Fire

"The most powerful weapon on earth is the human soul on fire," Ferdinand Foch

Sansa Stark understood, with dreadful certainty, from the battle camp overseeing the remains of the Wall, that all was loss.

It ended with the death-song of a creature of legend, and it ended with yet another death of someone precious to her. Jon and his dragon fall in a suicidal rush- a blaze of fire meeting ice- his attempt to try to end it in one last action.

High Queen Daenerys had fallen just moments before, her great dragon roaring in a thunderous lament as a great lance of ice, wielded by the Night King pierced through both rider and dragon. It had been a horrific sight, watching as the ice spread through the small figure barely visible from such a distance. The Night King had aimed for the rider first, then through the Drogon himself. It had penetrated through both scales and flesh with sickening ease. Dark blood had rained upon the battlefield bellow, steaming, bubbling across wrights and humans alike. Even at such a distance, Sansa could see as the vivid black crawled up the enormous lance, as Drogon enormous body was further impaled with ice, as if the spear was a channel, spreading ice from within. The splendent, quiet Queen Sansa had come to know had fallen like a stone with her largest dragon- not beautiful nor graceful as the small young woman always appeared, but ugly, a wretched thing that crashed amongst the hard ice and snow with a deadly crunch heard as far as the camp.

And she had watched as her first husband, had screamed in grief, before dashing forward in with the rest of their remaining armies at his back, his brother, haggard and golden, at his side, with Brienne, fierce, at his side. She had watched them go, numb, fear, eyes straining to look for her brother against the dark sky. It was difficult, to spot him in the dark, but she found him. And the white, stolen child from the Mother of Dragons had roared in triumph, spewing icy death. And Jon, oh Jon, had decided to give one last effort, one last rush of fire and blood his blood, to try and give them all a chance. Ghost had howled and followed at the heels of the armies, leaving her side for the first time in moons as Jon fell as horrifically simple as his Aunt before him.

Winter has come. And we were fools to not be ready. Our words are from not.

Sansa turned, hands shaking, almost ridiculously calm as Arya screamed in disbelieving grief. She rushed towards her tent, away from the doomed battle, away from the death of the last hope of humanity. People are screaming, rushing, fleeing, in the chaos of the craze certainty of what is the doom of the World, and Sansa found she cannot find it in herself to do much but turn her back.

She had already organized escape to old, the young and the unwilling to flee to White Harbor, to Essos, away from Westeros. She had done what she could have done for her people, and now she must do one more thing for the sake of any people that were left. The armies of humanity were to be destroyed in the wake of eight thousand years worth of the Dead, and it was her choice now to make sure the majority of the armies are not added to the Army of Ice. She reached her tent, kneeled by the heavy wooden chest that she had found in Castle Black, and brought out the small container of Wildfire she had hidden.

"Just in case," she had sworn to Tyrion, Ser Davos, Queen Daenerys and Jon(King, her king), "Just in case the Dragons fall, then we will fall with them in a blaze that will give time to those South,"

Jon as her brother(cousin) had hated the plan, had hated it. But as King, he had understood and simply gripped her arm in understanding and praise.

Sansa stared at the container in her hands, it's innocent a mockery, the green murky liquid shimmering faintly in the torchlight. Her hands begin to tremble when rough, calloused hands touch her's. She looked up, to Arya, her wild, beautiful sister, who had grown into her long face, her large ears, and stern, long nose. She had become a well-muscled if a lithe creature that was deadly and frightening. Invisible and lost, allowed to run wild with no pack to tether her home. Her not quite curls were sheared and close to her face, her grey eyes hooded with death and coolness gained from becoming a living, breathing weapon.

Sansa licked her lips at her stern face and the fact that she holds a torch in her other hand.

"Together?" her sister whispered and her voice is thick, rough with emotion and grief she does not bother to censor.

Sansa sucked in a shaking breath.

"Flee. Take the rest of the people and run them as far South as you can, this is my plan, my burden. I will wait until you are clear," she whispered back because she just cannot lose anyone, and if her sister can live, if just a little longer, Sansa will be happy, "Run, Arya."

Her sister gave her a flat smile, her large gray eyes glittering with emotion.

"I'm done running, Sansa. The lone wolf dies. The pack stays together."

Unbidden, laughter escaped her throat, flat, ugly and hateful.

"I wish… I wish we had understood that all those years ago."

Because she hadn't. She had been a Summer child through and through, a pretty little bird chirping innocently when she should have been a wolf, a sweet singing dove who wished for knights and songs. She should have had sharp teeth and claws ready, should have had the thought of family, duty, and honor, instead of dreams of golden, green-eyed babes and a gallant golden King. Her impossible, sweet dream that to this day haunted her with how much she had wanted it, how much she had kept that dream in her heart, and how much it had cost to have only the wish of the dream.

"Together?" her sister, whispered, again.

Sansa can only nod because she can see now that Arya is much like her. Too tired to continue. Doubtful of any sort of survival should they attempt to leave now. Sansa feels her sister relax, slightly, and Sansa can only stand and hold her sister's hand. They stand together and go to the first Wildfire catches they had set about the camp. They grip their hands, clutched, tight, both trembling in the face of what is to come. She wondered if her biggest testaments of will are always done clasping onto the hand of someone else, and she knows this time, she will not live as she did when she and Theon had lept from the battlements at Winterfell.

"I love you," said Arya, quietly, hardly audible over the din of the scattering camp, "All I ever wanted was for you to love me back despite how different we were."

Sansa does not stop the tears then, at the whispered words of her little sister. Because there is no one left to be strong for, no one left to hide from.

"I love you too, Arya, I always did, I was just insanely jealous of everything you were, are. Beautiful, fierce and wild. A true Northern woman. Everything I couldn't be."

"Together?"

Sansa nods, transferring the small catch of wildfire to their hands. They grip it so delicately, so carefully. Arya holds her torch high, ready to throw it in tandem with the wildfire jar.

"Together."

They smash the jar onto the hidden cache on the ground, and with perfect grace, Arya throws the torch after it. They watch as the wild green flames, a beautiful combination of emerald and jade dancing together. It was frightfully rapid to consume everything. They fall together as they rarely did as children, arms tight and pressing them as close as they physically can. As they cling to each other, releasing the last of their hope of surviving this endless Winter, Arya and Sansa begin to cry.

"What do we say to the God of Death?" whispered Arya, soft, a small bit of the one and ten girl she had been before all of this had started, "Today."

"I will not die in Ice, My King, My Queen. If the race of Men shall die because of the Others, it shall be in a blaze of Fire of our own making," she spat, because no longer would she allow any thing or one to determine her fate.

Jon, sweet Jon, looked at her with furrowed brows and narrowed grey eyes. Sometimes it just hurt so much to see how much he looked like her Father. And sometimes it hurt, even more, to confess to herself that she knew not whether or not she had forgotten the difference between her brother(cousin)'s face and her father's. If time had taken the exact shape of his nose, the shade of his eyes from her, as it had taken everything else.

"Sansa-" said her first husband, reaching forward with small hands. To comfort, or to reprime, she does not know.

She can only smile at him, faintly, wondering at his kindness, his determination for good despite the entire world being ready to mold him, and everything into greed and hate. Something in her expression is enough to stop him from touching her. And she is grateful he does not attempt it.

"I know we cannot spare much of the Wildfire. But it may come to this, and I will not leave the rest of our people to become an added legion to the White Walkers."

"I am in favor of it," said the High Queen, sadness in her violet eyes. She is staring at Sansa with intensity, her eyes glistening with maybe tears,"We cannot rule out the thought that we will be overwhelmed. Fire is preferable to Ice, Aegon."

Part of Sansa always flinched at the way Daenerys referred to Jon. It is not the name Jon used, and it was not what her father had called him. For Sansa it always seemed like a desperate attempt at a connection with her nephew on Dany's part. One that felt unneeded considering how much Jon returned her esteem.

Jon, oh Jon, sighed. A deep, terrible noise that is full of weight.

"So be it."

The fire reached her and Arya, and she cannot even bring herself to scream, and neither can Arya. They have died a thousand, small deaths in the too-short decade of the last of their lives. And Wildfire burned so hotly that all of their nerve ends blaze away before they can even form agony. It is all green, green, green, wretchedly close to the color of Lannister's eyes and she can hardly stand it.

So, Sansa Stark closed her eyes for the last time in blazing fire of her own making.

EDIT: 19 January 2020