"I want them dead, the traitors" remarks the Queen. She paces her throne room, Beria and Mother Mole by her side. She wears a thick wool gambeson, and leather breeches and boots. Over them, she has donned a steel cuirass and backplate, designed for a woman, rerebraces and cuisses. Her hair is bound up, under a steel half-helm surmounted by a gold coronet. One her left hip is her sword, on her right, a dirk. Even if she dies today, she will take her enemies with her. She smiles as she remembers the enemies she has destroyed; the Bastard of Bolton, Daenerys Targaryen, Umber, Karstark, Ryswell, all the traitors who rebelled over the years. If the Gods are good, she will add Yara Greyjoy to their number.
"They are readying for the assault" replies Beria. "I expect them to carry the outer walls. We shall "accidentally" allow them to enter the Keep. Then the trap will be sprung. The fuses are primed."
"Good. Let her be Queen over cooked meat and charred bones. If she lives".
"Your Grace will survive this battle" reiterates Mother Mole. Can she believe her? It's a nice idea, but even if she dies, she will still leap laughing into her grave, knowing what horror she has wrought on her enemies. She stops, to pour herself a glass of wine, which she drains in one go. She is full of nervous excitement now. The siege has entered its ninth week. Two mines have brought down a huge section of the outer walls. Her enemies will assault the palace today. The defenders now number a little over two thousand, although she believes far heavier casualties have been inflicted on the attackers. Every day, she looks out, and sees smoke drifting up from enemy lines as bodies are burned, victims of disease. She pours a fresh glass of wine, and resumes her progress, waiting for her moment. She walks to a balcony, overlooking Winterfell's main courtyard. She can see for herself the breach in the walls, and the thousands of enemy soldiers, readying for the assault. Behind the breach, her own men have constructed makeshift barricades from the rubble. Over a thousand await the assault, armed to the teeth, direwolf banners still flying proudly among them. Ballistae and siphons containing naptha and quicklime are primed, ready to be unleashed on the attackers.
She steps back inside, and then descends to the courtyard. Outside, she greets her men, shaking hands, kissing one blushing young ensign on the lips, and exchanging pleasantries. Her willingness to fight alongside them, in earlier assaults, has certainly inspired them to great efforts. If nothing else, the Greyjoy will pay a terrible price for victory. She wonders how many of them will be left alive by the end of today. It is no matter. Their duty is to die for their Queen and country. It makes no difference if they die at the hands of the enemy, or by her own wildfire. She will not fight alongside them today. She has her separate task to perform.
Yara observes the enemy through her spy glass. Eight thousand men are readying to storm the breach. They should be enough, although losses will be heavy.
"Today's the big day your Grace" says Casporio, grinning at Yara. "Will you be leading the attack?"
"Grey Worm is. I promised my husband not to. I presume you'll be keeping out of harm's way?"
"Of course, your Grace, Although, quite a few of my lads have volunteered to be part of the forlorn hope"
"That seems out of character, wouldn't you say?"
"It's the pick of the plunder, they're after. Those eggs that she likes to collect. They'll fetch a pretty price. They'll risk their lives for a fortune. " Then, "you're still sure you want her taken alive?"
"If possible.' "Why? Surely, it's best all round, if someone just runs her through. Unless...you want to bed her?", he says grinning.
Does she? Is lust clouding her judgement? The thought of Sansa in her bed is an alluring one. " I doubt if she'd be up for that. But, I want her put on trial. I want all the Northern lords present to condemn her. I want her to see the ruin of everything she's built. But, on no account do I want the world to think that a Queen can be put to death."
"As you wish, your Grace" replies Casporio, looking sceptical.
Maege Mormont waits with the surviving men of Bear Island, hardly more than a hundred. In view of their losses so far, they will only enter the breach once it has been carried. Gods, what a waste! Her mother will be made Viceroy, but a terrible price has been paid by her people. Yet, Sansa left them all no choice. Why couldn't she be content to rule the North under the Dragon Queen? Thousands of lives, perhaps tens of thousands, would have been saved. The North has been bled white over the past twenty years. Will they ever recover? Her heart in her mouth, she waits for the attack to begin.
Grey Worm waits for the moment. He will lead the forlorn hope, the first wave of soldiers who bear the brunt of the defenders' fire. There are five hundred of them. Two hundred are Unsullied, volunteers he brought with him, back from White Harbour. The rest of the Unsullied remain at that city, resting after the battering they have taken in the war. The remaining three hundred are a mix of Ironborn and Northerners, all promised rich reward should they survive, to be paid to their families should they be killed. He knows there is every likelihood he will die today, but at least he will have accomplished his revenge, on the last, and most dangerous of the Dragon Queen's enemies. He stares intently at the defenders, three hundred yards away. The walls may have been breached, but the rubble will still make a formidable obstacle. The front ranks carry pavisses, large wicker shields which will provide some protection from the enemy's bolts. He guesses they will have to run the gauntlet of fire as well. Behind the forlorn hope are massed hundreds of archers, who will keep up a brisk fire on the defenders, over the heads of his own men as they race towards the breach. Their own ballistae will also pour rocks and bolts into the enemy. At last, everything is ready. He turns to stare at Yara Greyjoy in the background. She raises her hand in salute, and he blows a whistle. He and his men start jog trotting towards the breach. Within seconds, they will have entered hell itself.
Notes:
As mentioned in The Queen's Portrait, Sansa likes to collect silver, gold, and platinum jewelled eggs, similar to those produced by Carl Febarge for the Russian Imperial Family.