Chapter Text
She had died in fire. A terrible way to die.
The flames had been instantaneous when she touched the lit match to the oozing liquid, thick and murky from the cold. It burned with a sickening green light that had blinded her for an instant, before obliterating her eyes.
It had snowed heavily on that last morning.
Not the big, fat fakes that seemed to dance on their way down from the sky, begging to be caught on the tongue. Nor the light powder that fell apart in your hands, refusing to shape into snowballs. This storm was as relentless as death, a veil of frozen tears. It buried the world under a thick, white shroud.
The grey sky mocked her. Grey sky, white earth. There was no need for her house words any longer. Winter had come.
Missandei and Lady Karstark stood waiting by the crypt. Had it not been for their white puffs of breath, Sansa might have thought them statutes, standing grave as stone in the snow.
Alys’ gloved fingers brushed against Sansa’s arm. “Are you well, my lady?”
It was an empty question, hollowed by truth. The words would not change the darkness growing on the horizon, yet there was much needed comfort in the courtesy.
“It is done,” Sansa said. She knew she should lead the way into the crypt, but she could not tear her eyes from the sky. Watching, and waiting for a break in the clouds, a dark wing tearing open the heavens.
“When the slavers took me from the Naath, I looked back as long as I could.” Missandei’s voice was distant, echoing with remembrance. “The passing of time has stolen many of my memories, but I still remember how white the sands looked that day. This snow reminds me of it now.”
But Missandei’s eyes seemed to look further, and Sansa knew she was waiting too. When Sansa had offered the chance to those who wished to run, Missandei had not taken it. She had chosen to die in this cold and distant land. For this is where my love will come looking for me, she had told Sansa, and I will be waiting for him in whatever way he comes.
Regret pulled at Sansa only faintly now. She would die as she had been born, in the heart of the North. Once, she had been a child, fragile as spun glass. Now her bones were built of duty, and they bore the weight of Winter’s crown.
They descended into Winterfell’s crypts, their footsteps echoing down the narrow, spiral stairwell. Sansa pulled the heavy, wooden door shut behind them. It did not lock. They didn’t need it to.
She kept one hand on the stone wall as they went down. As practiced as she was at this walk, she had never done it in the dark. Her steps were faltering in the lack of torchlight. The ghosts of children skittered beside her in the darkness. Robb had brought her and Arya with Bran still a babe down into the crypts, years and years ago. Out of the tombs had burst a horrible, pale figure moaning for blood. Sansa had shrieked and ran, only to hear Robb and the ghost laughing. It had only been Jon, covered in flour.
I wish Jon were here. As soon as the thought arose, Sansa quashed it in terror. The gods might hear and twist her plea, sending her a monster with Jon’s face, and none of him left. She could not bear it. Jon’s face empty like that.
Sam had sent two ravens back before their armies reached the broken Wall. Eight men had staggered back after the battle, telling tales of the horror. Jon had gone down riding his dragon, Daenerys falling in tandem. After that, the armies of the living stood no chance.
At the bottom of the stairs a long procession of granite pillars marched two by two into the blackness. Between the pillars, the dead sat on their stone thrones, surrounded by the living. Winterfell held no prisoners. Those who had wished to run were long gone, their footprints buried under fresh snowfall. Those who remained under her care were huddled together against the chill. It was pitch black in the crypts, and deadly quiet.
It was the children. They had stopped crying. Even Alysanne Mormont’s little boy who had howled with lungs to rival a wolf’s ever since his mother rode away.
Sam’s wife, Gilly, was curled up next to a stone direwolf. Her child slept in her arms, mouth slack from the deep slumber of sweetsleep. All of the children, from the squalling babes to those still clutching wooden swords had been given doses on her orders. They would never feel a thing.
Those who were awake, watched her. Waiting. The future had always seemed a heavy burden to be shouldered. Now it felt as delicate as a butterfly’s wings, liable to snap in a heartbeat. Sansa wanted to close her fingers around the promise of another morrow like a caged bird. But it could not be.
There was a rumble from over their heads that sent dirt and dust raining down. Lady Tallhart hiccuped and began to cry. Maggie Umber rubbed her shoulders as she tried to stifle her sobs in the palm of her hand.
Shouts ran out from above, dulled by the depths of the crypt. A small part of the armies had stayed behind to defend the castle. Sansa had begged her sister to do the same.
“Stay,” Sansa had demanded. But it was no true command from a lady to her vassal, only a desperate plea from a sister, weary of lying abed a night wondering where her loved ones were.
Arya hadn’t responded. Her gaze was distant, already half at war. The memory of their father bowing before his own blade on the steps of Baelor struck Sansa with a dull thud.
“Arya.” Sansa’s throat ached. “We are wolves. When Winter comes, the lone wolf dies. The pack survives.” But her words tasted bitter and burnt. Ash on her tongue.
Like Lady’s bones in the lichyard.
Like her father’s head on a spike.
Like her brothers’ blood in the dirt.
Like her mother’s body in the Trident.
Like Jon’s eyes. Blue as death.
“Aye,” said Arya, finally. “But we won’t survive this. Will we?”
A tendril of hair had escaped Sansa’s braid and stuck to her damp cheek. Her sister reached out, and tucked it behind her ear with infinite tenderness. Sansa wished for a thousand more moments like that.
“I’m not strong enough to stay,” murmured Arya. “I’ll die out there, with my sword in hand.”
Sansa regarded her little sister. Memorizing her features. “You are the strongest person I know.” I love you.
Arya moved too fast, pressing into Sansa’s arms, and then all too soon, slipping away. She paused in the doorway, Needle half-drawn, and blew Sansa a kiss. Then she was gone.
Now Sansa stood alone, responsible for the hundreds of frantic hearts beating alongside her own. The sound of blood pounding through her veins filled her ears. Time stilled and crystallized before her. She saw Hero, the Astapori man with the broken leg, open his mouth to yell, but no sound came out.
Sansa’s fingers drifted down to caress the matches in her pocket.
They had painted every inch of Winterfell with wildfyre. Spilled it over the well-worn stones she had trod as a child, soaked it into the tapestries she had traced so many times over. The seat of the North dripped with the ghastly green.
More deadly casks filled the crypt, still and silent as the graves that surrounded them. Waiting to be called upon.
She would wait until the wights clawed at the door. Until the roar of the ice dragons deafened their ears. Until the Night King’s eyes pierced the darkness.
Her breathing was labored now. The clang of steel against ice rang out. The wailing of dying men butchered the silence, mixing with the inhuman screech of the dead as they tore them down.
Can you still be brave if you’re afraid?
Sansa lit a match.
That is the only time you can be brave.
And the world ended.
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