Not today

The Wall had fallen. The army of the dead and the Nights King were marching on Winterfell. Jon and Daenerys along with her dragons had left from Kings' Landing many days ago but the gods only knew if they'd landed in White Harbor yet. Even if they had, White Harbor might not even be aware the Wall was down or it could be under siege at this very moment. In any case, Sansa and Arya were left to fend for themselves as they watched the horde of undead, the White Walkers minions, shamble ever closer. They were the last Starks in Winterfell.

Her castellan had just updated Sansa on the preparations to Winterfell's defenses. Hastily repaired and fortified but not nearly enough. Not after being sacked and burned and neglected by the Bolton's. Even with solid defenses, they had too few men, too few supplies, and too little warning. The Wall had always been the most realistic point of defense in the entire North. Their entire strategies were predicated on it holding. Once breached, there was not strategic place to stymie the tide until the Neck. The whole of the North would be lost. They called Robb the King-Who-Lost-The-North. But history would remember Sansa as the Queen-Who-Truly-Lost-The-North provided anyone survived what could very well be the last war ever fought.

"What else would you have us do, m'lady?" her castellan asked.

"There is nothing more we can do," sighed Sansa. "Tell the men… maybe now would be a good time for them to start praying."

Her sister stepped up beside to view the army marching their way. She was grim faced, covered in dirt and grime but the silver direwolf gleamed bright and defiant on her chest. Her windswept hair fluttered behind her and her breathing was ragged having rushed to the ramparts straight from sparing practice at the sound of the horns. Three blast for White Walkers, the ages old warning of the Nights Watch.

"There is only one god, Sansa," said Arya as she gripped the pummel of her sword. "And his name is Death. And there is only one thing we say to Death…" Arya drew her sword and smirked at her sister "Not today!"

Sansa stared down at her younger sister in astonishment. There was no fear in her little sister's eyes; just calm acceptance and cold determination. Sansa knew that for the rest of her life whether that be measured in minutes, hours, or years she would never forget this moment. Sansa might be the Stark in Winterfell, but Arya was the shield that would guard the realms of men.

Sansa smiled down at her sister before reaching over and drawing a sword of her own from her startled castellan's sheath. If this was to be their end, then they would make such end as to be worthy of being remembered. And who could say. Winter fell here once; perhaps it would fall here again.

"Aye," said Sansa, staring out across the fields as the enemy marched ever closer. "Not today!"