The great hall of Winterfell glowed with torchlight, the air alive with warmth and music. The flames leapt and swayed as if in celebration of the king's visit, their golden light dancing across the banners that hung from the rafters. Long tables sagged beneath platters of roasted pork and venison, steaming stews thick with barley and carrot, honeyed roots, and loaves of dark oatbread still crusted from the oven. The mingled scents of meat, spice, and woodsmoke wrapped the hall like a cloak, rich and heady, and it felt to Sansa as though she sat within some dream spun from her songs.
At the high table, she had the place of honor beside Prince Joffrey. Her Joffrey. Her lion. He wore black velvet worked with threads of gold, and the ruby at his throat glimmered like a spark of fire whenever he turned his head. Sansa's hand brushed against his sleeve as she took her seat, and her heart fluttered so quickly she thought surely he must hear it.
Before their procession had moved with stately grace. Her mother, radiant upon King Robert's arm, smiled brightly, the very image of a great lady. Her father was solemn beside Queen Cersei, every inch the lord of Winterfell. Robb followed, stiff with pride and duty, though Princess Myrcella's giggles softened his step. Arya came last, poor thing, scowling as if her walk with Prince Tommen were a punishment set by Septa Mordane. Sansa sighed at her sister's gracelessness, wishing she would for once remember she was a lady.
But none of them mattered. Not now. Not with Joffrey so near.
The firelight caught in his golden curls, each strand bright as sunlight on summer fields. His smile was proud, his gaze fierce and noble, just as the gallant princes in her beloved tales. Sansa thought of all the songs she had treasured since childhood, of knights and maidens, of crowns and courtly love, of roses blooming in spring. Once, she had fancied Ser Waymar Royce, with his fine grey eyes and his elegant airs, and Ser Arthur Manderly too. But those had been girlish fancies. She was nearly a woman now, betrothed to a prince, destined to be queen.
And yet…
Her gaze wandered down the hall, unbidden, and found Arthur.
Ser Arthur Manderly stood among a knot of northern lords, his sea-green cloak glimmering with silver threads that caught the torchlight and shimmered like waves. He was laughing at something, the sound rich and warm.
He was tall, almost as tall as Ser Jaime, and broad of shoulder, his hair pale as new-fallen snow. His face was so finely shaped that Sansa thought the gods themselves might have carved it, smooth as marble and more beautiful than any carving she had ever seen in the books. When he smiled, the whole hall seemed brighter.
For a heartbeat, her heart gave a strange, shameful lurch.
Arthur had always been kind to her, always gentle. When she had tied a ribbon to his sword last winter, he had thanked her with such warmth, yet his smile had been the smile one might give a little sister. Never the smile Joffrey gave her, never the hunger, the admiration, the promise of love. Arthur was too good and too noble to see her as anything but a child.
Well, let him smile now. She had Joffrey. Her golden lion. Arthur could marry some shaggy northern girl who didn't know a fork from a dagger, and Sansa would have the Prince.
She looked away, feigning delight at a tray of lemoncakes the servants had just set down, though her thoughts lingered elsewhere. Across the hall, Arthur spoke with Lords Galbart Glover, Medger Cerwyn, Helman Tallhart, Robin Flint, and the great she-bear Lady Maege Mormont. Her mother had told her that those houses had once been among the poorest in the North. It was Arthur who had changed that, creating trade and giving them something called pensions. Sansa was not certain what pensions were, only that her mother had said they were generous. Now those lords were as wealthy and loyal as any in the North, all because of him.
Her eyes drifted to another part of the hall, where Lord Rodrik Ryswell sat beside his daughter, Lady Barbrey Dustin. Barbrey's sharp eyes scanned the room, flicking like a blade between the Manderly men and her own kin.
Sansa had heard enough whispered tales to know the history. Arthur's mother was born a Dustin, and how Barrowton should have passed to him. But Lady Barbrey held it still, by her will and strength. It had caused a quiet storm of tension that never quite passed.
Even Mother had begun to say that the Manderlys were too powerful. Ten times stronger than they had been when she first came north to wed Father. And it was all because of Arthur. He had turned White Harbor into the jewel of the North.
Sansa toyed with her goblet. Power, Septa Mordane said, could be a dangerous thing, even when wrapped in courtesy, especially then. Arthur was all courtesy, charm, and noble warmth. But what lay beneath? She wondered, not for the first time, what he truly wanted.
Across the hall, he laughed again, clasping Lord Cerwyn's hand with easy warmth. Lady Barbrey watched him too, her eyes cold and unreadable, like a cat crouched before a mousehole.
Sansa turned back at once, ashamed to be caught staring, and fixed her gaze on Joffrey. He was speaking now, his voice smooth and certain, recounting how Ser Meryn had once cut down three outlaws with a single blow. She laughed dutifully and sipped her wine.
She would be his queen. She would wear crowns and bear him princes and live in a castle of golden towers. And Arthur would see her in her glory and know what he had lost.
The music rose like a tide, soft at first, plucked strings and trembling pipes, before the drums came, low and steady as a heartbeat. In the warmth of Winterfell's great hall, the flames from the sconces seemed to flicker in rhythm, and the laughter faded into expectant murmurs as the first pair took the floor.
Lady Catelyn Stark stepped forward with the King himself. Robert Baratheon beamed as he led her out, his movements heavy but still regal, his once-proud frame thickened by wine and years. Yet when he smiled, he looked younger, as if the warrior he had been still lingered beneath the flesh. Catelyn danced with quiet grace, her hands light, her blue gown trailing like mist on the stone floor. Her steps were light, her face composed, though Sansa thought she glimpsed a tightness in her mother's smile.
Next came Ser Jaime Lannister, golden-haired and dangerous, who claimed Lady Catelyn for the second dance with a bow and a smile that was all teeth. His steps were precise, like a swordsman's, elegant and showy. Sansa thought her mother moved more stiffly now, her back a bit straighter, her smile thinner.
Lord Eddard Stark danced with the queen, grave and courteous, and afterward with his wife. When he took her in his arms, Sansa glimpsed a tenderness in her father's grey eyes that he seldom showed before others, a softness like the falling of snow upon stone. For a moment, the hall itself seemed to pause, hushed, as if the heart of the North and the soul of the South had joined for a moment in peace.
Then Arya danced, of all people, with Prince Tommen. Awkward as ever, Arya's arms were stiff, her feet too quick, but Tommen smiled all the same, round-cheeked and red-eared. Arya dragged poor Bran into a clumsy reel that left them both shrieking with laughter, to Septa Mordane's dismay.
Robb looked handsome in his dark blue doublet sewn with silver, the wolf of Stark upon his breast. He led Princess Myrcella across the floor with a care Sansa had not expected, and the little princess, sweet, golden-haired, and timid. She smiled at him shyly, like a sunflower tilting toward the sun. When his turn with her was done, Robb danced with Queen Cersei, who leaned close to whisper something that made his face flush red as autumn apples.
And then came her dance.
Prince Joffrey stepped forward, tall and fair, his golden hair gleaming in the torchlight. He bowed low, his movements smooth and princely, and when he looked up, his green eyes shone as bright as emeralds.
"You look radiant tonight, Lady Sansa," he said, his voice carrying over the music. "The fairest flower of the North."
Her cheeks colored. "You are too kind, my prince."
The dance was slow, a courtly measure. Joffrey's hand rested at her back, warm and steady, and his gaze never left her face. He moved with elegance, practiced and sure, as if he had stepped from the very songs she loved. The hall around them faded, until she thought they might be alone, twirling through some storybook ballroom where the floors were glass and the ceilings silver, where roses bloomed in the air and the stars themselves bent low to watch.
When at last the music ended, Sansa found herself breathless. Joffrey bowed once more, and he smiled at her, and in that smile she glimpsed her future
Robb came next. He looked a little sheepish as he bowed, as brothers often did, though there was warmth in his eyes. "Try not to step on me, little bird," he teased, echoing a jest from long ago.
Sansa swatted his arm, laughing despite herself. Robb was no gallant prince from her songs, but he was strong and steady, his steps sure even if they lacked grace. When the music ended, he kissed her cheek quickly and said, "You've grown up, Sans," not unkindly. Her heart softened at that.
And then Arthur. It was as if she were among the heroes from a tale.
She saw him before she meant to, moving across the floor with his sea-green cloak rippling behind him. For a heartbeat, the chatter in the hall softened, as if all eyes followed him. He had already danced with Arya, who had grinned up at him as though she were the heroine of some wild tale, and with her mother, who had looked pleased yet watchful. And with the Queen, who had smiled in that way that did not bode well at all.
When he reached her, Arthur bowed, a courtly, noble bow that made her feel like a princess. "Lady Sansa," he said softly, his voice smooth as silk on snow, "may I have this dance?"
Her hand trembled as she placed it in his. "Yes, Ser Arthur."
Arthur moved as though the music had been written for him alone. His steps were precise but never forced, his hand light yet guiding, sure as steel. He smelled of pine, sandalwood, and rosemary, scents that carried her far from the torchlit hall to some dream of open sky. When he spun her, her skirts fanned like a blossom, and for a moment she thought she had never been so graceful.
And the world melted away.
"I still remember," he said, smiling down at her, "when you chased cats through the keep, and demanded lemoncakes before supper."
She flushed. "That was a long time ago."
"Not so long," he replied, his eyes as deep and blue-green as the shimmering sea. "But look at you now. A true lady of Winterfell."
Her breath caught. But before she could speak, the music slowed and faded. He released her hand with a gentle nod and stepped back. As he returned to the shadows, where the other lords stood waiting. Sansa sat down, her heart thudding like the drums that had faded.
The feast roared on, a storm of voices and clattering goblets, laughter rising thick as smoke to the rafters. At the high table, Sansa sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap, her back straight as Septa Mordane had always taught. A proper lady was a mirror of composure, her mother said, even when her heart was not still at all.
"Arthur!" Arya nearly shouted, oblivious to decorum, "Sing a song! Jon told me you sang last night at the tavern with Theon and Robb! He said you made half the room cry!"
Sansa stiffened. Arya never cared how she sounded, never cared that lords and ladies turned to look.
Arthur chuckled. "Did he now? And here I thought Jon was made of sterner stuff."
Robb joined them, his cheeks still red from the wine. "He did cry," he confirmed with a crooked grin, ruffling Arya's hair. "But so did Theon, though he swears it was smoke in his eyes."
Arya crossed her arms in triumph. "See? It isn't fair! I didn't hear it. You have to sing now."
Arthur raised a brow, feigning defeat. "Yet again, I am cornered by the she-wolf?! There is no mercy in you, Arya Stark!"
"You promised to take me riding too," Arya said hotly, "and you haven't. You've become a liar."
Sansa watched the exchange with a sour taste behind her smile. It wasn't fair that Arya could be so bold, so brash, and yet Arthur never seemed to mind. He even looked amused. As for Robb, he was laughing with them both, throwing in his own encouragement. It was as though the three of them lived in a different world, one where rules didn't matter.
Still, Sansa could not deny her own desire. She wanted nothing more than to hear Ser Arthur sing again. She remembered, once, long ago, catching Septa Mordane discreetly dabbing at her eyes during a harvest feast, when Arthur had taken up a lute and filled the hall with a song of autumn fields and falling leaves.
Everyone loved his songs. Even the men of the yard, gruff and stern, would soften when he sang. The servants would gather in the shadows just to listen, their labors forgotten for a little while. As a girl, she had sometimes lain awake in her bed, straining her ears, hoping to catch a note carried through the stone corridors, praying he might sing that night.
Arthur used to sing in the corners of the castle when he thought no one was near, as if his music belonged to the walls and not the hall. Yet Arya had once boasted of catching him there, hidden with Robb and Jon, listening in secret, the three of them stifling laughter and awe. Sansa had pretended not to care, but she had burned with envy all the same.
She sipped from her goblet, watching Arthur as he tried to politely wave off Arya and Robb's pestering until a voice cut through the noise of the hall like silk drawn across steel.
"Ser Arthur," said Queen Cersei, her tone unhurried but clear enough to hush the nearby people. "We have heard enough stories of your gift. Would you grace us with something more... than tales?"
The hall quieted slightly, and all eyes turned toward the Queen.
Arthur merely smiled and inclined his head. "As my Queen commands."
Cersei smiled victorious, "We've had our fill of merry tunes. Play us something sad."
"Sad it shall be, Your Grace," Arthur replied, bowing. He turned and gestured toward the corner where the musicians sat. "Might I borrow your harp?"
A scraggly-haired man with red cheeks and tired eyes scrambled forward with a wooden harp cradled like a babe. Arthur took it gently, tested the strings with a few soft plucks, and nodded his thanks. His fingers moved with a familiarity that told of long hours of practice. He stepped forward, just beyond the tables, where the firelight could catch the line of his jaw and the shimmer of his tunic.
He looked once to the Queen, then once to Lord Eddard, whose expression remained still as a frozen lake. Then, he began to strum. The hall fell silent. Even the youngest children stopped fidgeting. The flames seemed to lean in closer, and Sansa could feel her heart tremble before a word was even sung.
"Welcome to Winterland, we've got it all,
Potions and Pastries that make you grow tall,
Forests and Cottages, Castles and Weirwoods that talk...
Welcome to Winterland, look where you are,
Maddest of Bears, and the Cheshire cat,
Magical Barrows and lovely white snows that fall…"
His voice was velvet-wrapped moonlight, so soft it made the fire crackles seem loud. And yet it reached every corner of the hall, every ear. Even the guards at the doors turned toward him, spellbound.
"Dancing through a dream beneath frozen skies,
Laughing till the morning comes,
Everyone that leaves bears a heavy heart,
Oh, Winterland, I love…
Welcome to Winterland, I'll be your guide,
Holding your hand under sapphire stars,
Let's go exploring, or we could just go for a walk..."
Sansa couldn't breathe for a moment. Her heart fluttered like a trapped bird. Arthur's voice seemed spun from sorrow and starlight, carrying with it the chill and wonder of Winterfell itself.
Her mother was already dabbing her eyes with a silken handkerchief. Septa Mordane sat rigid, tears slipping down her cheeks like ice melting on stone. Even Queen Cersei, ever so proud, seemed distant and glassy-eyed.
"Welcome to Winterland, where should we go?
There's a feast by the firelight's glow,
Or maybe the children will sing us a song of their own…
Dancing through a dream beneath frozen skies,
Laughing till the morning comes,
Everyone that leaves bears a heavy heart,
Oh, Winterland I love..."
Sansa's eyes drifted to the high table. Her father sat as if carved from ice, lips slightly parted, as if remembering something far away. Even the king, loud Robert Baratheon, leaned forward on one thick arm, his cup forgotten in his hand.
Arya was staring at Arthur with wide, awestruck eyes. Even Bran had crawled from his bench to listen, Maester Luwin's hand on his shoulder.
"Nothing here is ever just as it seems,
Not sure what is real or what's only dreams,
But the one true thing from the very start—
Is the song that you carry inside of your heart,
Don't let it go..."
Arthur's voice softened, drawing the last of the light from the room, as if he carried dusk in his lungs.
"If this is a dream, I won't let it fade,
I'll remember it when morning comes,
Though I must leave now with a heavy heart—
Oh, Winterland, I love..."
When the final note fell like a feather on the stone floor, the silence that followed was sacred. The song had not ended. It lingered like perfume in the air, like a memory that refused to fade.
Arthur bowed his head once and set the lute aside. He made no show of his performance. He simply rose and returned to his seat as if nothing had happened.
Sansa had heard stories of Prince Rhaegar's songs, how he would sing to the people with his silver harp and voice like rain on stone, but she had never heard the prince sing. Arthur, she had, and in her secret heart, she believed he could rival any prince.