She wanders through the crypts of Winterfell. Too well does she know them. Lit with an eerie blue light, she can see her way well enough. The tombs are opened. She knows she shouldn't, but still she peers inside, drawn unwilling. And, there she sees them. Her victims. The Dragon Queen; the men and women done to death in her camps and torture chambers; the people she sold into slavery; everyone who suffered in her wars and persecutions. So many of them. All of them staring up at her, pointing at her, accusing. So many of them. Is this what hell is, having to confront the people you wronged in life? Will she get the chance to confront those who wronged her? But, there is worse. She walks up to the tomb of her own aunt, Lyanna. And, there are her own family. Condemning her with the others.
"I was once so proud of you. I loved you. My beautiful, clever, kind, daughter. Now, I have nothing but contempt for you." Her own mother, staring coldly down at her.
"Mother please! Don't judge me. Everything I did, I did for our family. I tried to be worthy of you. I tried to be worthy of our ancestors. I fought for the North. I brought back our freedom, after three hundred years. "
"Freedom? Is that you call it? Selling children as slaves? Abusing your own subjects?"
"I did what I must. The strong must lead, and the weak must follow. Everyone who is not one of us is an enemy!"
"Is that what I taught you?" her father asks gruffly. "I think you learned that from another. You were her most apt pupil, I reckon. Cersei killed everything that was good about you. That was never our way."
"Your honour got you killed, father! You too Mother, and you, Robb. "
"Death comes to us all, sister. What matters is how we live. Are you proud of the way you have lived?"
"Of course not. But, what choice did I have? I wanted to rule by love, but they never gave me the chance. They loved you, but they always hated me. I never wanted any of this. You were meant to rule the North, not I. They would have followed you willingly, but all they gave me was scorn and betrayal"
"Please, " she begs them "I'm still your family. " They stare back at her coldly. She feels rising anger now, in place of guilt. "Look at you, judging me! How do you think we won the North? By spreading sweetness and light? No, we brought them fire and sword. We slaughtered the Children of the Forest. We raped the daughters of our enemies. We sacrificed them to weirwoods. Don't blame me for doing exactly what our ancestors would have done in my place; what you would have done in my place! There's no moral high ground, here." They fade from view.
"There's always a choice, sister" replies her brother sadly. "You made yours. You chose to be a murderer, a slaver, a betrayer, an oath breaker."
Gradually, she drifts back into consciousness. Something is pattering lightly on her face. She opens her eyes to the heavens, half the roof gone, she realises. It is nightfall now, moonlit, and raining steadily. Alive! Perhaps the Gods favour her after all. Then she screams in pain. Hesitantly, she looks at her body. She winces, as she sees a shard of glass embedded in her right forearm. Far worse, her left leg is twisted round at an impossible angle. All around her are cries and groans of injured men. She realises that she is lying on her back, atop a pile of rubble, the floor of the throne room having collapsed beneath her. Gingerly, she raises her forearm, and pulls out the shard, hissing with pain. She draws out a kerchief, and ties it round her arm, to staunch the bleeding. Time to get out. The walls of the Keep mostly stand, as far she can see, but surely they or the roof might collapse at any time. She turns on her front, crawling slowly down the pile of rubble, dragging her useless leg behind her. She retches as a wave of nausea overcomes her, the pain from her leg briefly unendurable. At last, she reaches the ground, and keeps crawling onwards.
And then she sees him. His hair and half his face are burned away, but she would still recognise Casporio the Cunt in the moonlight, anywhere. He's still alive, just about, breathing hoarsely. The Gods are good, after all. She grins, drawing her dagger with her right hand despite the cut. Gently, she shakes him , and he stirs. "Casporio" she whispers softly, "wake up, it's me." He opens his eyes, dazed, but then horrified as she sees who it is. "I promised myself, when you betrayed me, my face would be the last thing you ever saw." Feebly, he tries to struggle, but it is useless. Slowly, ever so slowly, she presses her dirk into the man's left eye, feeling the eyeball give a satisfying pop! before pressing down into his brain. There is a sudden stench as his bowels open, and then he falls still. Few deaths have ever given her such pleasure. She replaces the knife in its sheath. She reaches down, and finds the man still has his sword. Her own has disappeared. Good! She'll use it as a crutch, till she finds something better. She draws it, and then takes it in her left hand. Gritting her teeth against the pain, she presses the point into the ground, and then raises herself. Time to take stock of her surroundings. People are moving about, half of them too shocked and dazed to be aware of their surroundings, it appears. She hobbles forward, supporting her weight on the sword. Maybe she can get away in the confusion. There must be a horse to be had, somewhere. She wonders how she could mount it, but time to cross that bridge in due course.
She reaches the entrance to the Keep. No chance of hobbling down that flight of steps. She'll slide down on her backside. Gradually she descends, before raising herself at the bottom. She is soaked to the skin now, as the rain falls harder. With the aid of the sword, she raises herself. And, then feels the point of a sword at her neck.
"Leaving so soon, your Grace?" says a woman's voice.
Slowly, very slowly she turns to see who it is. Maege Mormont. She shrugs. "Well played, Maege. Make an end. Your mother will be Viceroy of the North. "
"Regent, I should think. I don't think either Yara or her husband survived your stunt. My mother will rule until their oldest boy comes of age."
"Well then, do what you have to do. As you can see, I'm not in much shape to put up a fight."
Maege gives a grim smile. "I felt sorry for you. So did my mother. I wanted to spare you. Now I want to kill you. But, that would be too easy. Far better than you deserve."
"It would hardly be an auspicious start to your mother's reign if you were to torture her predecessor to death." Keep her talking. Slowly, very slowly, she reaches for the dagger at her hip.
"I won't be doing the torturing. Yara was right. I want you to witness the ruin of everything you hold dear. I want you to face your victims. Then we'll hand you over to them. Let them deal with you as you deserve."
Sansa draws the dagger swiftly, only to scream as Maege cuts swiftly down, her blade slicing through her right wrist. " She stares in astonishment at her hand, lying on the ground, still clutching the dagger, before she screams again, and falls to the ground.
"This woman is a dangerous and desperate criminal" she hears Maege command. "Bind her wounded wrist, and keep her alive for trial. " Then she knows no more