It is always summer in Winterfell. Winterfell was built on a natural hot spring, with tubes running through its walls to channel the hot steam from deep beneath the earth. So even in the darkest winters, the halls are always warm and the ladies dressed in summer silks. The crypt, though, is a whole other story. The crypt should have been warmer than most places in Winterfell, since it was closer to the hot springs, but the chill remained. The crypt is always cold and damp, far too cold for Sansa’s light silk.
It was chaos in Winterfell. Rebellions sprung up on all fronts whilst a menacing army marched from the Vale. Amidst the noise and confusion, no one seems to notice that the newest Lady Bolton has disappeared, and if they did, no one would have any clue as to where she is.
“Just as we'd planned.” thought Sansa, as she sat on her father’s stony lap, reading a book by lamplight. Her father was the latest Stark to be buried in the crypt. To her left, rows of statues sat on their stony thrones with a longsword in hand and a direwolf by their sides. To her right, countless holes extended into the darkness, gaping mouths waiting for the next Stark body.
The Starks had always buried their dead in the crypt, though only the Lords of Winterfell were given a statue in their likeness. Old Nan said that even the first Stark, the legendary Bran the Builder, was buried here, after he felled the Great Other. Old Nan’s stories also spoke of other, fouler things sealed in the crypt; ghouls and ghosts, ice dragons and giant spiders, and the Great Other itself. All the more reason for Sansa not to go poking around for the lack of heat in the gristly place.
“Those are just stupid stories for a silly little girl.” Sansa said outloud. No more true than all those songs about knights and monsters she sang as a little girl. There were no ice demons, just like there are no gallant knights. Men were all the monsters this world needs. But as she gazed across the rows of empty holes leading into darkness, she couldn’t help but wonder. Maybe Old Nan was more right than she knew.
The thought of monsters lurking in the dark gave her chill, so she averted her gaze to the more familiar faces. She could have sworn that the statues are staring back at her, but somehow, the notion seemed reassuring. She looked back up to her father’s stony face, and wondered out loud. “What would you say if you could see me now? Knowing what I have done. I have tortured a girl, deceived my husband, laid with whores, and murdered a kin. I have become a monster when all wanted was a knight to protect me from them. Perhaps... it is best that you cannot see me now.”
Despite all her words of regrets and shame, she had never felt more alive than she did in the last month. In merely a moon’s turn, she has turned every house in the North against the traitorous Boltons and instigated the rebellion that will surely end their brief reign. It wasn’t that difficult. Ramsay was smarter than Joffrey and ten times crueller, but she was trained and taught by Petyr Baelish, the greatest schemer in all the Seven Kingdoms. The only challenge turned out to be Ramsay’s long time love interest Myranda. The girl thought Sansa was another woman competing for Ramsay’s affection. The two had multiple fights since she got here, some even arranged by Ramsay himself. Myranda had no clue that Sansa wanted nothing to do with Ramsay’s heart other than feeding it to the dogs, so she went after her savagely. No matter how many times they clashed, neither was able to get a clear victory on the other.
Sansa did not hate Myranda at first. She saw her merely as a mild annoyance. But Sansa had swiftly developed a strong hatred towards the girl after all their fights. It was hard to fight someone so much and have them force so much blood from you without developing some level of hatred. If Myranda somehow survived the siege, she'd remember to ask Petyr to deliver Myranda to her. She didn't deserve a clean death.
A sudden gush of cold wind interrupted her revenge fantasies. It has been years since she last set foot in the crypt and she has forgotten about how cold it was inside. She has water, food, lamp oil, and books to last for months but her thin silk dress did little to protect her against the cold. She considered sneaking back up for something warmer, but quickly realized that she couldn’t risk it. They would never find the crypt on their own, but she could not risk someone seeing her burst out of a wall. After all, a wildling was said to have lived in the crypt for ten years. Surely she could survive down here for the few weeks until Petyr’s men arrived to bring her back.
Sudden footsteps followed the wind and broke the tranquil air. Immediately, Sansa tensed and put out her lamp. In the direction of the statues, she could vaguely see a flicker of light - someone had come down here. The old Sansa would have been frozen with fear, or maybe even cried, but this Sansa was beyond that. Silently, she removed her heavy leather shoes, and hid her supplies in one of the pits. She held her breath and approached the light. Only one, and lightweight, she noted as she listened to the footsteps. As the light got closer, she made out who the intruder was - Myranda. She quickly hid behind a statue and pondered her options. She could just hide. Myranda would likely never find her. Myranda's clothes were a momentary temptation, though they were light silk just like Sansa’s. But maybe, just maybe, she could finish her off quickly. She just needed to keep herself quick and quiet... slowly, Sansa unsheathed her dagger.
Myranda was in a foul mood. Sansa Stark has been acting strangely lately, and she had been stalking Sansa on and off for the last few days. At one point, Sansa had entered a room and just vanished. She tried telling the guards about it but the guards just laughed. They would have never dared to laugh at her when she was the only woman in Ramsay’s life. After a few hours in the room, Myranda finally found a secret entrance leading to some dark tunnel. Convinced that this must be where Sansa was hiding some dark secret and unsure who else to trust with the fact, Myranda took a torch and a dagger before venturing down into the tunnel. Once she was inside, entrance shut itself right after her, sending a gush of wind that almost blew out her torch.
The tunnels eventually opened up to a vast chamber with countless statues leading into the darkness. As the light shone on their stony faces, Myranda thought for the briefest moment that the statues were staring at her, cold anger in their stony eyes. "You don’t belong here," a voice in her head called. "Get out. NOW." That was a bit too much for Myranda to withstand. As she was about to retreat, she heard a faint shuffle from up ahead. "The Stark bitch," she thought, and she advanced. Hatred outweighed her fear as she did her best to ignore the cold stony eyes and left any sense of dread behind her.
Myranda heard the attacking Sansa before she saw her, but it was enough for her to react to. Both responded quickly, twisting and lunging with their daggers. Sansa's incoming blade slid and caught on Myranda's, coming up just short of sinking into her belly. The Bolton mistress swept her knife to one side, trying for an awkward parry that would hopefully at least take a finger. Sansa pulled back in instinct, but it still left a thin slice up the side of her arm. Sansa grabbed the wrist that held Myranda's knife and pushed into her, slamming the mistress' back into the nearest statue's stoney leg. Myranda grunted, but when Sansa's own knife came swinging down on her she grabbed and redirected the stabbing motion. The awkward slash left a slice along the back of her hand, but she had gone through worse.
"Now why does this feel familiar?" Sansa hissed at her, steadying her breathing when she realized it would be a genuine struggle rather than a stealthy assassination.
"Because you realize how easily I can destroy you," Myranda grinned sadistically, the two struggling to free their armed hands.
"There are enough Starks buried here," Sansa said, eyes darting suggestively at the nearest random ancestor. "They don't need another." She suddenly twisted her weight to one side, swinging Myranda with her. She went off balance and grabbed for the next wolf statue to stay upright, but Sansa threw a kick into her other hand that send the knife sliding off into one of the shadowy depths of the future tombs.
Sansa gave a shout and went in for a finishing blow with her dagger, but Myranda caught it before it reached her face. With both hands free, she bent over and twisted Sansa's wrist. She'd attempted to steal the dagger, but only succeeded in disarming her as it flew off and bounced off the tunnel's floors, dropping into another random spot of darkness. Sansa's eyes tried to follow which one it went into, but Myranda suddenly punched her across the face, jarring her vision and quickly losing track.
"There's no guards, knives, or laws to save you now," Myranda snarled. "You're a wolf pup amidst hounds. I think I'll do Ramsay the favor of making his decision for him."
"Look around; my pack is here," Sansa snapped back. "And he won't be around long enough to decide anything. Fortunately, neither will you!"
“All dead and buried and rotten,” snarled Myranda, doing the best to forget the whisper she heard earlier. “They aren’t a threat to anyone and neither are you.”
Myranda threw another punch at Sansa's head, but she was still wary from the first hit and ducked away from it. She wasn't quick enough to deliver any actual counter attack, but she threw herself into the intruding mistress. They both fell at the feet of one stone ancestor or another, fingers crooked into claws to claw and grab at whatever their attacker left remotely vulnerable. Their grunts of effort and furious growls echoed off the vast and seemingly lifeless cave. When Sansa raked her nails down Myranda's cheek and left a shallow red slice down her cheek, her shriek of pain pierced even further into the depths of Winterfell.
And faintly... something heard her. It was not used to hearing much of anything in the somber caverns that contained it. It has slumbered here for thousands of years, a prisoner of the offsprings of its captor. The prison and the guards have kept it asleep for eons, but now, it sensed warm flesh; some of it familiar, and some quite new; and it sensed death, in the near future. Still half asleep, it started to rise, slowly pressing against the forces that held it at bay. But almost instantly, a soft grey mist creeped out of nowhere and silently enveloped it, half like a blanket and half like chains. It shook a bit, and fell back to its slumber...
"You treacherous little coward!" Myranda hissed as the blood ran down her cheek. She caught Sansa by the throat, the mounted Stark woman bracing herself for an attempted strangling. Instead, Myranda simply shoved her head to one side, bouncing her head off of the knee of one of her seated forefathers' monuments. Sansa gave a sharp cry as her skull bounced off and took a small chunk off of the ancient stone with her. Its pieces tangled in her hair as her eyes watered from the jarring pain, but she fired a fierce kick into Myranda's stomach.
The mistress stumbled back, trying to regain her footing as her hand rested on the staring statue's sword-hand for balance. Her eyes flitted to it briefly, denying the possibility of wielding its weapon. Even if it could be forced from their grip, they were too heavy to wield in any practical means. Still, her heavy breathing echoed back to her off the deep, dead walls as if the dire wolves were panting softly all around her.
Sansa grabbed the hesitating intruder by the hair and drove a knee into Myranda's stomach. She bent over, suddenly breathless as Sansa helped hold her down in the position. She drove her free hand into Myranda's back, repeatedly bashing and bruising the back of her neck and shoulders. Myranda would only endure a handful of such punishing blows before she reached a hand under Sansa's silk and raked her nails down her inner thigh. Sansa screamed out in pain as her Stark blood trickled here and there while her husband's sadistic lover savored the sounds and signs of her pain.
"You should have stayed hiding, little pup," Myranda scolded mockingly as she pulled on Sansa's leg. The Stark heiress tumbled to the cold floor, the edge of her dress tearing on the protruding handle of the statue's sword as she fell. Myranda delivered a quick but painful aimed kick into Sansa's ribs. "The Starks deserve to be forgotten if you're all that's left of them!"
"You will remember where you stand, you pathetic slut!" Sansa shouted at her. She leaned to one side and swung her foot up, driving her foot upward. It hooked under Myranda's skirts and plowed her toes right into the mistress' pussy.
The disturbing of the statues and spilling of the Stark blood stirred it up once more. The bonds seem to loosen on the sleeping presence and it started to rise. It stirred like a great, sleeping avalanche., For the first time in century, ancient and undying thing that was only kept asleep by the souls and bodies of the Starks, was stirring.
"You will stay down." A man's firm voice drew the rising Other's attention. He was more a memory of a man, broad and of noble visage and dress by what could be seen of him. He was a rough and coarse man, clad in thick furs that blended with his beard. He wore the Winter Crown on his head, the black iron circlet spiked with its sword-shaped tips. "The North remembers. We will stand watch over you, even in death." The spectral royal drew a sword and pointed it at the dark entity. The creature either ignored or dismissed him as it started to rise again. The dead king gave a bellowing shout and threw himself at the ethereal prisoner. His form, sword and all, broke against it like water on the rocks, shattering into a puff of grey smoke that merged with the chains binding the prisoner. The creature clearly felt it. It recoiled, beaten back a few more steps. It trembled slightly, as if the hit was enough to send it back to sleep, but the smell of blood was too strong. It regrouped and started to rise again, but a new phantom of the Starks stood in front of him. Slightly different, slightly younger, but clearly of the same line.
"There are plenty more of us where that came from. Dare you try again?"
Myranda dropped to her knees with a grunt. That hard of a kick would have taken a lesser woman out of the fight, but no part of any lover of Ramsay Bolton lasted this long without a familiarity with pain. It still slowed her enough that when she grabbed for Sansa, the last Stark dodged around her hand and kneed her in the middle of her breasts. The firm blow drove a deep grunt and a burst of breath from the mistress, who was left clawing at one of the statues just to remain on her haunches. Even that frantic clawing left chips and scratches in the carved, old stone, disturbing the monuments to their rest as if giving them more reason to glare down at her.
“Don’t worry,” Sansa jeered mockingly as she advanced on her again, grabbing the back of Myranda’s hair. “I’ll see that your body is thrown out in the mud rather than sullying my family’s tomb.” She drove her fist into Myranda’s back, sending a sharp pain up her spine. As her back arched, the sadistic mistress found herself staring up at one of the stone Starks. The jarring pain and haunting visage stunned her a moment but when Sansa hit another blow into a similar spot in her back, she growled and spat on the statue.
“Your bloodline ends with you, Stark slut. There will be no one left to bury you!" Myranda ranted at her, but Sansa kicked her in the stomach before smashing her face into the floor of the cave. Myranda's teeth hit the inside of her lips, causing her to spit out blood when Sansa kicked her once again, this time in the ribs. Even with her bare feet, the blows were hard and precise enough that they kept hitting the same spot to optimize the pain Myranda suffered through.
The blows spurred Myranda's already bloodthirsty hatred, throwing herself into a tackle around Sansa's waist. She shrugged off the ache in her side that stung freshly when she rammed Sansa into another statue. The last Stark knocked more stone loose from the statue and while she hardly winced from the impact, her elbow landed against one of the rusted swords of her ancestors. It left more of a deep scratch than a true slice, but her hard landing made the dulled blade leave a wide and thick bruise across the back of her arm.
Sansa lashed out and scratched a stinging red line across Myranda's face just short of her eye, but Myranda shoved the treacherous bride back into the statue. This time Sansa stumbled and splayed into the lap of the stone Stark, Myranda quickly mounting her and raining punches into her face. Blood ran down her pale skin as not only did the blows threaten to ruin her face, but bounced her head back into the statue's hard but crumbling surface.
The tomb's spectral prisoner continued to rise, slowly waking from its unnatural hibernation and creeping towards the surface. Whenever it grew far enough, another Stark charged and obliterated themselves to drive it right back. Some were kings clad in robes and armor, while others were better remembered clad in armor and wielding maces. Even the occasional bastard son threw themselves at it, beating back what was otherwise unstoppable.
The next Stark grunted as he came to face the entity. He was a broad-shouldered lord, and he could feel the vast number of the Stark spirits were thinning. They were an army throwing themselves at an immortal. They could strike it, and they could pin it down, but however massive their numbers, they were finite. It was a matter of hoping it would tire itself out and return to being contained by its bonds. "I see... Winter is coming," he muttered as the creature readied another attempt. "It is inevitable."
"True, but the inevitable can be delayed." His sister appeared beside him, the woman in noble dress but with a blade of her own in hand. "Hope is not yet lost. We still have one heiress left alive, should we continue to protect her."
The grim Stark smirked at his sister's words. "Then let's make this one count. For the North!"
"Winterfell!"
The two ghostly figures charged with a haunting roar, and the advancing form of blue and black was once again blown away.
Sansa was pounded into the statue once more before she braced a foot against Myranda's stomach and shoved with all her might. The might of an enraged and meticulously trained woman was no small amount, sending the mistress flying off and hitting her head against the opposite statue. Myranda's blood ran from the corner of her hairline, where the edge of her temple had struck the head of the carved wolf. It didn't seem to hamper her in the slightest as she growled furiously, Sansa rubbing her own bruised and bleeding face while she stood back up. Neither felt that pursuing their knives (even if they knew where they were) would end up being productive, considering that would mean exposing their backs to their hated rival.
They had been through enough fights at her newest husband's whim to remain well aware that they were a deadly pair of women. Too often had they fought to a draw, or at best, with one of them lasting just long enough to see the other fall and then collapsing themselves. Sansa had no love lost for Ramsay, but she wouldn't stand for meddling pet defying and challenging her. The fight was a long time coming, and not a hint of regret plagued the warring women as Sansa threw a punch across Myranda's nose. The cartilage cracked and bent as more blood tainted the seductive mistress' face, but she still grabbed frantically for Sansa's throat. The Stark evaded well enough to avoid any sort of strangling, but Myranda's meticulously sharpened nails kept leaving fresh scratches around her neck and throat.
Sansa finally cut off her opponent with a sharp punch to the throat. Myranda gagged and clutched her throat, giving Stark a chance to swing a hard if unpracticed uppercut into her jaw. Myranda stumbled and tripped over one of the stone wolves, her face swelling in several spots. She fumbled around in an attempt to rise, her head throbbing. She was able to shut out such negligible pains after so much time living and surviving with Ramsay, so when Sansa stood over her and grabbed her by the hair, Myranda reached under Sansa's skirts from her low position and rammed her claws into her womanhood. Sansa's resulting shrill scream echoed off the walls and into the depths of her family's tomb.
It was getting stronger. The ancestral Starks' sacrifices were still holding the back their prisoner, but it was taking more and more of them to do obtain the same result. The ancient thing had reached a point where a single Stark soul would only slow it down.
"Night gathers," one of the armored men muttered. He had been of the Stark blood, but had left his position to join the Night’s Watch and had never returned alive. However, he had not been the only one. Another Stark that had died guarding The Wall.
"And now my watch begins." Another specter manifested beside him, one that matched his armor but was older and built thicker. "It shall not end until my death."
A man in the same Night’s Watch garb of plain black appeared with a bow in his hands. "I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children." More and more gathered in their line in front of the incoming immortal force. Soon, even those remaining lords and ladies and fallen kings appeared beside them. Not all of those present had served the watch, but they knew of their oath enough to recite it beside them. Their voices found a singular rhythm as they all spoke up.
"I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the shield that guards the realms of men!"
The dark and cold force started to take a crude shape like that of a skeletal humanoid, emitting a howl like a mighty winter wind as if infuriated by the ancient oath.
"I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch for this night and all the nights to come!" With that, the ghosts all joined in a battle roar and hurled themselves at the Great Other. Their energies erupted like an exploding sun, flinging the dark entity back to where it had been bound before.
Sansa pushed at Myranda’s wrists, burying her nails into the base of her hand. She didn’t bother pulling, well aware that it would only make her claws tear over more of her flesh from past experience. When Myranda’s arm twists and she instinctively cried out, Sansa twisted on one foot to smash her knee into the side of her face. Myranda went down, but lashed out enough to claw down Sansa’s leg. The noble grabbed for the mistress’ throat, but Myranda caught her hand to stop it short. The pinned mistress managed to grab and strategically twist Sansa’s finger, a dull crack getting a fresh scream from her as she broke the delicate digit. Myranda flashed a brief grin at her sadistic success, but Sansa threw a punch into her face with her good hand. A lesser woman likely would have blacked out from the snapping of her fingerbone, but Myranda had spent enough time fighting Sansa to imagine that she would.
Myranda kicked at Sansa’s leg hard enough to get out from under her, but Sansa gave another punch to her mouth. Blood came from Sansa’s knuckles and Myranda’s mouth as the mistress spat out a tooth. The trickle of blood encouraged Sansa rather than deterring her, clawing at Myranda's eyes. A quick dodge was all that let Myranda keep her eye at all, her nails leaving a deep and bloody scratch down from the edge of her socket to the side of her face. She snatched Sansa's arm and bit into her wrist, a thick stream of blood pouring from her pierced veins. Their audience of statues watched grimly as Sansa's screams drowned out the faint and distant rumblings of anything going on deeper in the tomb.
The fog was clearing around The Great Other, in both a mental and mystical sense. It had taken a beating from the Starks’ guardian spirits, but the prison had never felt weaker. The realm of mortals was just beyond its reach. There were fresh bodies waiting to be taken.
“And here I thought I’d seen the last of you.” One more phantom stepped forward from the fog that surrounded the terrible entity. He was a lean man carrying a hammer, a long sword slung over his back that glowed faintly through its sheathe. “Stubborn old pest.”
The Other seemed to seethe to the point where steam poured from it. “You have no guardians left, Builder.”
Bran the Builder looked back at him and shrugged. “There’s me. That seemed to be enough last time, if I remember correctly.”
“Your walls… your mortal souls. They grow weaker. They are too weak to contain me.”
Bran hefted his hammer, as if weighing it for a precise swing soon enough. “I’ll keep you down here with everything I’ve got, you miserable storm cloud.”
“And when that is gone as well?” The dark entity was focused now. Its smoky form condensed and shifted, taking a more concentrated form. It formed a towering, skeletal shape, its twisted features spreading into a skeletal grin. “What then, Bran?”
Bran drew his legendary sword, the one coated in flames from the hilt upward. The Great Other recoiled from the weapon that had slain it once before, and Bran whistled off into the fog. Whether called by the light of his sword or the sound of his whistle, thirteen figures appeared beside him. Ten were men of all sizes and builds. An oily-haired man with a long and wicked knife. Another was covered head to toe in heavy steel, the helm curving into the shape of a dragon’s head. The other was a man who if he was not a true giant, then was large enough to spawn legends about them. Another appeared to be a dark, small and childlike figure dressed in leaf, but with a wise and knowing gleam to his ancient blood red eyes. A bald man stood between the two contrasting silhouettes, armed with a long axe that he held tightly across a lengthy beard. Two were women, one stocky and handsome with a blood-stained axe that lesser men couldn’t even lift and the other with an ornate crossbow leveled at the surrounded entity. The last was an especially huge dire wolf the size of a mammoth.
“Let’s find out, shall we?” Bran offered. With no words needed, the old warband descended on their ancient foe once more.
Sansa grabbed a chunk of rock that had fallen from one of the crumbling statues, swinging it like a primitive hammer that smashed into Myranda's eye. It struck with a meaty crunch leaving an ugly bruise and blood leaking out from behind her eye. Myranda didn't even finish her cry of anguish before it turned into a howl of fury, driving a crushing punch into Sansa's belly just below her ribs. No matter how she resisted the pain, Sansa's body reacted for her and vomited onto the ground of the ancient cave. It left her disoriented enough for Myranda to shove her off, grabbing Sansa by the hair as she stood over her and driving more crunching punches into Sansa's face. Fresh bruises grew on the last Stark's face, joining the thick discolored lumps already developing on her pretty face and head.
Sansa was knocked onto her ass, throwing a kick between Myranda's legs only for the bloody and psychotic mistress to catch her by the foot. "The Starks should have died out a long time ago," Myranda hissed, the blood staining the white of her eye so that even if the light were better, Sansa couldn't just how well she could see out of it. "Let's finish the job."
Myranda swung Sansa's leg to one side, smashing the center of her bone against one of the swords held by her ancestral statues. It wasn't sharp enough to slice her open as Myranda might have wished, but her bone snapped at the sudden impact. Sansa's scream rang out as she focused to block out the agony in her leg, fending off the impulses to black out from both her leg and finger. She had to keep her mind on how it would affect her performance in the fight. Myranda sneered in sadistic triumph as Sansa dragged herself away, tears welling in her eyes out of instinct more than actual pain.
"Time to put down this wounded dog," Myranda hissed, advancing on the crippled Stark. Sansa managed to get a grip on the knee of her father's statue, forcing herself up quickly and turning to swing a kick into Myranda's chest. Ramsay's plaything was sent tumbling back, tripping one one of the wolf statues and tumbling into one of the open mouths of the future graves. She landed in a haggard heap, breathing heavily as she felt lightheaded. The pain was one thing, but she was bleeding from several of her wounds, and no amount of strength prevented her from bleeding to death. She tried to push herself up, more focused on killing than staying alive, but her hand brushed something that slid across the ground with a light clattering noise. Sansa saw the gleam the weak light off of her blood-red eye as Myranda grabbed one of the stray daggers.
Bran was on one knee as The Great Other towered taller than ever. Though all the other Starks had vanished, his comrades' spectral bodies were littered around him once more. He wondered if it was the doing of the dark thing to torment him, trying to break his will and his prison. His hammer was in pieces well out of his reach, only the flickering of his flaming sword remaining. Even that seemed to be fading as his body flickered in and out of existence, taking all he had just to exist.
"You have failed, builder!" the smoky voice boasted, but it didn't move to finish his ancient foe. "You failed to slay me, and now you fail to bind me. You and your bloodline worked for centuries just to keep me here, and you let them die once again just to buy your world minutes. It was as a drawing breath for me to annihilate your entire clan." The Great Other leaned forward, casting its black shadow over Bran but still not striking. "But I admire perseverance. You could spare me the bother of ending you and join me, Bran. I would build you a new body to house your soul... even the one you keep in your sword." Its dark grin spread wider than its face should be able to contain. "Think of your wife, Bran. The one whose body you sacrificed to bring me here. You've let so many die, but you could bring her back, Bran..."
Bran looked to his flickering sword and frowned. "I loved that woman," he muttered grimly. The Great Other's grin twisted even wider. "Because she knew when something needed to be done, someone had to do it. She knew about sacrifice... she married a scrawny young fool like me, for one," he added with a small smirk. "And when I told her about the sword, she said that a real man isn't one that accepts his fate quietly, but one that spits in the eye of Death as he takes him. I cursed my own bloodline that their spirits may return here to guard you. What kind of ancestor would I be if I try to escape myself?"
The Great Other rose tall as its grin returned to a grimace. "Then you damn yourself and your whore bride." It raised a clawed hand, but Bram's sword burst into fresh and powerful flames.
"Ohhh, I don't think she cared for you calling her that. You went and upset the missus." Bram smirked, raising the fiery blade over his head. The dark immortal flung itself at him just as Bram spiked the tip of his sword into the ground between them. "YOU SHALL NOT PASS!" he boomed as the fire spread from his sword into the ground in a broad ring that surrounded the Other. The sword faded into dull, dark steel, but The Great Other hit the wall of flames and bounced back as the unstoppable entity was a bird hitting a window. The entity slammed and clawed at it a few more times to no avail.
Bran dropped into a sitting position, breathing a long sigh as his body flickered again. "I've bought you one week," he said, glancing over his shoulder at his distant descendant. "That's all I've got left." He closed his eyes and vanished from The Great Other's sight, leaving only the sword. As Bran left, it gave a short, anguished wail before shattering to pieces against nothing in particular. The Great Other raged in a forgotten language as it repeatedly bashed itself against its newest prison, still not gaining so much as an inch.
Sansa ducked behind her father's statue, letting Myranda's wild swing plant her knife into it rather than her own skin. "Stop running, you treacherous whore!" the mistress threatened. She grabbed Sansa's tattered clothes and drove her knife into her inner thigh. It wasn't clear if it was aiming for her belly or trying to ram it into Sansa's crotch, but either way Sansa's sudden shift in position stabbed it into the tender flesh of her leg instead. Sansa grabbed the knife-wielding hand, trying to force it away without allowing Myranda to take another swing. Even more of her blood ran down her unbroken leg as she leaned more heavily against the Stark statue. Myranda struggled against her grip, starting to overpower Sansa as she pressed one of her thumbs down on her broken finger. Sansa grit her teeth to endure as Myranda pushed closer and closer to her chest until finally, she was near enough that Sansa could lean in and bite her ear, tearing loose a chunk of flesh and cartilage before spitting it to the cave floor. Myranda recoiled and howled in pain, but Sansa still had her grip on her armed wrist. Sansa leaned to the other side of the statue and pulled down, making Myranda's elbow pop out the wrong side of her arm as it connected with her father's knee.
Myranda let out a long, horrible howl as her twitching fingers went limp and Sansa claimed her dagger. Even as her legs gave out, she lunged for Myranda and rammed the knife between her ribs. The sadistic mistress gurgled as more blood came from her lips, Sansa not bothering to linger on her wound. They both hit the ground, but the vengeful Stark felt herself fading fast. She twisted the knife quickly, ensuring she had hit something vital before pulling it out and going for another stab of her blade. Myranda surprised her as not only did she not go down quietly, but countered as she grabbed Sansa's hand and turned it around to stab herself in the shoulder. Both women gave off savage screams of agony and fury that filled the tomb, echoing off every wall as both of the bloody women threw themselves at their hate enemy with no thought for their own safety.
Sansa raked her nails down Myranda's face, her nails tearing into her vulnerable eye. Myranda sent sloppy punches into Sansa's face, letting her fist land where it may. Her knuckles drove into Sansa's mouth, skull and throat with quick but random strikes as her vision blurred and strength faltered. She pounded her fist against the knife stuck in Sansa's shoulder, spraying fresh blood over the both of them before Sansa gave a savage howl. She was losing some color in her face from blood loss, but she balled up all her rage into her fist and smashed it into Myranda's throat. There was a crunching noise and a wet choking sound from Myranda when she stopped moving. Sansa stared at her enemy and watched the murderous mistress die in front of her. There was a strange flicker of blue from one of her bloody sockets, but it seemed to be a trick of the light as it faded away quickly.
She was feeling lightheaded as she looked up at the statue of her father. His image seemed to blur, but she managed to focus and keep her vision clear. She was still bleeding, and she could probably manage some basic bandages from her supplies. She pulled the knife out of her shoulder and tossed it aside as she carefully tried to clean and cover the wound with a piece of cloth torn from her dress, her heavy breathing suddenly all the noise that remained in the tomb…
Which made it that much more obvious when something moved. Sansa froze and heard the sliding of pebbles again, turning her head cautiously to keep her shoulders still. She saw it again; the blue glow by Myranda’s face. She turned to look more carefully, seeing that the light flickered like torchlight in the center of her eyes, but the color of deep water or especially thick ice. Myranda pushed herself up, her movements a bit jerky by growing smoother as she stood back up. The blood running her from eyes did nothing to diminish the flames, and even her numerous wounds didn’t seem to slow her down. Sansa jolted back as Myranda started to approach her, teeth baring in a vicious grimace and her chipped and broken nails outstretched. “I’m still not done with you, you treacherous cunt,” Myranda seethed through her menacing grin.
“What is the matter with you?” Sansa snapped, more confused and concerned than afraid. Sansa’s back hit the foot of her father’s statue, turning briefly towards it in surprise before going back to Myranda. Still in the corner of her eye, she saw a kind of grey fog rolling in, seemingly from the statue itself as well as her aunt Lyanna’s nearby. The mist passed over her shoulders, and Sansa couldn’t explain why, but she felt herself strengthened. Her wounds didn’t go away, but she found them easier to ignore and a fiery strength in her weary muscles.
Myranda came rushing at her, but Sansa grabbed hold of her arm to stop her hand short. Her nails still left a fresh scratch on Sansa’s face, but she swung a surprising punch across Myranda’s jaw. It hit with a short, clear crunching sound as she reeled and shook her head. Her face looked swollen and her jaw was bent into an unnatural angle, but she still snarled and grabbed for one of the nearby statues. She ripped one of the swords from its inanimate owner and swung it in a wide arc. Sansa grunted loudly out as the blade cracked into pieces against her, but still left a slash down the side of her arm. Sansa grabbed the wrist that was left holding the handle and an inch or so of broken blade, pulling on for leverage as she kicked the inside of Myranda’s knee. The reanimated mistress fell with a crunch, but she lashed out and bit down on Sansa’s fingers to penetrate deep into her flesh. Her manic attacker buried her claws into Sansa’s inner thighs, burying them deep to keep herself painfully close to her nemesis.
Sansa gave a shrill scream, not sure if she was going to be able to keep those fingers but not bothering to find out now. She grabbed Myranda’s hair just as the nearby torch flickered out, leaving nothing in sight but the glowing of her unnatural eyes. Sansa still had a grip on her, so she turned and shoved her head towards the spot where she’d last seen one of the dire wolves. The soft crunching noise told her she had guessed right, cuing her to rapidly lift and slam Myranda’s face into the cracking statue again and again. She felt blood and torn flesh against her fingers, but she didn’t stop until she saw the flashing streaks of blue finally go out. With a few more final, puffing breaths, she felt whatever had empowered her fade away and collapsed onto the bloody earth.
Sansa was still dazed when she saw the figures descend upon her, but she wasn’t afraid. There was her father, and her aunt and brother as well. Her father knelt down to brush her bloody hair from her face. "Rest easy, child," his deep voice assured her.
"You fought a wight and you fought well," her brother Robb noted rather proudly. “Not all Starks can say that, and I think Grey Wind relished that bit of blood” A monstrous grey direwolf appeared and softly nuzzled against Sansa’s lap. A monstrous grey direwolf appeared and softly nuzzled against Sansa’s lap.
Her first instinct was to ask if Myranda was dead, but the gruesome scene was fresh in her memory. "I'm sorry," she blurted instead, tears forming in her eyes. "I'm a disgrace. I'm a kin-slayer and a traitor. I'm a whore and an assassin, always hiding behind someone else when things go wrong. Petyr is the only reason I'm still around, and..."
Her spectral father gestured her to hold as he softly shushed her. "I know. I know. We've been watching over you." He looked down the long row of statues before looking back at her. "Sansa Stark, you have caused many changes wherever you go. You were always your mother’s daughter. You did what I never could have done. You survived amidst foes and beat them in ways I never could. You protected yourself when all I’ve done was to endanger you with my damned honour. You survived, when winter came for our family.”
Sansa didn’t pay much attention to her aunt, but as Lyanna seemed to be smoothing out her clothes and dabbing at her wounds, they slowly healed and closed at her touch. “Nearly done,” she said, but looked more to her fellow spirits than to Sansa. Bran had sent them to see that Sansa made it through this encounter safely, and with her foe gone, all there was left was to heal her from her violent injuries.
Sansa smiled weakly as she looked up at her dearest family. “I’m sorry. I’m not the fine lady you all remember… but I’m not afraid anymore, either.”
“Good girl,” her father said simply. “You’ll do us proud.”
Sansa woke up with a start, but rather than the cave, she was in a proper bed. She patted herself down, finding herself in a simple night gown. She lifted up her sleeves and skirts to see that she had been entirely healed from the struggle… all but a small but very clear scar that felt icy cold to the touch. Whatever it was that had healed her, it had run out just before it could truly finish its work.
She was quickly brought up to speed and shared the information of her own, for what little all that did to explain things. One of Petyr’s men had found her passed out in the catacombs and brought her back. They hadn’t found anyone else down there apart from the butchered remains of another woman with her blood everywhere. They insisted she sleep some more rather than press herself minutes after waking up, but she insisted on bringing an armed batch of guards into the tomb when she was rested.
Sansa regretted this decision, as her sleep was plagued by ominous dreaming. She saw thousands of statues of her ancestral family crumble and collapse to the sound of the mournful howls of wolves. There was darkness until she saw two flickering blue flames, burning brighter until they lit up the scene. It showed the figure Myranda staring at her through grim, ice blue eyes until she awoke with a gasp. She quickly gathered her men, but when they reached the passageway, it wouldn’t budge. It was as if the secret door had been turned back into a random part of the castle walls.
Unknown to them, a few miles from Winterfell, a pale girl crawled from the earth, her flaming blue eyes rising behind her probing hands.
Sansa wasn’t exactly pleased with this outcome, but it would do. Petyr and his forces had done just as they’d planned and the keep was now her own. While she would always show respect and deference to him, she was now the Wardeness of the North and essentially his political equal. Petyr offered to stay in the North for the time being and Sansa graciously accepted. She still had much to learn and much more to do to solidify her rule. For the time being, things appeared to have settled down.
It stayed that way for about a year. Sansa was fully recovered apart from the scar between her legs, but there weren’t many who would notice. She was requested (never ordered) to come visit Petyr’s office, and she was quick to arrive. He had his usual orderly pile of work in front of him, but he set it aside with a smile when he saw Sansa enter the room. “Prompt and punctual, as always,” he praised.
Sansa returned his smile and seeing that the doors were closed, she asked “So what news do you have for me?”
Her mentor gestured at some parchment, the pile nearest to him. “”Quite a deal of it, really. King’s Landing finally lived up to its name. Our beloved King Tommen flung himself out of a window and landed in the moat. A pity no one was there to stop the young king when he heard of her mother’s death.
Sansa returned his smile and seeing that the doors were closed, she asked “So what news do you have for me?”
Her mentor gestured at some parchment, the pile nearest to him. “”Quite a deal of it, really. King’s Landing finally lived up to its name. Our beloved King Tommen flung himself out of a window and landed in the moat. A pity no one was there to stop the young king when he heard of her mother’s death."
"And nobody stopped him?" Sansa pried in a detached tone, studying the window curtains as if they proved more interesting than the conversation.
"I'm afraid his servants left him alone in his room." Petyr breathed a short scoff of amusement. "Must have been their breaks. I have contact with a good number of them, and I must tell you they are just dreadful at keeping a good schedule."
Sansa let a small smirk cross her lips. "Has anyone found the body?"
"In Riverland. Or so they say. I had been investigating her squabble when there came reports of her corpse being found abandoned by some scheming maniac or another. Her face was slashed to bits, but they say the hair was sign enough. More gold on her head than in her coffers, they say."
"Sounds like a lot of effort just to murder a royal," Sansa observed casually.
"Oh, murder is easy, child. The hard part is in the body. You'd be shocked at how difficult it would be finding someone with hair to match that radiant color. Once you'd have that, it's easy enough for a man to mutilate a face beyond recognition. Without the eyes, lips, nose, a face is just a face." He spoke with a tone of playful mock-frustration as if a royal corpse was like finding a stain on his shirt.
"So with Tommen and Cersei missing, there's quite the political sinkhole drawing people into action. The Lannisters rally behind Princess Myrcella (likely Doran's doing, that meddler)." Hearing Petyr accuse someone of meddling got a snicker out of Sansa. "They march on King's Landing as we speak while Prince Doran prepares for war in Dorne. Royals out for royal blood: business as usual, as you surely know by now."
Sansa nodded, folding her hands patiently. "And have you hear the rumors? The talk of monsters?"
"I read more than I hear, but of course I have. More information passes through me than food these days. Reports of dragons to the east, and krakens out west. The south sends word of mermans in their seas, and the north even says White Walkers threaten their walls. Thankfully, the Night Watch is full of tough enough bastards to beat back the dead themselves. They say your reinforcements are greatly appreciated, and that your brother is leading them very effectively."
Petyr stopped to tap a finger on a very small pile of paperwork; only two or three thick at most. "Perhaps most peculiar, a dragon prince from Volantis has set sail for the mainlands with nearly everyone failing to notice." Sansa glanced at the papers then back to him, getting Petyr to flash a guilty smile.
"I suppose that you're not 'hardly everyone,' then."
"Perish the thought!" he chuckled. "People can be so predictable. It's boring enough watching them work, let alone being one." Petyr smirked at his protege and leaned back in his seat. He shook his head in a bemused sort of way at what other people would read as signs of the end of the world. “Dragons, prince, and Queens, I may have found you a prince straight from the fairy tales. If that sort of things still interests you of course.”
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