My crown is in my heart, not on my head;

Not decked with diamonds and Indian stones,

Nor to be see. My crown is called content;

A crown it is that seldom kings enjoy. 

Henry VI (3.1.62-65)

Book 1: Chapter One

She jerks awake when the wheels of the carriage rattle over a violent pothole in the middle of the road. Her head bangs hard against the shuttered window and slippered feet scramble against the rug on the floor for traction. The carriage is dark and she blinks, rubbing blearily at her eyes as she struggles to see in the dim light of the lantern that rocks on an iron hook against the ceiling.

Cool morning light spills in through the slight cracks in the shutters, cold air whistling against the walls and Sakura shivers and pulls the furs further about her shoulders. Her dress is thin, a light gold and green silk imported from the eastern islands and offers little protection from the harsh northern temperatures. There are velvet and soft woolen shifts in her trunks, but she is too stubborn to admit that she needs them. Instead, she wraps the velvet cloak closer around her shoulders, adjusts the furs draped across her knees and runs cold fingers over each other in an attempt to find some warmth.

Outside, the horses stamp and whinny as their carriage is pulled relentlessly onwards, and she stares resentfully at the carriage wall across from her. She’s tired from weeks of sleepless nights in roadside taverns and the castles of lesser lord, and cold to the bone from the chill, but she wishes the journey was never ending. Carefully she digs into the pouch of her dress and her numb fingers curl around the piece of parchment, soft from the touch of tender fingertips. She doesn’t pull it out, doesn’t need to to see the slanting, apologetic script and the green seal of a curling rose.

The sounds of the road have morphed and changed as she slept, and she inches herself further up in her seat to peer through the window, pulling aside the shutters and thick curtains to look out at the landscape. Snow coats the ground; they are fortunate that the King’s Road is clear enough to travel. Around her is the beginnings of the city that she is travelling to, huts and homes constructed in the harsh landscape of fading winter in the North. They are trading away the vast fields of nothing, save for the occasional farm house, in favour of crudely designed streets made of packed mud and filled with traffic that slows their pace.

The carriage draws attention, surrounded as it is by a battalion of armed guards for her protection. They form a caravan with the two carts behind them, which carry her personal effects and each member of the party bears the Tyrell seal: a golden rose on a field of green, declaring their southern loyalties for all of the northerners to see.

It has not been so long since the northern kingdom split away from the south, only five years, easily enough time for those they pass to recognise the banners that stream from her flag bearers. She is unsurprised to see that they are being stared at by those who travel on foot or by horseback, carrying their wares to the castle in time for the morning market. They are all wrapped in layers of fur and wool and Sakura is once again reminded that she is not built for the iciness of the northern winters, withdrawing into her carriage to retain as much southern heat as she can.

Her fingers run over the note within her pocket again, a simple sheaf of paper to extend her family’s greeting to the northern queen. She resists the urge to crumple the parchment between her fingers and burn it against the wick of the lantern. Her stomach turns once again thinking of her situation and she presses herself against the cushioned walls of the carriage, staring at the flickering lantern and longing for her family home of Highgarden with such desperation it churns at her stomach. This place, with its alien landscape and cold, unfriendly people, is enough to make her sickened with homesickness, though she has ignored every letter her mother had delivered to her on her journey.

It is a strange thing to feel unwanted, stranded between the home she craves but is sent from and the home awaiting her which she does not want. Though she is surrounded by servants and guards, she has never felt so alone.

There is a knock against the door and she inches forwards in her seat to draw back the shutters and curtains, peering out at the guard who rides alongside her.

“My lady, we are nearing the castle.”

She simply nods in response, watching him draw his horse back to its position in the parade. They are drawing definite attention now, people pausing in the busy streets to watch them and the ground beneath them has turned from crude packed earth to familiar cobbles which rattle her around the carriage like a rag doll. The houses rise up from the streets, tall and cramped and in the distance there is a crowing of market sellers crying out their prices and wares. The smell of horses and dirt, the grime of the city, filters in through the cold air of the window and she wrinkles her nose, drawing back to slam the shutters again with a particularly hard rattle.

Settling back in her seat, she draws her hands into her lap, clutching them together within the trails of her cloak. She is not nervous. She is Sakura of House Tyrell, one of the most respected houses in the southern lands and far more refined than the northern rabble that inhabit the castle of Winterfell, seat of the Queen of the North.

The thought of the woman to whom she’s being delivered makes Sakura hesitate and she swallows heavily, her eyes fixed on tracing the knots in the wood of the wall opposite her.

Eunbi Stark, Queen of the North, Daughter of Wolves. The name alone is enough to make her shiver. She cannot picture what the girl will look like, though she has been told so much about her. The fifteen year old who succeeded her father when he was killed in the War of North and South. Who led a campaign to overcome the southern forces and break away to form her own kingdom, becoming the first Queen in the North for hundreds of years.

Sakura had been young when the girl had first taken power, only thirteen and too bored by foreign affairs to remember much about the politics of the war. But even she distinctly remembers the stories about Eunbi Stark that had been whispered by her friends and maids. She was a winter spirit, summoned by the old northern gods to avenge them. She was a child of the forest, taking on human form. She rode a direwolf the size of a horse into battle- or perhaps she gave birth to a litter of direwolves- or maybe she was part direwolf. The tales were endless.

The carriage comes to a trembling halt, pulling her from her thoughts and she drags in a steadying breath as the door is opened and she is offered the extended hands of her footman to descend into the courtyard.

The first thing that hits her is the cold, a wall of chill that immediately sends shivers through her spine and gooseflesh along her arms. The second is the overwhelming brightness that comes from the sun reflecting on the snow covered ground. The courtyard of the castle has been mostly cleared, but there is still some snow pushed against the walls in drifts and she has to squint after the darkness of the carriage. The third thing is the dogs. Or, more accurately, the direwolves. They must be direwolves, as they are larger than any dog she has ever seen and larger than some miniature ponies. There are seven of them, of varying shades of white and grey and black. Some lounge to the side, watching her with curiosity, several others pad closer, as if to investigate, and the largest of the lot stand faithfully at the side of the woman who must be Eunbi Stark.

The Queen in the North is smaller than Sakura expected her to be. She gets only a brief glance when she emerges from the carriage, before she is forced to concentrate on the footman helping her and the slippery ground beneath her slippered feet, but what she sees is a small girl with dark hair and a crown of steel and silver, watching her impassively. She is surrounded by advisors and members of her court, but there is no elaborate fanfare of welcome, as Sakura would expect in Highgarden. Instead it is only Sakura and these skeptical, stoic northerners. She feels a rush of ire for her mother once again.

“Lady Sakura,” Eunbi Stark’s voice is clear and carries across the few paces that separate them. “Welcome to Winterfell.”

Cautiously, Sakura stares at her for a moment, appraising her. The girl wears a thick, dark velvet cape with a white fur trim over a flowing dress. She is wearing lush, dark gloves and a sparkling silver necklace rests against her collarbones. Though she knew in theory that the queen had only seen twenty years, it is still surprising to see that her face is slightly rounded with youth, though it does nothing to disguise the spark of ruthlessness in her green eyes. Dark hair is gathered at the back of her head and her crown catches the light when she tilts her head to watch Sakura come closer.

Sakura approaches a little hesitantly and pauses before her, unsure of the protocol of meeting a queen who is not her own. She feels Eunbi Stark’s eyes on her as she bows her head and bobs the smallest of curtseys. “Your majesty.”

“Thank you for joining us,” Eunbi Stark’s voice is cool and calm, in no way impolite but in no way friendly either. “Your journey must have been hard.”

“It was,” Sakura straightens herself upright again, but meeting the eyes of the Queen in the North is oddly unsettling. One of the direwolves comes within an arm’s reach of her and she can’t help but flinch back from the dark eyes and sharp fangs of this near mythical creature.

“My apologies,” Queen Eunbi takes a step forward, her regal mask cracking just slightly, showing a slice of concern, “Faith,” She clicks her tongue and the wolf’s big white head swings away from Sakura. The wolf whines a little, but obediently trots to Eunbi’s side, letting her brush a hand over its ears. “They will not hurt you.” Eunbi assures her, calmly and Sakura has to swallow before she can nod, clasping her hands together in the fur lined pouch of her dress in hopes that the queen will not see how they are trembling.

Her fingers brush against the worn corners of the letter and she pulls it out, glancing at the Stark queen uncertainly before offering it out.

“I was to deliver this to you upon my arrival.”

Eunbi nods, pursing her lips a little and reaches out to take the letter, fingers brushing over the unbroken seal. “Please,” She gestures back at the castle, “We should retire indoors to discuss your stay here. The wind is cold today.”

Sakura bites back a sarcastic comment and instead nods, shrugging her cloak further around her shoulders. She falls into step just a pace behind Eunbi, unsure if she should presume to place herself beside a queen. Eunbi Stark makes no comment, but the space beside her remains available as her courtiers file in beside Sakura. The woman who walks to her right is tall, dressed in Stark colours and the crest stitched in silver into the white cloak she wears above her leathers is a wolf, above which sits a crown. Sakura recognises her immediately as part of the Queensguard, sworn to protect the Stark queen until she dies at her side and shivers slightly when she catches sight of the sword at her hip and the dagger strapped to her thigh. They are led through the thick oak doors of the castle, into corridors lined with stone on every side. Torches sit on notches on the walls, casting flickering light up to the high ceilings and it takes Sakura’s eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness after the bright snows outside.

The castle is cold and she feels her stomach turn, dangerously close to tears at the thought of being trapped in the frozen wasteland. She imagines herself wasting away, locked in a tower for safe-keeping, as the ice seeped into her bones and eventually gripped her heart.

Another door opens before them and they parade into a throne room with little fanfare. It is lighter than the corridors, with high windows upon which elegant stained glass tells tales of victorious battles. Spiralling marble pillars line the walkway and the room is filled with more attendants and courtiers, who turn to stare at Sakura. On a dais at the end of the room sits a throne made of steel and wood, spiked like a crown, dark and understated in its power. It is to this that the queen glides, settling into it and staring down at Sakura with an unreadable expression. The direwolves arrange themselves around her, flopping against