Chapter Text
The world is ending, and yet all remains calm in the Godswood. Snow falls delicately, covering the leaves of the heart tree. It is a beautiful sight, and Sansa wonders if it is the last time she will ever see it. She has just spoken to Bran, and he has told her the truth.
All is lost. Our forces are dying, and the wights multiply at such a rate that we cannot stop them. We have no hope…no hope but you, Sansa. I’ve seen it. You’re our last chance.
She collapses on the ground of the godswood, and starts sobbing. Arya had left for battle a few days earlier, adamant she had to help when the news of Daenerys’ death had reached them. The dragon queen had been grief-stricken after coming face-to-face with her dragon, now reanimated as the enemy. Once the black dragon had fallen too, all had been lost. Bran hadn’t mentioned Arya, and Sansa suspects that means the worst. Her heart aches at the thought of her little sister fighting dead men. Please let her be alive.
Thinking of Arya makes Sansa mind turn to Jon. The last time she had seen him, he had been wearing a Targaryen sigil on his armour, but underneath the Stark one she had made for him. If he survived, he would be the only claimant to the Iron Throne. Sansa would do anything to see him once again.
The worst of it is that she is helpless here, back in Winterfell, while miles away the battle rages and dies. Bran had said she was their last hope, but surely that was a cruel joke, for Sansa could do nothing.
She heard footsteps behind her. She turns around and sees Maester Wolkan standing there. Immediately, she surges towards him.
“What is it?” she demands. “Is there more news?”
“My lady,” he says, not meeting her eyes. “Lord Brandon has just instructed me to tell you…Lord Jon is dead.”
The air is taken from Sansa’s lungs.
No, no, no.
We are truly lost.
Jon…
The man is still speaking, even as Sansa’s world comes down around her. Her parents, Robb, Rickon, and now Jon and everyone in the North, have all been lost.
“My lady, you have a visitor.”
And behind the man steps forwards a woman in red robes dusted with snow. A blood-red pendant glows around her neck.
“Lady Melisandre,” Sansa gasps, and hope replaces grief. “You’re here.”
“I’m sorry I did not arrive sooner,” the woman says softly.
Sansa does not know her well, but she knows that she was the one who raised Jon before. “You must bring Jon back to life.” Sansa clings onto her robes in desperation. “He’s our last hope, he rides Rhaegal, the third dragon. You have to!”
“I can’t,” Melisandre says firmly, and Sansa wants to grab her by the hair and convince her otherwise, but the Red Woman continues to speak. “I will never get there in time.”
“You have to do something!” Sansa screams, her voice echoing around the Godswood.
“I will.” Melisandre looks her dead in the eye, and Sansa shivers. “You are our last hope.”
That is what Bran said.
“What can I do?” she asks desperately.
“There is a spell I read of in Asshai…a spell to be used on the eve of the world’s end. A spell that will give you one more chance to fix everything.”
“How?” Sansa demands.
Melisandre opens her mouth slowly. “The Lord of Light can send you back in time.”
“I’m not sure it will work,” Melisandre warns one more time.
Sansa is lying down in the godswood, next to the fire Melisandre has already built. “It’s our best chance.”
“Remember, I’m not sure what time you will be sent back to. But wherever it is, you shall have one week to change things. After that, you will get one week every year, until either you reach the present day again, or the Army of the Dead are defeated.” Sansa memorises what Melisandre says, knowing how important it will be.
One week each year. That’s all I have. Sansa’s gut feeling is that it won’t be long enough, but this is their only option.
Melisandre pauses. “I must warn you, if the spell doesn’t work…you will die.”
Sansa might have laughed. “I’m going to die either way, My Lady. But at least this way, I might save humanity.”
“You might,” Melisandre agrees softly, and her pendant glows brighter. “You might just save us all, Sansa Stark.”
And then Melisandre starts chanting in a tongue she does not understand.
The snow falls thicker and faster now, so thick it is almost a blizzard. Sansa can hardly hear Melisandre, but she can feel the ground shaking, and she can feel the relentless snowdrops on her face.
At first Sansa thinks this spell might just succeed, but then the fire starts to sputter out. The rumbling of the ground recedes.
It’s not working, Sansa thinks desperately. And for the first time in many moons, Sansa closes her eyes and prays. She prays to the faceless, nameless gods of her father, and to the seven gods of her mother, to the old gods and the new. She would even pray to the Drowned God if she knew how.
Please. Give me one more chance to save everyone…to save my family.
Sansa feels a spark rush through her. She can’t see Melisandre anymore through the thick snowfall, but she can hear whispers of her chanting an ancient spell. The ground moves faster, and snow is surrounding Sansa but she can hardly feel the cold. Energy pulses through her, and Sansa’s vision folds in on itself. She can only see white light, and gradually the rattle of the ground transitions into a ringing sound in her ears.
Suddenly, the world turns black, and for a moment Sansa wonders if she is dying. But her eyes slowly open, and the deafening ringing is replaced by pure, blissful silence.
She is no longer lying on the cold ground, but on a soft bed, blankets covering her. She sits up straight, and she immediately recognises her old chambers in Winterfell, and the sleeping direwolf at the foot of her bed that she has not seen in many years.
It worked, Sansa thinks, a smile spreading across her face. I’m back. I’m truly home.