Queen of Death
She is Jadis, cold as the forever-frozen icefalls she was named after. She is queen, and so she will stay; even if she is killed in this bloody battle against upstarts and rebels, she will always be known as The White Queen.
White as death, white as a winter's sky. Death, and the power to make death, have been hers from her young years. She has never liked blood, though never shied from it either. But to kill without blood, to sap the life-strength and leave a pale corpse, has always been her preferred method.
While her sister spilt oceans of blood in her bid for the throne, Jadis waited. And when the time came, her hand turned all the world she had known, from Charn to the farthest reaches of Calixstan, into dust and gray ash.
Here in Narnia she had begun afresh. Here was the latent power to do more than she had ever dreamed of, in a world that had no old magic, nothing to hamper or bind the free expression of all that was in her heart.
In her exile to the northern moors she had felt again the kinship, so strong in her youth, to the winter. Abransis, the Winter God, had always been hers in Charn; a god with so few followers, yet so powerful. Taking her newfound strength she drew to herself all the bitter cold of the north and harnessed it. By little and little it grew until at last she came down upon Narnia in a storm of ice and snow, and with the aid of a traitor blasted the Tree of Protection into a stone cold stump, it's silver apples tumbling to the ground brown and withered, it's golden leaves turned white and chalk-fragile.
And so she had begun her reign. From Cair Paravel to the the border of Archenland she had frosted over every green and growing thing, had turned the luxurious colors of a Narnian autumn into the cold grayness of the Mitrena wilderness, and had struck her ice-fear into the heart of every beast, every man, every tree and river and blade of grass, until all the world knew her name and trembled at it.
Nothing satisfied her more than bringing in a prisoner, his face wretched with terror; extending her wand; touching it to his heart; gazing at him with dispassionate stare as all the life was leached from him, until he was a stony ghost of himself, with his last horror written for all time upon his blank white face.
She feels something of the same satisfaction now, wielding her wand upon the battlefield. She does not truly believe she will die; she cannot die. The lion, the golden Aslan, lies dead by her own hand. There was, after all, some magic she could not countermand even here; the law demanded blood, and so she had struck him to the heart with her knife and let the blood stain hand and blade and gown .
Now the feeble, ragged army which fought against her is faltering. Now the boy kings are fighting for their very lives. Now the statues outnumber the living.
She is not all ice and stone; there is a fury within her, a fire that cannot melt her outward mask of calm. That they should dare to rise against her, that they should go so far as to break her winter. They will soon learn once again why she is known among the Calormenes as the Queen of Death.
