A/N - So this is a full length multi-fic to accompany my Rise of Stark photoset series on tumblr (potterology-). I got a lot of requests for a full length fic so... I'm acquiescing to the request! And I'm happy to do so! Jsyk, this fic is mixing the book, tv series and head canon. I'm trying not to spoil too much for those who haven;t read the book, so some things will have been deliberately left out. Anyways, here you go and enjoy! :) -Sam x

They stood, staring, together for the first time in what felt like centuries. Sansa remembered very clearly the last time she had seen Bran, a thousand years ago. He had been sleeping still, his fall fresh, and she hadn't had the heart to kiss him goodbye. She'd squeezed his hand and whispered her love, then escaped before Arya could see her cry. He had been a summer child, only happy when he was as high as the birds or running circles around their mother, Arya by his side (or in front of him, which was so more often than not). Sansa couldn't see any of the Bran she knew in the man who sat sullenly in front of her. He was different, colder; not the curious, excited little brother he had been, but a dark man, with heavy eyes and bad habits; a dark heart pumping anger and fury through his skin.

Then there was her youngest sibling. Rickon was strange as ever, but there was wisdom in his eyes. As wild as he was, all calloused hands and hard voice, he walked softly, carried himself like he was supporting some great burden and his eyes held a happy glint that made him look like something wonderful was about to happen, which only he knew about.

He looked through Sansa, through the steel exterior and into her lion heart. It made her shiver; every secret she had ever had was plunged by his gaze, every depth was fathomed. She might as well have confessed every sin to him, the way he looked at her. He was strong, and wise and wild.

And Arya? She kept her hands tightly to her sides, her face a mask of indifference, so much so that Sansa could have sworn she was as likely to kill them as to kiss them. The woman who stood before her - my sister, Sansa reminded herself - had a countenance that was darker than Bran's, who was more of a curmudgeon than a villain, and the same wild nature as Rickon, but it ran deeper. She spoke with the voice of one who knew her own mind, her accent affected from speaking the Braavosi tongue for so long; moved in such a way that every action seemed premeditated. There was something in her step, in her presence, that set Sansa's teeth on edge. The only other time she remembered feeling similarly was when she was alone with the Hound: Fear; but more than that, affection. Arya was her sister, but if Sansa was a lion heart, Bran a dark heart and Rickon a wild heart, it seemed Arya had no heart at all. There was no love in her eyes, no mirth in her smile and no gentleness in her touch. She simply was and was nothing.

"A blacksmith?" Bran scoffed from his seat at the table. It held a large map of Westeros, each capital and major stronghold marked out in green or black ink. They were in a camp just outside of Winterfell, together as they had been that last day before everything fell to pig shit. Sansa grimaced; even more so when she heard the cold fury in Arya's voice as she spat, "He is not just a blacksmith."

"What's so special about him, then? Is he a king? A lord? Is he even a knight?" Bran said, his lips red from the wine he gulped down. He was angry, Sansa could see. He'd only just bargained a peace between the North and the Landing; Tommen was an easier, less ignorant ruler than his brother or mother had been, and when Bran came back to Winterfell (after separating Theon Greyjoy's head from his shoulders) the first thing that was brokered was a treaty between the two. To be asked now to violate that treaty for a bastard blacksmith was, in his eyes, unconscionable; from whom the request came was of little concern to the Lord of Winterfell.

"He is important," Arya replied lowly. Bran threw his head back and laughed.

"To who?" he said, raising his eyebrows and gesturing around to his siblings. His legs, still useless no matter how many mages and soothsayers he summoned, jostled as he waved a hand towards the mouth of the tent. "To the fathers and sons in the fields? To the brothers on the wall? To the women of the Cragg?"

"To me!" Arya slammed a fist onto the table. The map curled over at one edge where a wooden weight came loose from the force of her protest, covering Winterfell and half the North. Bran was furious and would have been on his feet, sword in hand, had he been able to, "And that isn't enough! You cannot ask me for my people's blood, for their lives and sons, for the sake of your cunt!"

"Enough!" Sansa raised her voice for the first time that night. They were breathing heavily, Arya more so than Bran, but Sansa suspected it was the effort not to murder her little brother that was doing it.

"So it's a kingdom for a blacksmith," Rickon said softly. There was no cruelty in his voice, only reason, and the tension bled from the room almost instantly. Arya looked suddenly tired, and older than Sansa had ever seen her.

Arya sunk into a chair, her eyes on Bran, pleading (as much as Arya could plead), "When you came to Braavos, I protected you. When you left to reclaim Winterfell, I sailed you there on my finest ship, crewed with three hundred of my best men. When Daenarys Targaryen rose from the Red Waste, vying for your head and that Lannister bastard, I put her down and sunk her in the Narrow Sea. I have asked for nothing in return, brother."

"But you are asking now." There was an odd mood settling over the four siblings; Bran and Arya, two powerful rulers in their own right, were speaking as if a treaty or détente was being drawn up, while Sansa and Rickon agreed silently to stay out of it. Sansa would not side with either one alone; the four all seemed to come to the same conclusion: It must be a unanimous decision between the Stark children.

"Yes. I am asking now. Rally the North, sent out riders to the Tully lands and the Eyrie - summon the damned krakens if you must - but please, do not forsake me." Arya slid her hand across the table towards Bran, her gold rings clattering against the wood. Bran stared at her outstretched hand for a few moments, frowning in such distaste that Sansa was sure he was about to refuse, but then it passed and he rested his own hand on top of hers. The corner of his mouth rose into a soft, relenting smile, and he looked kind for the first time since Sansa arrived at Gulltown.

"I'll answer your call, sister. I do not like it, but you are not asking me to like it." Arya flushed gratefully and for an instant she was the little wild girl who used to rub mud in her hair so she didn't have to sew with the Septa. Rickon stood abruptly, a massive grin splitting his face.

"Then I have some work to do," he proclaimed proudly and without another word he strode from the tent, calling for ale and salted pork. Bran laughed loudly at his brother and summoned his squire with his chair. Sansa took the moment to appraise her sister. She did not find relief, as she had been expecting, but a worried prayer whispered into the pendant that hung around Arya's neck. Sansa didn't have time to wonder what it was or why Arya of all people was praying before Rickon came bounding back into the tent with four wildings, each holding two pints of ale in both hands, and a sack of food in between his teeth.

"Let's have a toast, shall we?" he said, nodding to the wildings as they left. He handed them each a pint and one to the squire too, who flushed and hightailed out of the tent. "To us!" He smiled widely again. Sansa smiled.

"To the North!" Bran laughed.

"To House Stark!" Sansa chimed in, turning her gaze to Arya. The dark woman looked up at them, her pendant - a small wooden stag - settled between her breasts.

"To a blacksmith," she said quietly. They all nodded to one another and toasted.