The room was warm, quiet. A total contrast with the surging storm of mingled terror and nervousness going on in Sansa's head.

She closed her eyes to utter a quick prayer. She did not know whom she was addressing it to, the Gods had never answered her calls, but she prayed anyway, to whoever was not too busy to listen to her despaired pleas.

This prayer was for Arya.

She knew how this war had been organized. All the soldiers were separated in three waves, depending on their location. When two groups fought, one rested, and they took turns. There was no other option, since the undead did not need to sleep or sustain themselves, and the living could not keep on fighting forever without tiring. She knew who was part of which wave. Arya and Brienne, the first. Sandor, the second. She had all the others written on a piece of parchment somewhere, to remember who to pray for on which day and on which hour of the day. She had addressed more prayers than she could count in the passed two days.

And Jon, she prayed continuously for Jon. He was not part of any wave. His only goal was to pierce through the Night King with his inflamed sword. She knew he would dive in and cross the battlefield without stopping, without even glancing at the obstacles between the Undead King and himself as soon as he would land.

And when he would be done, he would plunge it into Rh'llor himself should he cross his path, as well as in any book that ever told or even mentioned the prophecy of the Prince that was Promised, and in anyone who would be crazy enough to speak the names of Azor Ahai or Nissa Nissa.

In all the years she had spent with him, Sansa had never seen him in such rage, in such a state of fuming hatred towards everything when he got out of the bedroom where Daenerys had shed her last breath. He looked terrifying, his sword soaked in the blood of his beloved, pure madness emanating from him. Her eyes had met his before he took off, and never in her entire life had she seen eyes so empty and dark. His expression had been gentler for a faction of a second when he had seen that she had been cradling his daughter, up there on the balcony.

The baby shifted in her arms, pulling her from her reverie. Sansa had been the only one to take care of her since her birth, two days ago already. She did not let the wet nurses approach her. She took care of feeding her, bathing her, cradling her herself. She cuddled her and covered her with love, she even sang to appease her when the wind howled outside. At night too, she kept her in her own room, even if that meant waking up several times to rock and calm the newborn down. She did not sleep anyway. She was too afraid for them, desperately fighting in the unmerciful cold. She kept on tossing and turning in her huge bed, wishing there was someone with her, to reassure her, to whisper in her ear that she would not be alone when all of this would be done. Fatigue could be seen on her face, digging hard onto her usually soft features, but there was nothing she could do. She would not rest until they would all be home and safe. Even if that meant she would never find rest again until the end of her days.

Jon had strictly commanded that if Bran saw that the living were not winning, they must flee to Essos. But Sansa did not want to think about this possibility. Her place was here, as was Jon's, and Arya's, and Bran's and everyone's, and these lands were not about to yield against the dead, not after everything they went through.

The fearful questions kept rushing in her mind, she did not achieve to hush the voices.

This is not the way it ends, right?

After what everyone went through, this could not be the end, could it?

I do know the Gods are unfair

I do know fates are unfair

I have lived one myself

But there must still be some hope in this world, right?

Some kindness, some tenderness to hold onto?

"Here is something you must know, little princess.", she said with a kind voice, softly bouncing the small one.

"People will try to hurt you. They will try to break you. The Gods will too, or whoever is above us. So they have done to your mother, so they have done to your father…They will be unmerciful. May they have the cold eyes of an Other or the warm eyes of a mother. People will not be kind. You must be brave and learn from your mistakes.", she ordered, looking into purple irises sparkled with chestnut.

She gently ran a finger on the silver strands of hair already crowning the future Queen's head.

"With time you will know who do trust. You will become wise. But remember, all people are not able to change. Kings and Queens were betrayed before because of such mistakes, Kings and Queens will be betrayed in the future because of these same mistakes. History does not repeat itself but it often rhymes."

She stared out the window.

"And on this day, history will either end or be written."

The battle was long. Tiresome. Stinky.

The living were being cut down like corn. Luckily they managed to destroy more white walkers than the other way around.

The cold was unmerciful. Arya had no idea where Jaqen was, nor Jon nor anyone. She was surrounded by foreign faces, some with the eyes of the living, others with eyes as blue as frost. The living shouted before they dived into battle, some shitted their pants. Lesser actually knew how to fight. But they all tried. Everyone, no matter the colors on their shield, followed this one goal: survive.

Everything was fast. She struck there with her dragonglass dagger. She pierced the other way with her spear. She dodged an attack, jumped on the ground as an undead horse ran towards her. She quickly got up before anyone-or anything- could crush her. Sometimes she took an instant to breathe. Not too long, it could be fatal.

She was tired. The battle had been going on for too long. The dawn of a new day was cracking. At least she had made it another day, she thought.

The corpses kept on coming, they never stopped. The dragons were flying and breathing flames upon the battlefield. The fire never died. The unceasing sound of steel clashing and men wailing and dead running never lowered.

There was no strength left in her muscles. She was a trained assassin, but war was something else than single combat entirely. The adrenaline rushing in her veins had exhausted her, as well as her never ending prayers. It had been long since Arya Stark had not prayed. But the girl panting on the battlefield here was not Arya Stark. She was another fighter close to the grave. She was another lively face amongst many others. She was No one, surrounded by other no ones, who together formed the Living.

And, like everyone else, for each second that passed, she prayed for the loved ones that had followed her into battle to be still breathing. She was nervous, yet she felt the bravery run through her. If this had to be her last day, then so be it. She would have spent it fighting for the best cause.

She dodged another rushing White. Slash. He was not anymore.

There must have been some truth behind these words she once learned:

Valar Morghulis

She accepted it. This was the fate of all things. But first, they live.

Valar Dohaeris

She was serving. But the Living, this time.

Someone must have destroyed a White Walker somewhere, for half of the group in front of her suddenly exploded in sharp shards of ice. She covered her face, but some frost blades still crushed on her visage, leaving new scars.

Another group rushed towards her, as if driven by some sudden rage. There were more of them this time. She pushed herself up the dirty ground, took a deep breath in. One slice, two, three.

She felt a hard hit on the back of her leg. Bleeding. Cursing. No time.

Another hit, on the side of the face this time. The sound the corpses made, that breathy shriek, was unbearable. She wanted to shut them. All of them. She waved her spear in the air around her, maybe hit one or two.

Bang

That one strike behind her head hurt.

Damn it

There was another deafening sound. Not from the whites this time. Ringing. From inside her head. Her rigid muscles were hard to move. They were too sore and frozen.

She felt the warm blood trickle down her neck, and suddenly she felt the freezing snow against her cheek. Her vision blurred. There might have been too much for her to handle on her own.

Everything swayed. She felt dizzy and nauseous, the whiteness of the snow was suddenly blinding.

Another wave of shouts. She could not make up if these were the shrieks of the living or of the dead. And a growl. Maybe a dragon. She hoped it would not spit fire right where she was.

But it mattered very little. She did not stand a chance anyway if she remained here, laid on the ground.

But she could not move. She felt herself sink in the freezing ground, the sky turned above her. It was a gray sky, somehow the clouds reflected the many colors of the Dragonfire on the ground. Black, Gold, Silver. She should not be staring at the sky.

But she did not even have the energy to curse our shout for help.

The metal tang of the blood crawled in her nostrils and lingered there. There was a dull taste in her mouth, maybe the taste of mud mingled with scarlet. Mud and snow and death.

She did not have the force to check, but she was quite sure there was blood between her legs too.

She closed her eyes, felt her weak body being dragged through the snow. The feeling was like falling, made her dizzy and turned her stomach upside down. The freezing cold soaked in her to the bone, chilled her from inside until not a single drop of warmth remained.

Was she really being dragged or was she just hallucinating? And what was that pain in her abdomen?

She could not tell, not before everything went dark.

Jaqen's face flashed in her mind, she could almost feel him through the tips of her numb and cold fingers. She almost tasted a bit of hope mingled with the blood in her mouth. And everything went totally black again.

Finally, some silence.

Another shriek up in the sky. That was Bran, warging into Drogon and then Rhaegal, spitting fire whenever he could. To burn the Others but also the corpses of the defeated Living, before they could rise up again with blue eyes and serve the other side.

But Jon had no time to think about that.

The hatred gave him another set of wings. He fought. He fought like never before. He blindly destroyed everything staying on his path, following his bursting hatred.

He did not care about the odds. He could have been the only fighter leading this battle against two hundred thousand whites, he would have still unsheathed his sword and ran into the heap without glancing back. He could not lose, there was simply no other choice. A wave of boiling anger and courage surged in him each time he destroyed an Other, crashing in him with an incredible force, more powerful at every kill.

The battle was long. Yet he had no time to feel the tiredness nor the pain nor the cold. The Night King was there, somewhere, only waiting for him to plunge his inflamed sword in him. There was no waiting anymore. He would not get away one other day. He took him too much.

Jon did not hesitate. He dodged attacks. He got hit, he did not take the time to feel the pain. His sword plunged and spun and stroke.

He was mad.

Come here, he called the Night King.

Come fight, he murmured every time another White Walker was killed and a group of whites exploded in a tempest of blades.

He looked around. Blue eyes, shrieks and the smell of death.

Don't hide

The sun set and rose again, the spears flew around him and planted themselves in the blue-eyed wild animals. Bears, wolves, boors charged. Many men lost. But many Deads lost too. Each second that passed made the will to end this war stronger.

It was chaos. An unceasing scurrying and fussing, clangs of steel and hisses of pain. Everything was fast, like the wind slicing through their skin, like the demented thoughts swarming in his head, the voices he could not shut.

Burn them all, they kept repeating.

The shouts of the living grew lower and lower with time, as grew their number. The fire remained growing however, the dragons needed very little rest. The ashes mingled with the blood and the snow, like an inferno of chaos, like the depth of the seven Hells.

Jon was a dragon too during this battle. He was a dragon in a wolf's skin. He had the sharpened teeth of the direwolf and the fire of the dragon burning bright within him. He felt the rage emanate from every inch of him. His fury scared them all, living or dead.

Finally his eyes met with the Night King, up there on a mount, looking down at the animal he had become with an irritant blankness.

Jon's whole body was sore. He ignored the urge to fall on his knees and beg for an end. That was not in his options. Rhaenna was waiting for him. All the Living were waiting for him. And Daenerys was watching, he knew, through the eyes of Daenera, whose flames adorned the battlefield too. She was strong and powerful for such a small dragon. She felt the furor too.

He trembled. He was exhausted. But too much was taken from him to end it here and now.

He was ready. He had waited for that for too long. He had sacrificed too much.

A horde of undead rushed towards him to shield their Night King. They got scorched by the red and black colored flames of Drogon. Drogon, this time, not Bran.

The enormous dragon was pure frenzy. He was like a demon who had crawled back from the deepest of the seven Hells, a mountain come to life, animated with rage and fire only.

Jon walked through the flames. He ignored the sizzling heat. He ignored the melting leather. He ignored the searing pain of his skin burning.

Nothing would prevent him from winning this battle. Certainly not fire. He was a dragon. Fire does not kill a dragon.

The cold eyes were still on him. He was blazing inside and outside.

Come fight

The flames on his sword rose higher. The Night King unsheathed a frozen blade. He did not descend from his horse. He remained calm as a stone until Jon started running towards him, as if all the hatred and want for revenge was suddenly bursting from the young man.

He did not control his force. He unleashed the devastating beast in him. And he could not recognize himself anymore.

A hard plunge in the horse's chest. That was for the God. That was for the prophecy of the Nissa Nissa. The Undead animal exploded in a billion ice shards, the force of the blast made Jon fly a few feet away. He was back on his feet and running back again before he even had a chance to realize.

He tried to gulp down. His throat was dry and tasted of blood for he had shouted too much. His eyes itched and his muscles felt numb.

He must fight.

The Night King strode towards him with an infuriating serenity. He was as sure as Jon that he would win this battle.

He plunged again with his blazing sword.

He was Azor Ahai, he had Lightbringer in his hand. And he had all the madness one would need in him to fight a mythical creature.

Yet when he struggled to touch the Dead King with his weapon, he felt nothing like a hero. He heard the shouts of men behind him, the shrieks of dragons, he felt the tiredness weighing him down, curving his back. He felt tiny, a tiny human fighting against an immortal God.

But he was Living. And the Living had something the Dead and the Gods did not.

Love

And for Love, the Living could do anything. It is the core of things, the reason for everything.

And Love flashed into his hopeless mind. Love at it's pure state. Love that turns mad and that would make you do anything.

Love had the face of his daughter.

And in one last move, he gave all the force, all the voice and all the energy, all the hate and all the hope he had.

And Lightbringer sank in the frozen flesh.

There was a blast. Like a strike of thunder.

All the whites exploded. An outburst made of millions and millions of pieces of ice as sharp as blades.

For one second, the battlefield was so quiet it looked like it was caught up in time.

And then were the shouts of the Living. They all outed what little voice they had left. For pain, for joy, for victory, for relief after the three days of Hell they endured.

Finally, they breathed.

Jaqen sank to his knees. He had never felt so exhausted. Death had been surveying all of them for the past months since they learned about this war, and now he finally felt safe from it's murderous glance.

It was over.

Death was finally in a state of serene sleep again.

Some men who still had the force rose to acclaim their King.

King Jon! King Jon! King Jon!

Their shouts were cheerful as they brandished their shreds of weapons in the air, the songs about the Prince that was Promised started to form in the cold air now filled with both joy and release.

He did not take the time however, even if his gratitude was beyond words towards the young King who had just saved them all from a gruesome death.

He rose to his feet again and he ran. He ran as fast as he could, as fast as his exhausted legs allowed. He ran east.

There was someone else he wanted to celebrate the victory first. He would run to her and lift her from the ground, squeeze her tight until all the dread and the worry of these past months would leave both of their souls, shower her with kisses and take her back to Winterfell and make sweet love to her, so they could celebrate life together encircled in the heat of a fire in a chimney. This was the begin of a new life.

The Living were already starting to retreat when he arrived after running like a mad man for more than an hour. The camp was almost entirely packed, not many men remained.

He rushed through the small heap, his eyes locked on cheerful eyes of chestnut, green and light blue. The eyes of the Living. But no gray eyes.

The flames still rose high, burning the last of the corpses. The Living still feared the dragons, but Jaqen was unmindful. He approached, he kept looking around. The snow cracked under his boots, his feet sank in the mud mingled with ashes and blood.

He accelerated, panted as his tired legs trembled. The camp was a maze of crumbles, he expected to see her at each corner of tent. After two hours of scrutinizing with no result, he went to to the side of the camp where the wounded were. She had to be there, he looked everywhere else. He started praying for her to not be hurt too much.

His eyes traveled over the shakedowns, over the bloody faces of strangers.

Not her, not hers, not hers.

Some were burnt, some missed a leg or an arm. Others shed their last breath. Maybe she was in a corner somewhere, hiding like a little mouse from all of this horror.

There

Hi smile grew wide, so wide his numb cheeks hurt. He ran towards her, caught her shoulders and turned her before he plunged forward to plant a hard kiss on her lips.

But he realized just before their lips met that it was not her.

Fuck, the fear caught a strong hold on his guts.

He let the young and confused girl go, and resumed running through the camp.

She was not there.

He felt his head hurt. He looked around again for another hour, turned his head so quickly he thought he would be sick.

He was in the center of the camp again. Brienne of Tarth was assembling her men, counting them. Her face adorned an ugly scratch now, still fresh and bleeding. Most of her men were not intact. There were not much left, they prepared themselves and the wounded before leaving.

And she was not there.

"No…"

No, this was impossible. She must be on a horse, heading home already. Or perhaps she climbed on the dragon with her brother and she was enjoying the warmth of a cracking fire in her bedroom in Winterfell already. Yes, that must be it.

He found a horse, kicked the beast's sides and set him off galloping before he allowed himself to take the next breath. The animal flew through the snow and cut through the cold wind, faster than it had ever ran. It must have felt the man's despair, for it did not even complain when it was not told to slow down after a whole day of galloping so fast.

Jaqen thought about nothing as he rode. He ran, scarcely stopping to sleep for an hour of two every two days. The beast was so exhausted it had to be put down as soon as they reached Winterfell after a six days of running.

The few guards recognized him and let the survivor in. They looked a bit afraid of him. He must have looked like a demon crawled back from hell for they opened the heavy doors without a word and lowered their heads as the Lorathi entered. He was the first soldier to reach the castle, apparently the other men were still on the road, they would reach back in a few days. Even the dragons and the white direwolf were not here yet, surely the King had spent the days following the victory with his men and helping them. But maybe Arya was here already. Maybe she had ran back home as soon as the battle was over. She had to be there.

He paced in like a mad man, looking around, then started running towards the great yard, then to the Hall. Where was everyone? This huge castle felt cold and dead. He dared not enter the crypts, he nervously paced towards the chambers in the Great Keep. His boots rang in the long corridor, and warmth tickled his frozen body like tiny needles. But he payed the heat no attention. He kept looking around like he was a starved half-crazy beast looking for food.

He heard the sound of heeled boots from the other end of the heated building.

"Sansa-", his voice was hoarse and cold, he had not spoken for a few days. Her face was paler than before, and her cheeks had sunk in.

For half a second it looked like she had just seen a ghost.

"Jaqen!", she flew in his arms.

It felt odd to have her in his arms, but somehow it comforted him too. Her embrace was soft and delicate. She had no strength left either, she had battled with her mind from this castle, she had gone through hell on her own here while they were out there. He smoothed her long auburn hair, and he felt the nervousness strangle him. Why was she hugging him? Did she have something unpleasant to tell him? No, that could not be.

"What happened?", she asked against his musty leather coat. He caught the fear in her question. She might think that he was the only survivor.

He stared at her. If she did not know, then… where was Arya?

"The Living won…",he breathed, and she squeezed tighter.

"We won!-We wo- Oh! I'm sorry…", she apologized before stepping back, a bit ashamed.

"We won.", the tears gleamed at the corners of her eyes and she tried to regain her composure despite the broad smile and her sudden urge to display her emotions.

"When?", she asked.

He counted. Somehow he had lost track of time during the endless ride.

"Six days ago.", the seriousness of his tone made the joy on her face die.

He felt tension suffocating him during the few seconds of silence spent looking in her blue eyes.

"My lady, where is Arya?", he asked anyway, knowing that she did not know more than him.

She frowned confused.

"Ar-", her eyes grew wide.

"I-I don't know-", she breathed heavily.

"You are the first to come back, my lord, I am without any news…"

He took a moment to breathe in, to fight the sudden dizziness taking over him.

"Your brother…can he look for her?"

He saw the fear brusquely take over her too.

"Yes- yes Bran…", she was as frightened as him now. Her fingers shook and she became even paler than before.

"Was she not on the camp? Are you sure? Or on the road? She-she must be with Jon-", she tried to convince them both.

"And… the others? What of them?", her voice was broken, and his lips formed into a thin line because he had no idea what to answer her.

They walked nervously, almost ran towards the chambers of her younger brother.

The room was still as they entered. So still it made them more uncomfortable.

"Bran?", she willed her voice to be soft but it shook.

Arya…,the voice in her head kept flashing images of the wild younger one. Sansa did her best not to cry. She wanted to. She wanted to so much. Where in the seven Hells was her little sister? She knew her. She would have ran towards this Lorathi as soon as the combat would have been over. So where in the seven Hells was she?

She could not be dead. No. Arya could not have gone so stupidly during a battle. Please, she could not be gone. Please, please, please, let her be with Jon…, she prayed again for the thousandth time.

Sansa had lit up instantly when she saw the tall man alive and breathing in the corridor. She had been without any news for more than a fortnight. Bran had been sleeping, he had needed to rest. Warging into a dragon and in any creature so near from the Night King and his forces had been too tiresome, he had used all of his forces. At some point, Sansa had even feared for his life, so she had ordered him to stop. He had been sleeping for days now, and she had tortured herself not to wake him up and beg him to tell her that they were all alive and well.

Seeing a survivor come back had been an enormous release after the Hell of loneliness and unknowing she had went through in the past days.

And now all she wanted to do was take a horse and go up there and find her little sister and let the tears fall while she holds her tight. Gods, she should never have let her go fight, why by all the Seven did she let her go?

Her little brother's eyes opened slightly. They looked glassy from sleep, and the blue in them gleamed in the light of the nearby fireplace.

"Bran…we won…", the tears sparkled in her eyes again.

Please, Arya, please, please, please…, she kept on pleading.

"Sansa…", he whispered as he took her in his arms. The gesture surprised her but she leaned in. Only then did she realize that the tears now bathed her cheeks.

She took a few deep and trembling breaths. These tears were due to the nervousness and the fear of the past days, finally letting go of her soul and being replaced by another dread.

"You need to go look for Arya, we-", she looked at the Essosi. Never had she seen a man wearing so much dismay on his face. It looked even stranger, for he who usually looked so self assured.

"We don't know where she is…"

She saw the fright take over him too. Her hand was still in his, warm and soft from the bed.

"She is probably with Jon, but-we're not sure, she could also-"

Gods, where could she be?

"I don't know m-maybe someone else found her…", another tear fell. She did not try to restrain her fear anymore.

He nodded, a faint and despaired brightness in his eyes. He was considering the fact that she could be gone. But no, Sansa could not think about that. Arya had to be with Jon, or with Brienne, or with anyone, or even alone on the road. But she had to be somewhere.

The next second his eyes went white.

She felt his fingers squeeze around hers, sparking hope in her.

"Is she-"

"Sandor Clegane is with Jon.", he spoke softly, a smile shadowing on his face. Sansa let out a sigh of release, but the fear did not let go of her.

"They will be there soon."

"Is she with them?"

His smile died. She watched his eyes travel from left to right, again and again, faster then slower. He shifted in the bed. He kept looking for long minutes.

And his eyes came back to blue.

And a stare full of sorrow locked on Sansa's.

For another long second her thoughts froze. And she heard Jaqen tense up.

No

"No…"

No, no, no, no, no…

"Look again-please, my lord", the Lorathi ordered with his warm accent, which contrasted with the broken din of his voice.

Bran did.

"Look where Jon was before taking off-or where Brienne is, or maybe she is still on the battlefield, surely you can check there…", she pleaded, her voice almost a whisper.

She had to be somewhere there. She had to.

The room was too still for another dozen of long minutes. Sansa clenched her teeth so hard she thought her jaw would break. She concentrated on breathing to not pass out. The waiting was unbearable.

And Bran's eyes came back to blue, with that same sorrow in them.

He said nothing, only stared blankly at the sheets.

"No.", Jaqen kept repeating.

"Bran-", Sansa pleaded, the tears falling suddenly profusely. Her voice was broken in a thousand pieces.

"No-", she wailed, crumbling.

He squeezed her hand, and she heard the tears collide against the furs displayed on the bed and the flapping of dragon's wings outside, which did very little to cover her sobs.

"Sansa, this has been a difficult battle-", Bran continued, detached.

She felt a rip in her chest, her heart bleed. The weight in her throat was strangling her, her body was suddenly as cold as the snow outside.

The Lorathi was holding his face in his hands and shaking his head like a mad man. At some point Sansa heard him destroy his hand against the wall of stone and hiss in both pain and lament. He cursed and sank to his knees. Sansa was sure he did not sleep since the end of the battle, six days from now.

The door burst open.

"We wo-", Jon's next words died in his throat as well as the cheerful smile on his face when his eyes caught the sight of Sansa sobbing, Bran's blank expression and the Lorathi going insane near to the ground.

He looked around the room before understanding.

"Where's Arya?", he breathed out the question.

But he was not expecting any answer. It was not a real question, but the beginning of a realization.

The air in the room was suddenly stiff and hard to breathe, only Sansa's quiet sobs could be heard along with the cracking of the revived embers. Jon took a step back, and shifted nervously on his feet before gulping down.

He paced out hurriedly, his face pale and dazed, as if he had just been hit in the back of the head.

The Lorathi flew from the ground and ran after him, his eyes almost as red as his hair and his face a dull shade of the usual warm gold. He almost tripped in exhaustion before he made his way out of the room, but he still managed to go after the young King.

And so Sansa was left alone, crying her eyes out in the arms of her little brother. Despite his blankness he seemed to feel some sorrow too.

Arya…