seven Kingdoms? Had it been ambition or fear that had driven her?
Her father's voice echoed in her mind. "A Stark always keeps their word."
But she hadn't kept her word, had she? She had broken her promise to Jon, betrayed him. Why? Sansa didn't have an answer, not one that satisfied her. She told herself it had been for the North, to protect their people from the tyranny of a mad queen. But was that the truth, or was it simply the justification she clung to in the face of her betrayal?
Sansa's lips tightened as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. The face that looked back at her was that of a queen, but it wasn't the face she remembered. The innocence of her youth, the naivety that had once defined her, was gone. In its place was something harder, colder. She had been shaped by her experiences—by the Lannisters, by Littlefinger, by Ramsay Bolton. They had all taken something from her, twisted her in ways she could never fully undo. But in the end, they had failed to break her. She had survived them all.
And now she was Queen in the North.
The North belongs to me now, she thought to herself.
She had fought for it, demanded it at Tyrion's trial, in front of all the lords and ladies of Westeros. She had sounded confident, unyielding, and declared that the North would be free, that it would no longer bend the knee to any king or queen from the south. And she had won. The North was hers. But was that what she had always wanted?
She thought of Jon, exiled beyond the Wall, and Arya, who had vanished into the unknown, sailing west of Westeros in search of lands no one had ever seen. Her family was scattered, broken. Robb and Rickon were dead, Bran was far away, a king in the south, ruling a kingdom that felt as distant to Sansa as it did to the North. And Jon, the one person who had always understood her, was gone too. She was alone now. Alone in the North.
At first, that solitude had felt like freedom. No longer was she a pawn in someone else's game, no longer a key to the North passed between kings and lords. She was the queen, and she answered to no one. But the more time passed, the more that freedom began to feel like isolation. She could feel the eyes of her people on her, always watching, always questioning. They whispered behind her back, wondering about the future.
Who would their queen marry? Who would be the heir to Winterfell?
Sansa clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. She had been married twice before, once to Tyrion Lannister and once to Ramsay Bolton. Both marriages had been political, designed to secure the North's allegiance to one side or another. Both had been disastrous in their own ways. And now, they whispered of her future, of marriage, of alliances. But Sansa had no desire to marry, no desire to give up her power to a man who would see her as nothing more than a means to an end.
She had fought too hard, endured too much, to let that happen.
But the whispers persisted, and with them came the cold, creeping sense of doubt. The North was hers, yes, but for how long? There were always those who would challenge her, those who would seek to take what she had claimed for themselves. Already, she could see the conspiracies forming, the alliances being made in secret. There were lords who thought the North needed a king, not a queen. Lords who whispered that she was weak, that without an heir, the future of the North was uncertain.
Sansa's eyes hardened as she looked at herself in the mirror. Let them conspire, she thought. She had survived worse than the scheming of petty lords. She had learned from the best—Cersei Lannister, Petyr Baelish, Ramsay Bolton. They had all tried to break her, to control her, but in the end, she had outlived them all. She would do the same now.
As her handmaids finished dressing her, smoothing the fur-lined cloak over her shoulders, Sansa took a deep breath. She had chosen this. She had asked for it, demanded it. And now she had to live with it.
She stood, the cold air of the room brushing against her face as she moved toward the small table where her crown rested. Her fingers hesitated for a moment before she lifted it, feeling the cold metal press against her skin as she placed it atop her head. The crown of the Queen in the North.
As she turned to leave the room, her reflection still lingering in the mirror, she paused at the door. For a moment, just a brief one, the doubt crept back in again, the question she had asked herself so many times.
Was this truly what she wanted?
The answer never came.
Sansa Stark, Queen in the North, stepped out into the great hall of Winterfell. Her steps were sure, her head held high, the weight of the crown pressing down on her with each step. The lords and ladies of the North awaited her, their eyes filled with expectation, their whispers filling the air like a cold breeze.
She told herself she was ready. But in the back of her mind, the whispers of the past, of her choices and her betrayals, followed her every step. They were the shadows she could never escape, the price of power, the price of the North.
Sansa had won her kingdom. But at what cost?