CHATBOT: The sun was setting behind the grey towers of Winterfell, casting long shadows over the crypts, ancient and crumbling like the giants who had built them. Overhead, the heavy clouds carried the chill of an early autumn. Within the castle, the highborn and lowborn of the North had gathered to pay their last respects to Sansa Stark, First of Her Name, Queen in the North, and commander of the forces that had vanquished the darkest of evils to lurk within her realm. Since the Long Night, the North had seen a shift towards cremation in funerals, as tales of the dead rising from their graves sent a shudder down the spine of any living man or woman. Yet, the crypts of Winterfell had to be the place where the Starks of old would lie and whisper their wisdom to the bones of those who were still to come. In those crypts laid Brandon Stark, Bran the Broken; the end of the myths that the North had whispered in the caves and shivered in the boughs. He too had been laid to rest among the Starks, leaving Winterfell to his sister and her growing legacy. The funeral procession had been long and solemn, the lords and ladies bowing their heads to honor this Queen, who had brought their land from the ashes of war and darkness. Yet, there was one unexpected visitor, a lady of the South who had come to offer her respects to the woman who had sat beside her during those nights in King's Landing, when the shadows crept in and stole their sleep. Myrcella Baratheon, the Lady of Casterly Rock, had traveled further than most, despite her weakened health, and accompanied by her trueborn daughter, Joanna Lannister, to say goodbye to the lioness who had roared in defiance of the shadows that ended her kin. "Ugh, before we knew it, we came too late," Myrcella remarked to her daughter, sadness lacing her words. "The North is vast, and we did our best to arrive as swiftly as possible," Joanna replied, offering her mother a comforting smile. The golden-haired Myrcella wore the weight of her years upon her face, her auburn curls having lost their luster. Yet, she stood tall at the foot of Sansa Stark's final resting place, her eyes filled with the tears that had her rival her father, Jaime Lannister in his refusal to shed tears. Sansa's body had been laid upon a stone bier, once used to hold the tomb of her ancestral kin. The flames, though cold, glowed with the first flickers of the eternal twilight, as the flames caught her red hair and cast a warm halo around her. "And so passes the last o...