Chapter Text
The thing about war was that it was loud. The screams of the wounded, the sobs of the mourners and the battle cries of warriors left standing. The clang of swords, the roar of dragons and the sound of walls crumbling. They all blend together, an overwhelming force of what felt like inescapable sounds. War was so loud that it deafens until the only thing that can be heard is your panting breath and the beating of your heart. It’s so loud that everything goes quiet and time slows down until you can see when swords meet, arrows greet their mark and fire licks away at skin. Until you can see the mud flick up as bodies hit the ground and the exact moment the life fades in someone’s eyes.
Right before an eerie blue glow replaces it.
That’s what Sansa Stark saw as she stumbled out of what used to be the halls of her childhood home, now the resting place for the dead that would rise almost as fast as they fell. Sansa leaned back against the stone wall. She had sent Missandei along with Gilly and her little boy to the Broken Tower, giving the two a head-start as she and Tyrion Lannister led the dead out from the crypts after the rest of the women and children fell. Tyrion, who was always so kind to her. Tyrion, who was the best out of all her husbands. Tyrion, whose eyes now were blue, a result of him sacrificing himself so that she might make it out alive.
Alas, it seemed like he only brought her a few more breaths by the looks of things.
Around the courtyard, the army of the dead reached with eager hands toward the few people who had managed to survive so far. Brienne of Tarth and Jamie Lannister, along with Brienne’s squire Podrick were pinned on the far-side, swarms of cold bodies pushing against them as they hacked whatever they could. On a pile of bodies yet to rise, Tormund Giantsbane was roaring as he rose his axe and brought it down on ten heads at the same time. Samwell Tarly and Davos Seaworth were on the verge of disappearing under the black hoard and in the middle of the fighting, facing off against Daenerys Targaryen’s undead dragon was a lone figure.
Jon Snow.
A feeling alike the sinking of stones hit the bottom her stomach, as it almost forced her to keel over sick. If this was any other time, Sansa might take this opportunity to reflect on what an idiot her brother was.
No, her cousin. But he will always be her brother, no matter what name he goes by. She thought it would take a while to process the fact, but it seems she might not be able to get the chance.
“JON!” she screamed, wanting to both tear his head off and drag him out of the dragon’s sight. Jon turned his head shocked, not expecting his lady sister – cousin - to be standing in the midst of battle. He glanced back at the dragon, took note of it’s rearing of head and the intent to kill in it’s eyes. He realized in that moment that he wouldn’t be able to make it to Bran, not with the dragon so close and the entrance to the godswood so far.
Jon looked at Sansa again and saw the moment she realized too, what was about to happen.
“Get to Bran!”
He turned back to the dragon and roared, raising his sword high.
As much as Sansa wanted to stay, to tell him to run, she knew she had to go. She ran.
She heard the dragon roar and heard Jon’s die as heat engulfed the courtyard. She raced towards the entrance to the godswood and ducked down at the sight of pale figures gathered beyond. She faced the courtyard and felt her eyes draw towards the dragon, it’s attention now away from the burning corpse of what she assumed to be her broth-cousin. No, her brother. Until the very end.
Tears fell down her soot covered cheeks as a flash of silver caught her eye and she found herself staring at the sight of Daenerys Targaryen fighting alongside Jorah Mormont, until he too fell to the ground. She and the Dragon Queen felt the same in that moment as grief threatened to consume them both. But Sansa did not have a dragon like the Queen, who was guarding her back nor did she have the luxury of time to mourn. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and steeled herself, trying to accept the fact that she probably wouldn’t walk back out of the godswood again.
She gritted her teeth and ran around the corner, expecting to meet death by the dozens.
What she did not expect was to find it empty.
She eased forward, her dagger raised and looked around. Her hands shook, her teeth chattered, her body shivered in fear and anticipation.
After finding nothing in the darkness, she continued on until she saw movement under the tree that branched over the godswood like a mother protecting her children. She choked back a cry as she took notice of the three bodies under the tree.
She raced forward and fell on her knees. Theon Greyjoy lay before her, half sprawled on the base of the tree, the remnants of his wooden bow sticking from his chest and the bodies of her younger siblings dragged onto his lap. His eyes met hers, eyes that reminded her of the Shivering Sea now bright with tears as they looked at her with guilt. Eyes that begged her to forgive him. Sansa’s own eyes fell to his chest wound and the wood sticking out of it, glistening in blood. She knew by the red liquid dripping from his lips and the tremors from his body that a wound like that would not be able to be healed. She saw the blood on the snow beneath them and the trails that led back in the direction she came.
He had crawled. After getting wounded so badly, he still crawled. For them.
Sansa once remembered when she spat at him, accusing him of not loving her siblings, back when she thought that he had killed Bran and Rickon and that Ramsay’s mutilation of his person was justified.
She wrapped her arms around her sister’s still body, careful to ignore the purple bruising around Arya’s neck and the cold, clammy touch of her skin, pulling her so that she lay on her chest. She pretended that her little sister was just sleeping, and at any moment she would wake up and start complaining about Septa’s boring lessons. With one hand, she stroked Bran’s hair from where it rested on Theon’s lap and the other hand wrapped itself around Theon’s. She lay her head on his shoulder and listened to his shuddering breaths.
“It’s okay. You protected them. You stayed with them. You did your duty. You are forgiven”.
It felt like she had repeated those words for hours. Salt tinged her lips as streams fell from blue ocean eyes that focused on the hair kissed by fire. That fiery hair was a source of intrigue when he first came to Winterfell as Ned Stark’s ward. It later became a kind of fantasy he knew deep down he would never live out but continued to indulge in from time to time. That hair, and the memory of her when he arrived in Winterfell for the last time – of her smile, soft and loving, of her embrace, warm and tender and of her eyes, full of forgiveness and content as they stared into his with what he thought – hoped- was some sort of affection – was the last thing he saw before he died.
Sansa felt that moment through her bones but continued to lay her head on his shoulder, hold his hand even when it began to turn cold, stroking Bran’s hair and holding Arya’s body. Even when they entered the godswood once more.
They walked slow and each step led to another person’s death.
One step.
Brienne and Jaime panted, exhaustion creeping into their aching joints, the blood and mud filling their mouths threatening to choke them with every lungful of air they breathed. Their swords cleaved through the air, but not as strongly as they once did. Podrick was the catalyst, as his shouts of shock and pain were devoured by the sounds of tearing limbs. Brienne’s face was splashed with horror and the blood of her squire, a man that once struggled to swing a sword now falling long after Westeros’s best swordsmen had joined the ranks of the dead. That shock cost her as her sword was flung away from her and she was pushed back into the wall, the dead grabbing and pulling, stabbing and chewing. Her hand, outstretched towards Jaime, was the only visible part of her and as his own sword was dropped in the muddy abyss below, he held her hand as they were feasted on by the army of the dead.
Two steps.
Tormund was still roaring, even when he fell. The lack of axe or any weapon did not faze him, his strength a formidable defense against the army of the dead. Until that too were gone, ripped from his body and gnawed on until his eyes glowed the blue of the dead rather than the blue of the living. Samwell Tarly had long since suffocated under the massive bodies that were once great warriors, his last thoughts being of worry for the wildling girl he fell in love with and the boy he risked his life to rescue. Ser Davos had fallen also, turning around expecting to see Tormund grinning madly but instead coming face to face with a dead man. His last thoughts were of the one person he treasured above all and how he thought maybe he would finally see her again.
Three steps.
Missandei, Gilly and little Sam were quiet as they listened to the sound of battle, their hearts all seizing in fear for loved ones outside the stone tower in which they hid in. Daenerys’s advisor, translator and friend stood in front of the mother and son, a dagger that she has never learned to use clenched in a hand that never had the opportunity to use one. Somewhere deep inside, the place where she yearned for the warm sun and the calming waves of her home country, prayed she wouldn’t have to use it. But as the tower shook with the entrance of many bodies, she knew that she would have to. And that it would probably not make a difference in the end. As the footsteps drew closer, Missandei’s breath grew more haggard and Gilly’s sobs soon filled the room. Missandei didn’t have the heart to quiet her, knowing that it would do them no good. The door flew open and Missandei released a guttural sound that sounded more scream than battle cry until she was staring into the eyes of her lover, Grey Worm. His eyes did not stray further than hers and as he crashed into her, grabbing her to him. The doors swung open once more and the four of them were soon swallowed up, never to be seen again.
Four steps.
Gendry, Melisandre and The Hound all raced along the walls of Winterfell, the Hound acting as a shield. As they raced down the stairs, towards the godswood, Gendry took note of the faces he saw when he looked towards the ground. His heart leaped into his throat when he saw Ser Davos, or rather his corpse, turn towards them and felt his heart almost fall out of mouth when he saw the wildling named Tormund behind him, their blue eyes settled on the trio as they raced past. Gendry was eager to get to the godswood, the place Arya was headed to, according to the Red Priestess. The only reason he hadn’t left the witch in the halls was because she knew where the Stark girl went. But as the trio charged into the godswood and took in the scene before them, Gendry wished he never came here at all. For there, under the tree, was Theon Greyjoy’s body, Sansa Stark sobbing on his shoulder as her arms clutched two unmoving figures. It didn’t take seeing her to break him. It took seeing her sword, the one he had never seen her without, lying in the snow at his feet. And in between them and the trio, stood the Night King and his army. But he didn’t feel fear as he was forced to the ground beside The Red Priestess and the Hound. Nor did he feel fear when the Hound’s scarred head rolled towards him or the wine-red hair of the Priestess mixed with her blood. And he didn’t feel fear when a sword of ice gave a stinging kiss towards his neck. All he felt was empty.
Five steps.
Daenerys’s cries of agonizing grief echoed in the darkness. She didn’t process the sounds of battle dying off nor did she process her dragon, her precious Drogon, mourning Jorah’s death with her. If she did, she would have noticed his callous fingers twitch and tighten around the sword at his side. If she did, she would have seen his eyes open and fix on her, his icy cold stare not like one of love and devotion that came across his wary face when he looked upon his Queen for corpses don’t serve queens with a beating heart. He only had one master. And so, Daenerys Targaryen was so lost in her grief for her beloved knight that she didn’t notice his eyes were open until he shoved a sword through her chest, thus ending the Targaryen line right there.
Six steps.
Sansa did not know of the fallen, how one by one her friends, family and allies were cut-down until the only living, breathing person amidst the hoards of the undead were her. So, as she listened to those slow, heavy footsteps come towards her, she clutched the bodies that had began moving beneath her tighter, closed her eyes and for the first time in years, she prayed.
From the Old Gods of the Forest,
To the Faith of the Seven.
Hear my plea.
To the Drowned God of the Narrow Sea,
And the Lord of Light.
Hear my plea.
To the many-faced God,
And the gods of all, old and new.
Hear my plea.
The footsteps stopped and she looked up into the cold, dead eyes of Night.
Please, I have prayed all these years, for all matter of things.
For a prince, for love, for a knight, a savior, for death.
He raised his sword above his head, and she didn’t look away or flinch.
For my father, for my mother, for my sister and for my brothers.
And as she eyed the sharp, glistening tip of the sword that was wet with the blood of her loved ones, she asked for one thing.
Now I pray, to go back to the beginning.
Those were the last words Sansa Stark thought of before the sword pierced her heart.
The Beginning.