Sansa is closeted with Mother Mole and Beria in her solar, a couple of days after the parley. Winterfell is encircled, but the siege has yet to begin in earnest.

"We have enough food for six months, your Grace" comments Beria. "They will run short before we do. They will have no option but to attempt to storm the castle. Should they succeed," and here he smiles, "they will receive a warm welcome. Perhaps we can escape the explosion, but if not, I would sooner destroy my enemies along with myself, than fall into their hands."

"The pair of you can expect no mercy," replies the Queen. "And, I do not want mercy. Better to die with honour, than live in shame. Have you news of Catelyn?"

"We have heard nothing yet from White Harbour" he replies.

"Better she had stayed here with us, your Grace" comments Mother Mole. "There is power in the blood of kings and queens. The Lord will welcome the lives you send to him, when the wildfire is ignited, but the life of a Princess would have been a rare gift indeed. He would have blessed you."

Sansa shudders inwardly. "Stannis Baratheon burned his own daughter, a few miles from here. It availed him nothing."

"He served a false god. R'hllor is a fiction, as much as the Seven or the Drowned God. The true Lord rewards his followers"

"Which Lord?" she asks.

"He has many names your Grace. Your own ancestors sacrificed to him, before heart trees. In Qohor, they call him the Black Goat; in Asshai, the Crawling Chaos; to the Qartheen, he is the Whisperer in the Darkness; in Ibben, he is Nyarlathotep; here he is scarcely mentioned, as men prefer to believe he does not exist. But true memory never dies. He is the Lord of the Seven Hells. Pledge your soul to him, your Grace, and you will yet prosper."

My soul! . "I can't do that!"

"Why not, your Grace? Your deeds have already earned you a special place in his kingdom. Why not bargain for advantage, here on earth?".

She shivers. It is as if there is a chill in the room she has never felt before. She once had a septa's tongue ripped out, after the woman claimed she was going to hell. But, deep down, she fears the old seior is telling the truth. And would she have sacrificed Catelyn, had the girl remained here? Thank the gods she has sent her away, so it's not even an option.

She sees Beria staring at her intently, his keen dark eyes giving nothing away.

"I employ you for the purpose of divination, Mother. Nothing else."

The witch smiles. "Then, join me tonight your Grace. Let me tell your future. You have a victim, my lord?" she enquires of Beria. "Indeed" he replies. " A stable lad, caught trying to escape. He is guilty of treason, your Grace, and therefore his life is forfeit. But, we can employ him in other ways. He is kept in your deepest dungeon"

"As you wish, I shall join you there tonight". Mother Mole has proved invaluable in the past, revealing conspiracies, and naming traitors. But this is the first time that she has been invited to participate in her mysteries. There is little to do, before the siege truly begins. She retires to her study, reading and annotating state papers. She is both intrigued and frightened by what will happen tonight. She has never asked for her own future to be revealed, fearing what she would be told. But, there is nothing to be lost at this late stage. As it grows dark, a servant brings her a flagon of wine, and a pigeon pie for supper. She reads a short novel from Braavos, as she swallows her food. An absurdly romanticised account of the life of Daenerys Targaryen as it happens. She is pleased to see that her own role in the Dragon Queen's downfall is stressed. The author plainly hates Sansa, but that does not concern her . She imagines the woman's horror as she felt Jon's knife in her heart. Poor, sweet simpleton Jon. Did you know, Daenerys, that the Imp and I were the ones who guided his hand? If only I could have been there to tell you, before your eyes closed for the last time. Jon worked it out, eventually. She had realised at Winterfell, that Tyrion and Varys were ready to betray her, their souls black as pitch. They had deceived her at Meereen, claiming to be her supporters, but really seeking their own return to power. Still, they needed a pretext to overthrow her. The revelation of Jon's true parentage gave them that pretext. Never in her wildest dreams had she expected such a weapon to be placed in her hand. She had not hesitated to use it. When they had talked, after the meeting at the Dragonpit, Tyrion could scarcely contain his glee, as he recounted the lies he had told Jon, in order to get him to murder her. Naturally, she had congratulated him. A pity, really, that he screwed up so badly, in the end. She comes to the end of the story, clicking her tongue as she reads how Daenerys ascended into heaven to enter the Pantheon. It is true, though, that people worship her across the East.

At last, it is time to descend below. She puts on a fur coat, for it can be cold in the dungeons, and leaves her solar. Beria is waiting for her, and together, they descend into the depths. At length, they come to a door of black iron, without a grille. Beria knocks three times, and Mother Mole opens the door. There is a bluish light in the room, illuminated as it is by half a dozen black candles. The stable lad is suspended, naked, by his feet, from chains attached to the ceiling. He is bound and gagged, writhing fruitlessly. There are curious patterns on the floor of the dungeon, made of salt. Circles within circles. Pentangles within circles.

"Step carefully your Grace" cautions the witch. "Do not disturb the patterns" She hands Sansa a bronze bowl, herself picking up a silver sickle. "Collect his blood, when I open his throat, your Grace." She then starts chanting, in a tongue that Sansa has never heard before. Perhaps a language of the Children of the Forest, now long gone. She feels the temperature in the room grow steadily colder, and the hairs on the back of her neck rise. A chill wind gradually rises, and the candles burn far brighter. She feels a presence in the room with them, and shivers.

In the cell. Mother Mole has stopped chanting, and steps forward with the sickle, beckoning Sansa to follow. Sansa holds the bowl just above the man's chin, as the witch neatly draws it across his throat. His blood gushes, warm and rich, filling the bowl and overflowing it. Beria holds the man's body, as his struggles grow weaker. Eventually, he is still, his face and hair streaked with blood, which has gathered in a pool on the floor. She hands the bowl to the woman, who proceeds to drink from it, her eyes closed. At last she finishes, and opens her eyes. She smiles at Sansa, a red smile. "Your Grace, you will survive the coming siege, and enjoy long life".

Sansa closes her eyes with relief. Perhaps she will meet Catelyn and Arya again, after all.

Notes:

A Song of Ice and Fire is filled with Lovecraft references, so I added a couple of my own