"I'm so sorry, my lady, so sorry." Maege Mormont was almost in tears. "I thought my mother would reprieve you. Your sister begged for your life, too." She hugged the former Queen in the North, condemned to death for murder and enslavement. The sentence had been confirmed by Lady Alysanne Mormont, Regent for the child King, Roderick Greyjoy.

"Don't be sorry. I've enjoyed myself in court, making a fool of Beric Dustin. I appreciate that your mother did give me a trial, and acquitted me of some of the charges. But, this was only going to end one way." Sansa gave a brief laugh, before commenting "Besides, I'd far rather end it now, than live on in shame and captivity. Your mother won't burn me at least. I know that's what the Ironborn want. And, I'm sure my dear cousin, Lord Commander Snow, was not among those begging for my life."

"Actually, he did. He said you should be sent as a servant to Castle Black. But, my mother was adamant. And, she has instructed him to carry out out the sentence."

Sansa gave another hollow laugh. "Well, he's the best swordsman in the North, and Longclaw is razor-sharp. I doubt if I'll suffer unduly at his hands. He's waited fifteen years for this. I pushed him into killing his aunt, and now he'll kill me, his cousin. There's a certain poetic justice in that, wouldn't you say?"

"You don't merit this. At heart, you're decent. " Sansa snorted derisively.

"Maege, you've been a good friend to me, these past weeks. A much better friend than I ever deserved. But, let's be honest, at least with each other. I'm not a good person. I have committed terrible deeds. Yes, there were reasons, or so I told myself at the time. But, I know three parts of the North's inhabitants will rejoice when they hear of my death. Or else they'll complain that the manner of it was too lenient. And, who would blame them? I played the game, and I lost. That's all there is to it. When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die. That's what Queen Cersei told my father all those years ago. She lost. Father lost. Margaery Tyrell lost. Daenerys Targaryen lost. Now, I've lost. Perhaps every player loses in the end. Don't pity me. You have your whole life ahead of you. Enjoy it." She sighed. "So, when will I be executed?"

"A week hence."

"In front of a crowd?"

"Only my mother, and the lords who were present at the trial."

"That's decent of her." Sansa spent her last days, closeted with Arya and Maege. She wrote out her will, although her demesne lands had been confiscated, and her personal possessions were little enough. What she had, she divided between her daughter Catelyn, now a ward of Braavos, and Arya. She had requested that she die at Sunset, facing the sea. Lady Alysanne had granted the request. On the evening of her execution, she downed a final glass of wine in her chambers, and Arya fastened her hair under a mob cap. She then joined the waiting guards, and followed them out of the tower where she had been held prisoner, on to the battlements which faced the harbour. The sky and sea were red gold, as the Sun set, a scene of beauty. Lady Alysanne and a score or lords awaited her. Also present was Jon Snow, holding Longclaw in both hands. She had prepared some choice last words for her cousin, condemning him as a traitor to the North, who had fallen for the wiles of a courtesan and surrendered his crown, but she thought better of it in the end. What was the point after all?

"Lady Sansa Stark" began the Regent "You have been sentenced to death, after having been found guilty of murder and enslavement. If you have any last words, now is the time." She saw the block that had been set down for her to kneel at.

"If it pleases your Ladyship, I should prefer to die standing, on my own two feet."

"Agreed."

"My lady, do I have your word that no harm will befall my daughter, Lady Catelyn."

"You have my word."

"Then I wish you long life and prosperity. I hope you enjoy greater success than I ever had, ruling the North. Maege, Arya, thank you for all that you have done for me. I have never deserved your kindness. Jon..." she turned to face her executioner. "I'm afraid that you and I must part as enemies. Do your duty. Avenge the woman that you loved. I betrayed her. I make no apologies for it, but I realise I must pay the price." As always, he looked miserable. "Can't he even get some satisfaction from killing me?" she wondered. "He must have dreamed of it, for years." She looked out across the harbour. How had it ever come to this? The Queen who lost the North. Her family was cursed, she knew. Her grandfather, uncle, father, her mother, two brothers, all murdered. Fate was inexorable; everything you did to fight it just brought it closer. She stared into the golden haze, trying to remember the times when the world had been a place of hope and joy and happiness. A time when her world had been one of lemon cakes, embroidery, singing, and Arya putting goat shit in her bed. She smiled at these memories.

She scarcely felt the blow that took her head from her shoulders.

Senior Lieutenant Sansa Silnova, holder of the Order of The Red Banner, woke with a start, bathed in sweat. The same dream, over again, recurring every two to three months. She reached for the pack of Belomorkanals on her bedside table. She lit one, and inhaled deeply, calming her nerves. She'd first dreamed this, fifteen years ago, before the War. She'd discussed it at the time, with her father, Edvard, a descendant of a Scottish aristocratic family, the Starks, who had settled in Russia under Catherine II. He suggested it might somehow have been inherited, a memory of the Middle Ages. It was the first and only time he had discussed his family. A wealthy St. Petersburg bourgeois, he had lost everything at the Revolution, and the family was reduced to poverty. But, the Soviet government had faced immense economic problems, caused by a shortage of technical experts. Quite suddenly, her father had been deemed a "specialist", and made the manager of an armaments factory. They had survived the purges of the Thirties, and were privileged, his party membership guaranteeing she had a somewhat comfortable childhood

She rose and made her way to the kitchen. She poured herself a shot of vodka, sliced bread and doctor's sausage, and started brewing tea on the stove. She checked the clock; 5 a.m. Almost time to rise for work. She downed the shot, feeling better for it. She never drank in the mornings. Only when she had that dream. What did it mean? During her time in China, she'd met people who believed in reincarnation. Had she really been that woman? Sansa Stark, the Queen who had lost the North and been executed for it?

"Morning, sis", Arya muttered. She was bleary-eyed, emerging from her room. Currently studying chemistry at the University of Moscow. And wasn't it strange that she always appeared in the dream? Worse, when she shared it. "I know what you dreamed. I dreamed it." Sansa walked over to hug her close.

"It never ends. I'm a devil. I always will be." Arya stared at her sadly. That was comment enough. She rarely remarked on the nature of Sansa's work, but she guessed what her sister thought about it. But this time Arya did speak, surprising her.

"You're no devil. You're a national heroine."

"Fighting the fascist snakes, yes, that was heroic. The rest, not so much. " There was nothing heroic about the torture and execution of Ukrainian partisans. And as for commanding a womens' prison camp in Kolyma, well, that was another matter altogether. Presiding over half-starved, frozen spectres, in sub-zero temperatures. Were she religious, she would have thought she was in hell itself. "But you weren't in hell." the Curator had reminded her. "Hell is on the other side of the wire." He had smiled, a smile which never reached his eyes, the eyes of a rapist behind the pince-nez.

Arya returned to bed, as Sansa finished her breakfast, adding a pat of butter to the bread before eating the sandwiches, open-faced. She went to the bathroom, where she ran a bath for herself, luxuriating in the warm water for half an hour. As she sat in the bath, she continued with a funny novel called The Code of the Woosters, which she had started the previous day. Her eighteen months in Siberia had given her plenty of time to resume the education that been interrupted by the War, and she had worked her way through the classics of Russian and English literature. It was nice to take a break with some light reading, and Wodehouse always made her laugh. She got up, dried herself off, and then put on her uniform. She certainly wasn't looking forward to what the day held in store for her, but this was the work she had chosen. It gave her a fine two-bedroom apartment in the best district of Reutov, and her sister the chance to qualify as a chemist. Life could be much worse, she knew. She could easily have ended up on the other side of the wire, after the scandal.

She left her sister, asleep, and walked for the Metro. Students weren't required to be early risers. It was a fine late August morning, a day she could really have enjoyed in other circumstances. She entered the station, showed her pass to the attendant, and resumed reading, once her train arrived. After forty five minutes, she reached her destination, Lubyanka. She left the station, noting as ever, the glowering statue of Felix Dzherzinksy, and walked to the Ministry of State Security. The guards saluted her respectfully, as she entered, and made for the main staircase. Her business, this morning, was in the basement. "Another kind of hell" she thought, as she descended the stairs. She walked down a corridor, past several locked doorways. She could hear sounds behind them, some of them unpleasant. She heard voices too. Low and insistent, on the part of the questioners. High-pitched, and desperate, on the part of those being questioned. She reached the end of the corridor, the atmosphere damp and oppressive, knocking three times. Sergeant Dubretskoi opened the door and saluted her. "Good morning Ma'am" he remarked. The man was built like a bear, with a mouthful of gold teeth. She saw the prisoner, tied naked to a chair, in the centre of the room. He was heavily overweight. A single light bulb produced a limited amount of light. Even so, she could she could see the bruises left on his torso. He was bleeding too. She looked at the third man in the room, Corporal Yezhov, tall and slim, looking bored as ever. The two men had spent the night working their prisoner over with lengths of rubber hosepipe.

The prisoner looked up at her slowly, staring out of bloodshot eyes. "You" he said simply.

"Me. You want a cigarette?" He nodded. She drew out her pack, and lit one for him, placing it in his mouth. She lit another for herself.

"You know what they're like. How can you work for them?"

"You're asking the wrong question, Stepan. Knowing what they're like, how can I not work for them? You're either giving the beating, or taking it. I know which I prefer. These two have been quite gentle with you so far. You should have seen the hammering that Dubretskoi gave to Paul. He was shitting blood, in his last miserable hours." Stepan winced at this.

"You betrayed us all."

"I did my job. Now then, you can end all this unpleasantness right away, by telling us what we need to know. You're in contact with other leaders of the UPA. I want names, addresses, identities. Give them to me, and this story might just have a happy ending for you and your family." She saw the man wavering. She brushed his hair gently, before saying "Come on, you can tell mama, and it will all be over." The man began to weep. There was a knock on the door. A man entered "Ma'am, you have your appointment with the Curator. There is a car waiting."

"Very well. Dubretskoi. Clean up our friend here, and get him some clothes. I have a feeling that sharp questioning will not be necessary." She left with the newcomer. "Sergeant Shuvalov, Ma'am" he introduced himself. "It's an honour to meet a legend", he continued. "Thank you, Sergeant", she replied. The car was parked outside, a black ZIS 110. Shuvalov opened the passenger door for her, and she climbed in. It was no more than a few hundred yards to the Kremlin, where she would be meeting the Curator, in his office. She knew the man's reputation. Only that she was hardened in combat kept him from forcing himself on her, she was sure—and only because it made her uninteresting. He liked them innocent. The odd thing was, she had known the man, the first time they met. She had met him in her dreams, frequently, before that. The President of her own Inquisiton. Had he been reborn too, she wondered? They reached the Kremlin, and got out of the car. Shuvalov led her to the Curator's office. He knocked and they entered the presence of the most dangerous man in the Soviet Union, Lavrenti Beria. "Our Himmler", General Secretary Stalin had once called him. That had been no joke. At least, not to anyone other than Stalin.

"Thank you Shuvalov, you may leave us. Be seated, Lieutenant." He gestured to a chair, on the other side of his desk. She looked at him square. "A killer with the manners of a rabbit" she thought. "Tea?" he offered. "With pleasure, Excellency." He poured for them both, and she added milk.

"Well, it seems you have returned from Lvov, with fresh laurels. You have destroyed a cell of the counter-revolutionaries , and brought back their leaders for interrogation. Congratulations are in order."

"I thank your Excellency. I regret to say, that one of them died under questioning." He frowned, before replying, "Well, these things happen. Did he confess?"

"He did."

"No loss then. Yours has been quite a record of achievement. First—you kept those girls together in Stalingrad. Then, just twenty years old, and Comrade Ehrenburg was lauding you to the skies as "The Red Wolf " in Krasnaya Zvezda. " As a junior lieutenant, she had been parachuted in to fight with Belorussian partisans, in the weeks preceding Operation Bagration. She had done very well, and Ehrenburg had ensured she had the status of a celebrity, in the aftermath of victory. Her achievements had won her the Order of the Red Banner, presented by Marshal Zhukov himself.

" Afterwards, you suppressed counter-revolutionary forces in Krakow with true socialist ruthlessness, before serving with distinction in China and Korea. Then you made a fool of yourself." He looked up at her sharply. She had. She had fallen in love with the son of the Dean of Natural Sciences, at Leningrad University, just before his father was purged, along with most of the city's Party leadership. Worse still, she had sought to intercede on behalf of him and his family. The purge had been orchestrated by the man sitting opposite her. She had been detained for several weeks, before being released and placed in charge of a prison camp. For a gifted intelligence officer, this was a mark of official disapproval. Her promotions, already stalled by her status as a woman after the war, had ceased entirely.

"I trust you learned your lesson", he continued. "When we last met, I said you were wasted in Siberia, and were needed in the field. I'm pleased to say, you justified my faith in you. I can inform you that I have recommended your promotion to captain." Her heart soared, "I am grateful, Excellency, she commented." It also, of course, meant that she was expected to be entirely Beria's creature, she would not have been brought back from Kolyma otherwise.

"There is something you should know. I am speaking to you in the strictest confidence, you understand. "

"I understand."

"The Vozhd is ailing. A blazing comet will shortly be extinguished. We lesser men cannot hope to emulate his achievements, but must of necessity, do our best to maintain his legacy. There are those in positions of power who seek only their own preferment. They will have to be eradicated.". It occurred to Sansa that what she was hearing was treason. To speak up was dangerous. She merely nodded, as the Curator continued. "We have ruled not just the Soviet Union, but our allies too, with an iron hand. Of course, this was necessary, but perhaps we have relied too much on the stick, and too little on the carrot. On occasion, there have been excesses. Thanks to the work of operatives such as yourself, our people fear the Party. I do not blame you of course. You have fulfilled your orders with admirable zeal and efficiency. But, it is still a fact. I intend that there should be changes in the future. A greater degree of openness, and reform. It is necessary for us to maintain technical parity with the western powers; our foreign operations, especially the illegals, make this abundantly clear. The current system of repression excessively restrains scientific development. There will be those who oppose such measures. I shall require allies in the struggles to come. Do I make myself clear."

Oh yes, he'd made himself very clear. He would make his own bid for supreme power. And, he would gather support from whichever quarter he could find it. She realised now why she had been promoted. A war heroine could still be of use to him. And, she could be discarded if necessary. "I do not blame you of course." Bugger that! If she had to be sacrificed to satisfy Poles and Ukrainians, well, she'd be sent before a firing squad, if this man was feeling generous; tortured and hanged if he wasn't. She realised she'd entered a game as deadly as the game of thrones.

"Admirably, your Excellency. Rest assured, you will have no more staunch a supporter than I."

"Good. I have fresh work for you, in Macao. But first, tell me about Lvov?"

Notes:

1. About 800,000 women served in the Red Army during WWII, and thousands subsequently. Most of them served in the nursing corps, but some had combat roles, as snipers, pilots, intelligence officers, or regular soldiers serving with the partisans. Contrary to subsequent myth-making, it was very unusual for women to achieve commissioned officer rank. The highest ranking female officer was Colonel Yevdokia Bershanskaya, regimental commander of the 588th regiment of bomber pilots, the "Night Witches". Senior Lieutenant is roughly equivalent to Captain in the British Army.

2. Order of The Red Banner was the third highest honour in the Soviet Union, one step down from Order of Lenin, and two from Hero of the Soviet Union. In a way, it held greater prestige than the other two, because it was only ever awarded to soldiers who had displayed heroism in combat, whereas the others might also be given to prominent politicians and civilian officials. To achieve the rank of Senior Lieutenant, and to obtain such an honour, Sansa would have had to be pretty special. Sansa began her career as a political officer with the 1077th anti-aircraft regiment, largely comprised of young women, which fought heroically at Stalingrad. As a result, she would have been able to press for the right to join an infiltration unit, a role which would usually go to a man.

3. Kolyma is a harsh region of Eastern Siberia, which is rich in natural resources. Under Stalin, hundreds of thousands of prisoners were deported there, and held in labour camps. The death rate was 27% a year. In her past life, Sansa was no stranger to labour camps.

4. The Soviets had a love-hate relationship with PG Wodehouse. Initially, they enjoyed the way he poked fun at the English upper classes, but eventually, his novels ceased to be published in the Soviet Union in the Thirties due to being "bourgeois". But, many of them were still available in Soviet libraries, and a privileged person like Sansa would be able to get hold of them.

5. Reutov is a suburb of Moscow.

6. At this point, Lavrenti Beria is Deputy Premier, and Curator of the Organs of State Security. Essentially, chief of police and the intelligence services. Beria was a serial rapist. The Ministry of State Security (MGB) is the predecessor to the Committee of State Security (KGB). He made a bid for supreme power after Stalin's death. Despite his cruelty, he intended to liberalise the Soviet State.

7. UPA - Ukrainian nationalist partisans. Lvov is a city in Western Ukraine, also called Lviv, Lwow, and Lemberg.

8. Operation Bagration was the Soviet offensive which liberated Belorussia, in the Summer of 1944, and destroyed the German Army Group Centre.

9. Ilya Ehrenburg was a prominent Soviet author and journalist, who wrote in the Soviet Army newspaper, Krasnaya Zvezda.

10. "The Vozhd". The Boss, Joseph Stalin.

11. The "Leningrad Affair" was a wholesale purge of the Leningrad Party, organised by Beria and Malenkov, in 1948 - 1950. Had Sansa's war record been less distinguished, she would either have been executed, or sent to a labour camp.