The stench of death and blood surrounded her like a tidal wave. Her dress, once a pristine grey, now seemed more like black with the blood on it. Her hands forever stained crimson, her hair in disarray, strands of it having escaped her braid.
She didn't remember how many bodies she had had her hands in. Stitching, obeying the maester`s command of what she should do - after telling him that Yes, she was the Lady of Winterfell, and Yes, she meant to get herself dirty and help in the battlefield. There weren't enough hands, anyway. After a glare from her part, he acquiesced immediately. Of that, hours already had come and gone by. And, despite her best efforts, more and more injured became dead. She couldn't save them, just as she couldn't save her family from the clutches of death. She stopped the trail of thought right there. Instead, in a quiet but commanding voice, he ordered for the few soldiers guarding the camp - 10 at the very most - to burn the bodies to ash. Better that fate than becoming more soldiers for the army of the dead.
She returned to her tent - the Lady's tent - hours later, to get some supplies for treating the injured. When she looked herself in the small mirror there, she knew that her presumptions hadn't been that far off. She had even dried blood smeared to her face. She cleaned her hands with a small soap, and then her face until her skin had the porcelain tone she had always had. Afterward, she let loose what was left of the braid - not much, really, and brushed her hair rapidly, until it flowed like a fountain of melted copper at her back. She felt she was wasting precious time, but at the same time, knew better than anyone that with the Dragon Queen fighting alongside her sister and Jon, it was She who the people, terrified and scared from starvation and war, looked up to. For once, in so many years, she thanked having the good looks of her mother. In here, at least, they served a purpose.
Her makeshift calmness was interrupted by a Wolf`s cry. Ghost, she thought. And, following it, a terrifying scream. A blood-curdling scream. She knew the voice. Arya`s. There was only one reason she, so strong and resilient, would make such a sound. The realization left her shaking. Her eyes watered. Jon was dead. She went to the flap of the tent, and when she lifted it, with trembling hands, she saw Rhaegal with a spear through its body, dead upon the ground. She couldn't see him, but she could imagine the rest. And had the sudden urge to scream. That had been the last dragon. The battle was lost.
Before she could let loose her grief, a soldier approached her, running. She schooled her face into impassive indifference. And set her shoulders straight. She was now Queen.
He knelt by her feet, and in his hands, he offered her, in reverence, a Crown of Swords.
The crown of the Kings of Winter. Robb`s crown. Jon`s after him. And now, hers.
"Your Grace", he said, trembling by the strain of the battle and of running to her, "King Jon, in his dying breath, told me to give you this."
She took it from his hands and saw some blood on it. Past the point of caring for such petty things, she simply put it over her head. Felt it digging against her scalp. It fitted her perfectly.
In a voice that sounded far away and foreign, she said: "Rise, Ser Alastor". And he does.
"Your grace, I'm sorry for your loss. And for bearing bad news. Our forces are decimated, and with the Dragon Queen dead and now His Grace, I'm afraid that…"
"The battle is lost", she finished for him, having already gotten to the realization herself.
"Yes, Your Grace."
"How many men have we left?"
"Not enough, Your Grace. Although Queen Daenerys and King Jon killed two White Walkers and many wights, we have suffered heavy losses. And there's still one White Walker left, who is directing the remaining Wights and rising our dead soldiers to fight for him. It won't be long before they get, here, to the camp."
"How long?"
"Minutes, Your Grace, minutes. I would say, if we are lucky, twenty at the most."
Twenty. For the Old Gods. That wasn't enough time. So very little time. And at that realization, a plan, shaky and almost impossible, formed in her head.
"Ser Alastor. I want you to take the men of the camp with you and all the horses you can find, and prepare all the women and children to flee. Tell them they have five minutes to be ready and mounted. Tell them to leave everything that isn't absolutely necessary, and then some more. You have to be light and quick to be able to escape."
"We, Your Grace? What about you?"
She didn't answer him. Instead, she commanded: "And send one of the men to find my sister and bring her to me."
"Yes, Your Grace". He bowed and left.
She knew what she had to do, and why she had to do it. But that didn't stop her from sweating cold and her hands from shaking. With no time to waste, she wrote on a piece of parchment, with the most horrible calligraphy she had used in ages, her last command. And then sealed it with the sigil of her house. Now, the most difficult part of it all.
She heard the rustling of the tent, and with it, the light footsteps of her sister. Arya. She was full of mud and blood, and who knew what else. With needle at her hip and the dagger of Valyrian steel in her hand, she looked angry and desolated. All sharp edges. To the guard behind her, she simply said: "Leave us." With a quiet "Your Grace", he left.
"I know you don't think that you should be here, but", she began.
"That's an understatement" Arya answered, annoyed and hurt of being kept from the battle.
Sansa, ignoring the interruption, continued: "I need you for something far more important than this battle."
"More important than killing those monsters and saving humanity! I doubt it!"
"LISTEN TO ME! This battle is already lost, and there is nothing you can do about it! Nothing! But you can follow my orders and do what I'm going to tell you."
"So now that you are Queen you think I will do your bidding?!"
Gods, not even at the end of the world did their words not end in arguments. But they were women grown, and time was of the essence. With a deep breath, Sansa said:
"Arya I don't want to fight with you. Enemies are all that surrounds us. We can't fight amongst ourselves now." That was what Jon had told her once. Now he's gone, gone! Focus, she ordered herself, there's no time for grief. She, then, begged: "I need your help, I cannot do this without you".
Who knows what was reflected on her face, but suddenly, Arya deflated and calmed. Her outburst, she knew, had only been born of grief and helplessness. She had just lost Jon, and Arya had loved him like the moon loves the stars. Besides, for all her skill, she had not been able to win the battle. And when was the last time her sword had failed her?
"What do you need?"
She breathed, relief filling her. "I've ordered the men to ready every woman and child under our protection to flee with haste. They should already be assembled and mounted, waiting for my orders. You will go with them, you will lead them, and take them as South as you can. If needs be, you will defend them with your Needle. Do you understand?"
"Wait, you are coming with us, aren't you?"
"No, I will light the Wildfire."
Arya, her face draining of color, said: "Are you insane?! You'll burn!"
"This is MY plan! And I intend to see it through. I`ll wait until you are a reasonable distance from here, and then I will ignite it. I'm going to take as many of them with me as I can."
"NO, I`m not going anywhere without you!" she declared, desperate and broken. "If there isn't any other way.."
"There isn't!"
"Then I`ll stay with you and we`ll do it together."
"No."
"No? You have NO right to order me what to do or.."
"Yes, I do. I'm your older sister. I am your Queen, and you will do as I say."
"You should know that I don't care for those things."
Grabbing her arm, strongly, Sansa takes her by surprise and says: "Then do it for this: There are hundreds of babes, children, and women, terrified and starving that depend on us, who are going to die tonight consumed by wildfire. Or worse, who are going to be more corpses for the army of the dead. And there are more people, innocent people, who have just escaped the tyranny of Cersei Lannister and who are going to perish or become undead if the Night King and his Wights are not stopped right here, right now. This isn't what I wanted. I wanted for Jon, Bran, you and I to see the spring, to live happy and safe inside the walls of our home. To see the Sun shining overhead and the flowers bloom and know, deep within us, that the war was over and nothing, nothing at all, could tear us apart. But that can't be: Winterfell is ash, our brothers are dead, and there is nothing between us and the Army of the Dead but Wildfire and a handful of soldiers, tired, injured and dying. So you will lead whatever's left of our people and you will keep them safe, for as long as you can. You will LIVE, and carry with you the legacy of the Starks, of our family, head held high and always proud, as proud as I am of the woman you have become."
"You are their Queen. You are their Lady, the one that kept them fed for as long you could, the one that saw to their protection. The one they love. Let me burn the wildfire! Lead them yourself!"
Sansa, eyes heavy and heartbroken at her pleading gaze, answered: "I don't know how to fight. Not like you do. I can't defend them, and if one of those things comes after us, I`ll die with them. You can survive and keep them safe. That is exactly what they need. A Lady that can save them. A warrior and a sword."
Arya`s eyes widened. She knew what her sister meant to do, but it didn't make it any less unbelievable. Sansa, barely a blink later, put in one her hands a small roll of parchment, sealed with a direwolf. "This is my last command. As Lady of Winterfell, Wardeness of the North, and Lady Regent of the Vale, I proclaim you as my heir. No one who lays eyes on that parchment can doubt your claim. A failsafe, just in case. As for the title of Queen… well, I do not think you want it, yet I made it clear that the line of succession ends in you. As the last kin of King Jon, you have the right to it."
"Sansa" A whisper, grief-stricken and bittersweet. Her sister's eyes were shining with tears. She took her into her arms and said: "Don't worry sweetling. It's alright. I am ready. I am not afraid." She was terrified, deep down, for facing death was never an easy task. But her sister need not know that. For once, Arya appeared to not have noticed her lie.
"I love you," Sansa said, a whisper that could light a thousand pyres. "I loved you since the time I saw you first when Mother presented you to me, and you opened your clear eyes. I don't remember much, except bowing to sing to you beautiful songs, braid your hair once it was long enough, and let you play with my dolls every once in a while." Arya laughed, a broken thing, and Sansa broke their embrace so she could look into said eyes. "I loved you even when I hated you for putting shit into my bed or throwing pie at my face. I loved you when I braided your hair and played with you for hours on end before I knew that a lady mustn't do such things. I love you now more than I thought I ever could and I shall love you until the end. You are amazing, little sister. Don't let anyone tell you any different."
Their moment was interrupted by Ser Alastor, who entered the tent and said: "The people are mounted, Your Grace. I have ten guards with me. We are ready to escort them South at your command."
"Then don't dally. Let's go outside."
With that, they stepped unto the clearing and there she saw what remained of her people, scared and lonely, full of grief and desolation. And when they saw her, or rather the figure she made, a Queen tall with bright red hair, an ancient crown on her head, her dress a matted mess and face radiant under the moonlight, she saw how their eyes became alight with something akin to hope. Arya saw this, and when she looked at her, on her face there was an almost invisible smile.
Speaking to all, both guards and people, she declared with finality and confidence she did not truly feel: "From now on, you take your orders from my sister. She is your Queen now."
Ser Alastor and the men under his command bowed to Arya, and then, to her surprise, knelt at her feet. The rest of the men followed suit. The ones already on their horses bowed their heads. Her people as well. He said, with unwavering conviction: "It has been the greatest honor to serve under you, Your Grace. We are proud to have fought in Your name. And should we die, we would do so proud as well."
Tears pricked at her eyes. She felt their devotion and grew stronger with it. "The honor has been mine." And then, to her people: "I know you are afraid of what's to come. That death is the only thing you can see. But your stories don't end here. You will see the dawn, and hundreds after it, the Gods will it so. You will welcome the Spring, with the knowledge that you are strong, true people of the North, and that you have survived. To be your Lady has been a privilege, and when I face death tonight I will do so proud of what We have accomplished, and what we have become. Fierce, brave, resilient.
Now, ride, and don't look back."
With that, the soldiers got on their feet, and then, on their horses. Only one remained without a rider. Arya`s.
Sansa took off the Crown and then turned towards her sister. "This is yours."
"No" she answered. "It is yours. Put it on and keep it."
"But it'll melt with me!"
"Good. I'm no Queen. I don't want it."
"Arya…"
"Sansa. Keep it."
Seeing her resoluteness, she slipped back onto her head. And then, she found her arms full of Arya.
"I love you." Her little sister said, with the most vulnerable voice she had heard on her for years. "I love you, I did when we were children - even if I didn't like you - and I do now. I loved you when you healed my scrapes, and covered for me when I practiced with my bow and arrow, so Mother wouldn't scold me later. When you shared your lemon cakes with me, and when we smuggled into the kitchens to get them. I loved you when you welcomed me into our home when you embraced me when I felt lost and foreign. And I love you now, more than I ever thought possible, and I shall never, ever forget you."
Sansa couldn't contain her tears any longer. But these ones were of the good sort, the one that warmed you instead of leaving you cold. So when they separated, there were trails of them down her cheeks.
"You are the bravest person I know," Arya said, a smile in her eyes, "and I've known a great deal. I'm proud of having a sister like you."
With that she mounted the stallion, grey like her eyes, and taking the lead, she rode away, their people behind her, the guards taking the rear.
Sansa stood there, alone, until they were a small speck that disappeared into the horizon. She had not missed they hadn't said Goodbye. It didn't matter. It was unspoken.
She uncovered the crate full of Wildfire. It was enough to weight two horses. When she was beating herself for her folly, thinking that she wouldn't be able to carry it, she tried to lift it with one hand and weighted like a feather. The Old Gods are with me, she thought, and with that realization, she took with her other hand a torch and began walking towards the monsters.
One step, two steps, three steps… She was terrified. She knew what she was going to do, and that knowledge made very difficult to keep her knees from buckling and her legs from stopping. Her hands were slick with sweat, and her heart fluttered like a hummingbird.
She thought then about Father, steadfast, loyal and honorable, who had always made her feel safe.
She thought about Mother, her warmth, her smile, the way she had always made her feel special and loved.
She thought about Robb, whom she had loved without reserve since she knew what was to love. Her knight in shining armor, the one she had prayed for, who had given her kisses and winter roses.
She thought about Bran, good and bright Bran, who had been innocent, and then, wise beyond his years.
She thought of Rickon, her cute baby brother, who had always calmed his wailing in the middle of the night when she entered his nursery and settled him against her chest, rocking him back and forth, and singing him, softly, songs of princes and princesses.
She thought of Jon, brave, sweet and kind Jon, who had made her feel safe for the first time since Joffrey had taken Father's head, who listened to her horrors and had shared some of his own, whom she had grown to love so much, she thought she would burst. Whose death felt in her chest like a stab of bitter steel.
And she thought of Arya, fierce, deadly and magnificent, wild, with the wind messing her hair and her sword in her hand, riding South.
She felt them there, with her, and no longer was she afraid.
She continued her walk, but this time, her hands were no longer sweaty and her gait was proud. She said, head held high and voice, strong and unwavering, the stuff of legends:
"I am Sansa Stark, Lady Regent of the Vale, Lady of Winterfell and Wardeness of the North. Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Eldest daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn Tully Stark, sister to Robb, Bran, Rickon, and Arya. Cousin to Jon. The Stark's direwolf flows through my veins. The Tully fish shines in my hair. And I am not afraid."
The White Walker was so close she could see his frigid, blue eyes. He looked at her with disdain and pure rage, an army of Wights at his back. Sansa held his gaze, unwaveringly, not once looking away. She then stopped her walk and stood there, the Wildfire at her side, the only person alive amidst the endless snow and death. But even if moments ago she felt the starvation clawing in her stomach, the wind biting her skin, and the cold settled for so long inside her bones, now she felt none of those things. Only strength of will and sheer determination. And the only thing she heard was her heartbeat, beat after beat, a testament of how she had overcome every difficulty, every hardship and grief, to be standing right there. The last shield of the realm of men. And women, she thought with satisfaction. A woman, the stronghold of humanity.
They got closer and closer. But Sansa stayed right there. When they were mere meters away, she knew the time had come. Just as she exchanged the torch from one hand to the other, she thought again of Arya, her little sister, guiding what was left of their people to safety. Arya, knowing twenty name-days, the way she never would. Arya, laughing while she rode a horse, Needle in her hand, defending the innocent. Settling their people, traveling the world, finding someone worthy of her love. Free and unbound. She thought that this was a small price to be paid for that. It was enough.
She closed her eyes and let go of the torch. Behind her eyelids, she saw refulgent emerald, blinding, scalding, all-consuming. And then,
Nothing.