Sansa watches the enemy charge towards the breach from the balcony of her throne room. Her men release a storm of bolts, and rocks, gutting the attackers, even as jets of naptha turn them into piles of screaming charcoal. Time to act. She leaves the room, and descends rapidly to the crypts, using the same little-frequented stairwell that Wolkan did, all those weeks ago. At the bottom, she carefully unlocks the door and steps through into the blackness. She carries a lighted taper, which gives a little light. In truth, she knows these chambers like the back of her hand. Finally, she reaches the rooms she is seeking. Barrels of wildfire, naptha, oil, saltpetre, and other incendiaries are stacked to the ceilings, giving off a heady scent. The crypts run under the castle courtyard too, so she can expect death to be inflicted even on those enemies who have not reached the Keep. The fuses are primed, just as Beria promised. Carefully, she lights each one; they will burn slowly, taking perhaps an hour before the flame reaches the wildfire. She wonders whether she should remain here. Death at least would be instantaneous. It would be preferable to death at the hands of Yara Greyjoy, or far worse, being granted mercy by the usurping bitch. But no, she must observe the fight. If, by some miracle, her men do repel the attackers, well, she can always run back down here to extinguish the fuses. Satisfied, she leaves the crypt, and returns upstairs. She resumes watching the fight from the balcony. The enemy have reached the breach, where a vicious battle is now underway.
Hell on earth thinks Grey Worm as he jogs forward. Men are falling all around him, as he runs, going down to the bolts and rocks of the defenders. Amazingly, he is unharmed, less than fifty yards from the breach. He dodges the man in front, screaming hideously, as he is caught in a spray of liquid fire, and turned into a living torch. The man to his right folds over, choking and gurgling over the crossbow bolt in his throat. A violent blow to his helm leaves Grey Worm seeing stars, even as he forces his legs forward. Too old for this, too old . This has to be his last fight, he thinks, as his head gradually clears. He reaches the breach, clambering over the rubble with the survivors of the attack. One man vaults up onto the barricade that the defenders have built, only to have his legs chopped from under him. Another, and another. Men spring up all along the barricade, being cut down again and again, but some make it to the other side. He braces himself, and clambers to the top, expecting a pike through the guts, but he somehow makes it down to the other side, after all. There is no skill in this type of fight, simply unrestrained savagery. One Northerner aims a vicious blow at this head, with an axe, which he ducks, driving his sword through the man's midriff. He feels a sudden wave of agony in his left thigh. Somehow, a bolt penetrated his armour to lodge there. Gods, he can barely limp! He blocks a sword thrust from one snarling giant, only for his left leg to collapse under him. On the ground, he feels the blows raining down on him, until he feels no more.
Yara feels a surge of triumph, as fresh waves of her men reach the breach. She is in the middle of her army, as it pours through, Hundreds of her men have cut down, but now they sweep the defenders away by sheer weight of numbers. Finally, she clambers over the barricade, taking stock of the situation. Right across the courtyard, men are fighting bitterly, some of them rolling on the ground, locked in each others' arms. She jumps down, as one of the Northmen on the ground drives his dagger through the visor of the man beneath him. Instinctively, she takes the man's head from his shoulders. She slips in a pool of blood, landing on her arse, A screaming, bearded maniac, mouth full of rotten teeth, swings his axe at her chest, only to collapse as a war hammer caves the back of his head in. Sir Tristifer grins down at her, raising her to her feet. She senses, before she sees, that the enemy have broken, The weight of numbers is simply too great. "The Keep", she screams "to the Keep". By the Drowned God below! An open, unguarded postern, leading through the inner wall surrounding the Keep! "Follow me" she screams. They almost block the postern, in their eagerness to force their way through, but now she's in, racing for the entrance to the Keep. A group of Northmen flee before them, desperate no doubt to reach the Keep, and bolt it behind them. She draws a hand axe from her belt, and hurls it as hard she can, into the back of one of the running men. He screams and collapses to the ground. Dozens of her men are hurling handaxes at the Northerners, before swarming over them. She pelts up the steps to the Keep, and tears through the entrance, followed by her men. The day is hers!
Maege Mormont has had her fill of battle. She sees Yara taking the steps to the Keep, two at a time, before vanishing through the entrance. She is relieved that her men have only taken light losses, but she feels nothing but sadness at the outcome. She would have wanted nothing more than for her family to serve the Starks of Winterfell, but Sansa made that impossible. Despite everything, she still hopes the Queen's life will be spared. She walks slowly up the steps, and enters the Keep, and for a moment, she stares amazed at the atrium. It really is another world. Rich tapestries hang from the walls, along with costly paintings, and lamps in silver gilt sconces. But not for long. Soldiers are slashing the tapestries and paintings, hacking the lamps, desperate to loot the precious metal. Cries and crashes ring out. And, then suddenly, a wild screaming carries from a room to the left. She runs through into an ante-chamber. One young woman, perhaps a servant, has been stripped by half a dozen brutes, about to be gang-raped. One of them has clambered on top of her, and quite instinctively, she drives her sword through his back. He shrieks, spewing blood over his terrified victim. His fellows shout with rage, drawing their swords in turn, but she has a score of men with her. "Get the fuck out of here!" she snarls, and they slink sheepishly from the room. The woman on the ground is sobbing, even as she hands her clothes back to her. "Stay with me" she insists. "You'll be safe." She knows that far worse will happen today. She has done her best, and her best is nowhere near good enough.
Sansa hears the cries of her victorious enemies from the throne room. She has no idea what has become of Mother Mole or Beria. Both of them knew the risks, and both must take their chances. She feels completely calm. All her life, she has done her best to honour the memory of Father, Mother, and Robb, to be worthy of her ancestors. She walks to the throne, climbs the steps up to it, and sits down, awaiting her enemies, her sword drawn, and resting across her knees. Two of her Queensguard come flying through the entrance, trying too late to bar the heavy teak doors. They are both cut down as they try to slam them shut. And then, she sees her worst enemy surrounded by her men.
Yara grins. "Sansa Stark, her very self. And, all on her own"
"The Queen in the North, to you". She feels no fear, almost relief, now.
"I see no Queen where you are sitting. Your reign is over. "
"Then I shall make you see. " Sansa stands, raising her sword in salute. "You will never take me alive, Yara Greyjoy".
"Oh, but I shall. I'm going to try you for your crimes, before the North. I want to make you face the judgement of your own people"
"There will certainly be a judgement here today, Yara, on that you may depend."
Sansa descends nimbly from the steps under the throne, and darts forward, sword in hand, intending to fight. There is low rumble, then a loud roar, and suddenly the world erupts in green flame.