A/N: I'm not going to lie, this semester has been kicking my ass. Here it is, all these months later, as an early nondenominational holiday present to you all, the final chapter.

9 - Death & the Starks

Ropes dug into Sansa's wrists and ankles as the northern princess was carried through the snow in the impossibly sized arms of Melisandre's largest minion.

"I told her you weren't safe," the gruff whisper barely escaped his thick beard. He shook his head. "You should have ran, gone further, found…adequate protection."

Or less distracted, anyway. The soldier seemed genuinely worried for her, but overall, he just seemed tired. It was clear that, just like her, he had been away from home a long while. Sansa wondered who this man was, perhaps an old guard at Winterfell, a friend of her father's, or someone who had known her as a child. "Who are you?"

His eyes darted down to hers for a moment, just long enough to acknowledge the question, but not long enough to betray any information. "A man never reveals his secrets." He stopped in his tracks. Sansa looked around and saw that they had finally arrived, after walking for the better part of an hour, at a pyre, built at least 15 feet tall. Excessive for all purposes but ceremonial. The sight of the looming, splintering wood plastered against a bleak snowy white was enough to send Sansa into a cold sweat. Panic set in and she struggled against her restraints, but the knots held fast and she began to bleed from the chafing.

The raiding party began to meld with the group around the pyre and Melisandre emerged, holding one of the several torches that lit the dismal scene. The crowd quieted and in the hush all that could be heard was the ominous crackling of fire that added no warmth to the situation. "Hommel," Melisandre said, intent set on the man holding Sansa's body. "Carry her to the pyre."

But the man didn't carry her to the pyre. Instead, he put Sansa down on the ground and approached Melisandre. "I will take her no further."

"Your men need to eat, Hommel." Melisandre stated simply and unflinchingly towards the man three times her size.

"My name," the man said, "is Arya Stark." He drew his sword and pressed the side of the blade against Melisandre's neck, then moved as if to pull off a mask and suddenly his face transformed from that of a gristled, middle-aged man to that of a gristled teenaged girl—a face that unmistakably belonged to Arya Stark.

Sansa's dread immediately turned to joy as she recognized her long-lost little sister, alive and at someone's neck. After all this time apart, it seemed nothing had changed.

Melisandre was frozen against Arya's blade, still appearing as calm and regal as ever. Arya leaned in and whispered something into the red woman's ear. Melisandre responded to her whisper, "Gone to see the Lord of Light."

With this response, she tensed and then slit Melisandre's throat, watching as her mouth gaped open in hopeless pursuit of air. And in one clean, calculated sequence, Arya pushed her crumbling body into the pyre set up behind her, grabbed a torch from the hands of one of Melisandre's dazed soldiers, and set the pyre ablaze.

Arya then turned around to face the rest of Melisandre's men and, gesturing to the burning pyre, asked if any of them would like to join their leader in meeting the Lord of Light. The soldiers all promptly fled.

Her little sister, illuminated by the glow of the burning witch, was a sight, swallowed up in her worn soldier's armor, face glistening with sweat as her shorn-short hair blew gaily in the winter chill. She wasn't quite a knight in shining armor, but she was close.

Arya walked over to her sister and, after cutting the rope binding Sansa's hands, was immediately smothered by a flash of red hair. Sansa pulled Arya to her chest and held the warm little body she remembered from what felt like so long ago. Tears streamed down Sansa's face as she repeated her sister's name over and over again through shaky sobs. In spite of herself, Arya hugged her sister back, reassuring her, "It's okay. I'm home."

-.-.-

"And there he was, one of the most feared men in all of Westeros, begging me to kill him." Arya couldn't remember the last time she had worn such clean clothing. It felt so miraculous against her also-clean skin that it didn't even matter that it was her sister's gown. She did allow herself to feel slightly shafted that she had to share her horse with Sansa, though it did make it easier to regale her with the stories of her travels and see her horrified reactions up close. "I owed the man absolutely nothing, though, so I left him to die on the rocks."

Sansa patted her sister's hair and found a stray clump of mud. The monks had been so kind to offer their bathing facilities to them this morning, but it would take dozens of baths to remove the grime Arya had accrued over the years. She would be sure to let Podrick know. "Arya, that is horrifying."

"You have no appreciation for quality revenge."

"I have more appreciation than you know, little sister," Sansa said, picking more mud out of Arya's tangled hair. Before she had time to go into detail, though, they realized they were approaching Winterfell and their excitement overcame them.

There was quiet as the gates fell and the the strange little party rode into vision with one fewer horse and one more person than they had left with. Even with all the years of wear and tear and growth (and grime and dirt), Jon immediately recognized Sansa's passenger and tears of shock and joy welled in his eyes. The king, forgetting all sense of station, ran over and pulled his little sister off her horse and into a hug.

"I thought you were dead," he said, laughing and wiping his tears off on her grimy little head.

"Death really doesn't suit me."

Jon's smile grew. "Me either."

The rest of the riding crew disembarked as well and joined them in their reverie. Sansa embraced her brother in greeting, then pulled back to let the two kindred spirits catch up. They were somehow already in the middle of a war story. "And so there I was, trapped at Harrenhal with no means of escape except the loyalty of an expert assassin I had freed—"

Podrick came over and held Sansa's hand and they all walked into the castle together. And in that moment, they were all together, broken and imperfect and impossibly happy.