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Chapter Text

Her breath misted in front of her in a plume of frost.

Crouching in the ankle-deep snow, concealed by bracken and distance, Arya Stark kept her eyes fixed firmly on the six trudging figures. They moved slowly, ambling along the edge of the forest without a purpose. No clouds of frozen breath came from their noses. They did not feel the snow and harsh winter air. Their skin hung from their bones like their clothes hung from their limbs.

A mercy, to end them. A gift for the Many-Faced God.

These poor bastards’ names had been stolen from Him, but one of His servants still drew blood in the North, and would return what was His. Arya crept stealthily forward, powdery snow shifting around her thick, fur-lined boots.

She had followed them for an hour now, making sure they were alone, making sure that the Walkers were ignoring this group. The whole North was overrun with abandoned wights like these, left listless and stumbling, or leaning against walls with blank, empty faces and blue, blue eyes. They would grunt and shuffle like this forever…unless they spotted a living person. That would make them mad, fast.

Arya clenched her bow as she drew closer to them, almost until she could catch their rotting scent. She had flint in the deep pockets of her fur parka, and a dragonglass arrow in her quiver. Needle pressed against her right leg, and her Valyrian dagger was close to hand on her other hip. The excitement of the hunt filled her blood with adrenaline, but she remained calm.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Ready.

The horrors of the last year always crossed her mind before a fight, before a kill. She wanted to rip apart these creatures which had once been simple smallfolk of the North. Maybe they had been servants at Hornwood. Maybe that man had been a father. Maybe that woman had been a sister. No longer. Now they were meat and hate, and Arya wanted to destroy them.

Reaching into her quiver, she drew the dragonglass arrow, and silently pulled back the string of her bow.

If she aimed well, the arrow would take one out instantly. She could light a second arrow on fire and get another before they got close. They had not noticed her. Still, they trudged on, unaware of the second death behind them.

A stick cracked behind her.

Arya spun around with her bow, ready to release the arrow at another wight, but quickly stopped herself.

A little girl stood several paces behind her, her foot poised guiltily over the broken stick. She met Arya’s shocked eyes and opened her mouth to speak. The Stark girl leapt up and tackled the child to the ground, clamping a hand quickly over her mouth.

“Sssh!” she hissed.

Up on the rise, the wights had stopped trudging forward. They grumbled their senseless noises, and turned their heads downwards to the undergrowth, which was still shaking from sudden movement.

“You idiot, Brass!” Arya whispered angrily at the girl, pushing her behind a tree with large twisting roots and shining icicles hanging from low branches. “You know you’re not meant to leave the Cavern.”

“I wanted to help you,” Brass whispered back, bright-eyed and excited. Arya shoved her down and glanced up the hill.

FUCK.

The wights were starting to come down, stumbling in the snow. She had to move, or they would reach Brass, who was just seven years old and completely defenceless.

“Do not move,” she snapped at the child, and burst from the bushes with her bow at hand.

The wights changed from complacent and shuffling to angry and flailing in a moment. But Arya was faster than them. She released the dragonglass arrow, which plunged into the eye of the nearest creature, and she took off running up the hill away from the place Brass was hiding. The first wight tumbled down, inactive. The rest followed Arya.

Desperation and danger gave her speed, and she reached the top of the hill in time to turn and light a second arrow on fire. The flaming one she fired at a female with a missing eye, and it impaled her chest, lighting her rags on fire. The wight let out a shriek and fell, thrashing in the snow. The others ran around the burning one without a glance.

Arya dropped her bow and drew Needle and her Valyrian dagger.

Come on, you bastards. End it.

They took Jon from her. They took Winterfell. They took everything that mattered, everything that meant something, and turned it all to dust. There was no revenge that would satisfy her now, no comfort in the coldest night to ease the gaping wound in her heart.

Arya kicked the next one which came within reach, feeling something shatter in its blue-eyed face. She sidestepped its clumsy swing of an axe. Her knife came up. Valyrian steel stabbed into the soft flesh under its jaw. Blood spurted from its mouth as she drew back the blade, shining crimson. Needle plunged into its guts before she dodged backwards from the reaching hands and swinging weapons of the remaining three. One of them, another female, had no weapon. The other two males held swords, and were dressed in Northern armour.

Slashing and stabbing at them, Arya fought. Her movements were well-timed and fast, far faster than they were, but she was outnumbered. They surrounded her, the three of them, taking turns to lunge and retreat. There was no pleasure in their faces, just reckless rage and thirst for her death. As she thirsted for theirs.

“Come on!” she yelled, waiting for them to lunge.

And they did. Wights were always easily provoked.

Arya dropped and slid under the biggest one’s legs, pointing Needle upwards and ramming the tip of the skinny blade up between its legs. Soldiers never had armour there. Needle pierced flesh and bowels, and she was forced to let the hilt go as the wight screamed. With snow in her hair and blood splattered across her face, Arya came up behind it and stabbed her dagger into the gap between armour and neck. But now the other one with a sword with swinging for her head.

With a split second to spare, she retracted the dagger and lurched backwards to avoid decapitation.

Pain exploded in her shoulder.

She swore and stumbled in the snow, the pain causing her to drop her dagger. The other wight seized hold of her sleeve, dragging her down, and bit like a rabid animal at her furs. Arya saw the flash of the sword raised again above her, and tasted blood in her mouth.

This was it, she thought.

This was the end. So be it.

She tensed to take the blow.

Or not.

From the top of the hill, there was a guttural cry. Arya and the wights turned to see a young man with a raised war hammer running at breakneck pace towards them.

Taking advantage of their distraction, Arya spun on the packed snow, and wrapped her legs around the head of the one trying to bite her. Gendry’s war cry grew even louder as he crushed the head of the other one like a large egg. Arya felt the last wight’s neck snap between her legs before she brought her dagger down into its eyes a few times and it ceased to struggle.

For a moment she sat there, on top of it. She let her racing pulse settle, and spat out the gore in her mouth. Gendry had mashed his victim to pulp, and kicked away its twitching remains. Moving limbs remained around them, getting nowhere fast.

“I had this, Gendry!” Arya shouted angrily, her blood still boiling.

He looked at her, relieved, arrogant. “Thank you would be nice,” he replied.

Arya got unsteadily to her feet and stumbled towards the wight she had impaled with Needle. “For what?” she asked him. “Stealing my kill?”

The sword slid out of the corpse, slick with gore. She noticed a curly brown head appearing over the hill, and Brass came into view, tiptoeing around the corpses with innocent brown eyes. Gendry motioned for the child to come closer, and she scurried towards the two fighters. Arya knelt and tried to clean Needle with the snow. Her gloves were dyed red. Gendry walked over and lowered his fur hood. His beard was getting longer, she noted, and there were shadows under his eyes. He had been on patrol the night before.

“That looks sore,” he said, concerned, and reached for the tear in her shoulder. The edges of clothing and skin were ragged, and Arya, irritated that he even saw her injury, moved away.

“Why are you following me?” she snapped.

“Thought you could use some help,” he told her. “With…whatever it is you’re doing. What were you doing?” Gendry frowned at the carnage around them as Arya started frisking a corpse for anything of value.

“What does it look like?” the Stark girl muttered. “Killing dead people.”

Brass came over and tapped a twitching hand with her furry boot. “Killing dead people,” she echoed, in awe of the fierce wolf princess who was her heroine.

“You shouldn’t be here, either, little girl,” Arya looked at the child. “You’re way too young for this shit.”

Brass grinned and kicked even harder. Seven years old, Arya thought, and already immune to seeing and smelling the stink of death. At the same age as this stupid, brave little girl, she had been playing with her brothers in Winterfell, oblivious to the horrors of the world.

Gendry helped her search the wights for valuables. One of them had silver in its pocket. The White Walkers cared nothing for the currency of the people they slaughtered, and never removed coins from the pockets of their dead soldiers. They did not see the people they slaughtered as people. What did money mean to them? Arya and Gendry stripped the bodies. The armour the wights were wearing, and the peasant rags, could be used by the others in the cavern. Their swords were crooked and hastily made, but metal was useful. String, netting, clasps, belts, belt buckles – everything could be put to some use in the Cavern.

“Others might have heard them scream,” Gendry pointed out, scanning the white horizon. His wide blue eyes reflected the pale clouds above. Brass played with a hair pin, spearing a snowball with it.

Arya shook her head. “I scouted out the area first. Didn’t see any more. Just normal-eyed corpses down by the river with the crows picking away quite happily.”

Gendry was satisfied with that. “Well,” he shrugged, “if there’re still normal corpses lying around, that means still no Walkers about, right?”

“For now.” She was grim, aggressively tying together the legs of a pair of britches to hold the supplies together.

“Yeah.” Gendry met her gaze. “…Are you really mad at me, Arya?” he asked, and she said nothing. “Come on,” he continued, laughing. “What did you want me to do? Stand back and cheer you on?”

Arya got to her feet and hoisted the supplies onto her back.

“Let’s get Brass back to the cavern and stop talking about this,” she said sullenly, avoiding his somewhat offended gaze.

Thankfully, he decided to let the argument go.

Arya was not truly angry at Gendry, obviously not. He was her friend, first and foremost. They had saved each other’s lives more times than she could count, at this point. Mainly, though, it was embarrassing to have him “rescue” or “save” her, as he would undoubtedly claim he had, later. He was always doing things like this – swooping in with hammer swinging just to steal the final victory from her, then claiming that it his duty, his honour to protect her. It was infuriating. She was a better killer, a better fighter, than him. He had no right to claim to be her protector.

Regardless, they piled up the corpses, retrieved Arya’s dragonglass arrow, and set light to them as well as possible. Leaving the pile of flesh smoking and smouldering, they set off on the walk back to the Cavern. Gendry hoisted Brass, who was giggling immaturely, onto his back.

Arya looked back at the smoking stack, hoping any wights seeing the plume of grey extending into the sky would not ignore it. She wanted them all to come. She wanted to go down fighting, along with the rest of the world.

 https://www.dropbox.com/s/fi7cxscj0681ur9/birth2.jpg?dl=0

(link in case the image isn't working, I'm not tech-savvy enough for this)

Chapter Text

There was a faint pillar of grey rising above the trees. Brienne of Tarth hoped that the smoke meant one of the men on patrol had found a corpse and burnt it, or Arya or Gendry did the same. Too many times, she had seen people she once knew burning. Too many times had the smell of acrid, wrinkling flesh on a fire been because another life was lost to this winter.

The smoke had to be a good sign, she told herself. There was nothing she could effectively do now if it meant someone was in danger. She could not leave and risk the safety of the others counting on her to warn them of threats.

Brienne was on guard duty on top of the rock formation which marked the entrance of their Cavern. It was several miles from the castle of Hornwood, in forested lands many miles southeast of Winterfell, halfway to White Harbour from the destroyed home of the Starks. The rocks she stood upon were ten feet higher than the forest floor, giving her a fairly clear view through the tops of the trees across the pure white landscape, all the way to the Broken Branch River. Birds chattered in the foliage, voices carried up from within the concealed Cavern, and the cold winds had died down for the time being. She could have been forgiven for being lulled by the peaceful atmosphere, except that the fear never really went away these days.

Any moment, danger could emerge.

Any moment, they could be discovered by the Walkers.

There was a rasping sound behind her, and she turned her head to see Jaime Lannister shifting aside the sticks and ice which covered the entrance to the Cavern. Her smile came naturally and irresistibly, just at the sight of him. His grey-gold hair fell over his brow and a dark brown fur cloak brought out the intense green of his eyes. Purely being in his presence improved her mood immeasurably.

His mouth twisted with a wry grin, and he nodded to her as he approached. “Lady Brienne,” he greeted her.

“Ser Jaime.”

Brienne turned her head back towards the forest and the path up from the clearing below so he did not see the blush creeping up her neck. He walked casually up behind her, and she felt a rush of affection as he wrapped his arms around her waist from behind and rested his head on her armoured shoulder. She moved her left hand from the hilt of Oathkeeper to encircle his handless wrist now resting against her belt.

“I’m on guard duty, you know,” she reminded him.

“I know,” Jaime sighed, not moving.

“You shouldn’t distract me,” Brienne told him, but did not want him to move. Knowing that he loved her was impossible, yet here they were, together. She shivered as he pressed his lips to her neck.

“Distracting you is the most pleasurable thing for me to do at present,” he whispered.

By that, he meant that he was generally quite listless, and had nothing to do. Four months stuck here had been difficult for all of them, especially once the ravens stopped coming back with news. It seemed that they were alone in the world, on a stony island surrounded on all sides by death and snow.

“If you’re bored,” she said, leaning back against him. “I’m sure you could find something useful to do. I’m sure Lady Sansa would be happy to assign you a task.”

Jaime made a noise of irritation. His breath was warm against her jaw.

“Go up to that girl and ask her for directions, as if she’s my mother?” He snorted derisively, and moved away, looking out over the white forest. “Lady Sansa is not the goddess she seems to everyone else in this damned cave,” he muttered. After a moment, he held up his covered stump with a crooked smile. “Besides, a one-handed man can only be so useful.”

Brienne shook her head at him with a roll of her eyes. “Excuses,” she said. “There’s plenty you could do.”

“Such as?” Jaime kicked a stone off the rocks down the slope.

Brienne turned towards him and smirked. “You could hold the fabric while Meg and Daisy make spare clothes,” she suggested sarcastically. “You could turn the spit to cook the meat…”

Jaime pulled a face.

“Well, that would not be degrading at all,” he complained. “How does one command respect while turning a spit?”

She shrugged.

“You don’t exactly command anyone here. They all hate your family. Showing a bit of humility now and then …”

At once, Brienne recognised the faraway, pained expression which marred his beautiful face. Any mention of his family did that. Why was she always so stupidly, needlessly blunt with him? Not liking to see the pain in his eyes, she looked away. Idiot.

“Sorry,” she said, guiltily. “I didn’t…”

Jaime stepped forward and pressed the palm of his gloved hand to her cheek, drawing her gaze back to his. “Don’t be sorry,” he told her firmly. “Besides, you’re right. Maybe some humiliation would do me good.”

She could not tell if he was just hiding the pain, or if he genuinely was able to shrug off the grief he was still feeling. One of the last pieces of news they had received, before the birds stopped coming back, was that King’s Landing was under siege. Perhaps the Queen had managed to get out, but as far as Jaime was concerned, she was dead, and their infant child with her.

Brienne knew that she was the only source of comfort he had left, the only friend he trusted.

“Are you thinking of your brother?” she asked him seriously.

Jaime dropped his hand from her face and sighed.

“I know he’s alive,” he said sadly. “When…when she died…I knew it, I felt it…so Tyrion can’t be dead. I would have felt it.”

In her mind, she recalled the blue flames enveloping the walls of Winterfell, the screams of those still inside. The wights had poured in afterwards, like a storm, which they had been forced to watch from a distance as they ran. The armies broke, the people fled, the North emptied. People boarded boats to Essos so fast that some of them must have been overflowing.

“Jaime, the whole castle was…” she began.

“I know he got out,” Jaime cut her off, as usual becoming uncomfortable with his own strong emotions. “I don’t know how, but he must have. He’s small enough to have got out unnoticed. He’s the smartest person I ever knew.”

It was difficult to hear him scramble for reasons like this.

“I believe you,” she assured him, even though she did not know.

Jaime looked at her with strange surprise, as if it astounded him that she would agree. The wind, gentle for once, ruffled their hair. Brienne noticed a flake of snow land on his fringe, and moved to flick it away, but he grabbed her hand.

“We have to survive,” he insisted fiercely. “We are going to survive, you and I, Brienne. This…” He gestured between them with his stump. “This is worth living for. It’s worth everything that came before, everything we’ve gone through.”

“I know,” she nodded, feeling her eyes fill with tears. “I love you.”

“And I love you. Always.”

She tilted her head and brought their lips together. The cold and the fear retreated from her mind. They were powerful, they were untouchable, they belonged to each other. The taste and warm smoothness of his mouth made her knees weak, but at the same time, she felt strong. Jaime kissed her with desperation, almost fearfully, as if he was afraid to ever let her go.

It might have been a moment later, it might have been longer than that, but Brienne recalled through a haze of bliss that she was meant to be watching out for danger. Managing to prise her lips from Jaime’s, she turned her head and looked down the path, before instinctively reaching for Oathkeeper’s hilt.

There were several people emerging from the treeline. The short, dark-haired form of Arya Stark and the taller hooded shape of Gendry Waters approached side by side. He appeared to have a curly-haired child on his back. Brass! How did she get out? Brienne, despite the fact that everyone knew she and Ser Jaime were together, felt the need to step reluctantly away from him.

Arya and Gendry approached the perimeter beneath the rocks and found the markers which allowed them to avoid the traps. It seemed that he was talking loudly about something to do with armour and straps, while she was staring ahead with a sullen expression.

“She’s covered in blood,” Jaime frowned.

Brienne shielded her eyes from the sky and realised that, yes, Arya had bloodstains on her right sleeve and her face, as well as both gloves.

“She said she was going hunting,” she thought aloud, wondering if the younger Stark girl had meant hunting animals when she said that. Lady Sansa would not like it.

Once Arya had scaled the rocks to the point where she was within reach, Brienne offered her a hand up. The girl was pale and held one arm at an awkward angle. On closer inspection, Brienne realised she had been badly slashed at the shoulder.

“My lady, what happened?” she gasped.

Arya avoided her gaze and headed straight for the Cavern entrance. Strands of dark hair were pasted across her face, along with streaks of dried blood. “Six wights,” she explained shortly. “Brass followed me.”

Brienne turned to Gendry and the little girl he was lowering from his back.

“Brass, what has everyone told you about sneaking off?”

The child looked at her feet, but could not hide her innocently devilish smirk. It was all a game to her, the danger and the scolding. Meanwhile, Arya had already disappeared into the hidden entrance, ignoring the concern of any living person.

Gendry blew on his hands and gave both Brienne and Jaime a strained smile. “She’s fine, really,” he claimed unconvincingly. “Just a bit rattled.” After an awkward pause, he lurched towards the entrance after the Stark girl.

Running up to Brienne’s leg, Brass tugged the edge of her armour.

“Brie, Brie, Brie! Lift me, lift me!” she exclaimed.

Jaime, grinning at this enthusiastic display, patted the girl on her curly head. “Promise you won’t leave the Cavern again,” he told her, “and Lady Brienne will lift you.”

“Promise, promise! Lift me!”

Despite not believing a word, Brienne lifted Brass up onto her shoulders and spun a bit while the girl giggled in delight. It was a mystery to all how an orphan, whose parents were probably wandering around mindlessly with blue eyes now, found so much joy from their situation. Jaime picked up a stick and playfully lunged at Brass, who shrieked and laughed and flung out her hands to swat the weapon away.

Brienne met his eyes briefly and wondered if they would ever have a family of their own, a daughter like this spirited girl, or a home, or a peaceful life. Such things seemed very far away. Such things seemed impossible.

Chapter Text

Lady Sansa Stark had a wooden board and eight raven scrolls lying on her lap. The most recent had been sent four months ago. It was clear and useless and chilling.

“All are fleeing or have already fled. Suggest you do the same. May the Seven save you, for we cannot send reinforcements.”

She had read and re-read these words too often. Now she had to think of the present, and what to do next, while the others worked around her in the Cavern.

It had been the ideal find, at the time: a massive system of caves, reasonably well ventilated and spacious enough for their group, which at that time had been thirty. Now, there were twenty-three. Arranged in this, the largest space in the caves, were four flickering fires, around which her followers were sitting. Smoke rose up and gathered above them before finding its way outside. The space was about twenty steps long and twelve wide, made of glistening drab rock, uneven but less damp than the rest of the Cavern. Here, they gathered to make the things they needed to stay alive, sharpened weapons, discussed their supplies, reported on any changes in wight movements, and generally kept warm together. It was a home for the present, and it had kept them hidden…for now.

Sansa sat next to the largest fire, the one furthest from the exit, flanked by several companions. Across the Cavern, she could see two of the Free Folk crouched at their own fire. In the middle of the space were the two Vale knights who followed Lord Royce, and several Northern soldiers. The peasant women Meg, Daisy and old Betha were sitting off to the side at their own place.

Next to Sansa, at the moment, Gilly Tarly was cleaning some furs, and Ser Bronn of the Blackwater amused them by singing in his surprisingly melodic voice.

“For she was his secret treasure,

She was his shame and his bliss.

And a chain and a keep are nothing,

Compared to a woman's kiss.”

Sansa knew this one was about Tyrion, and his lover, Shae, who had also been her handmaiden for a time. Undoubtedly, Bronn was trying to produce some response from her about that, but she just smiled pleasantly, and exchanged a look with Gilly, who was clearly enjoying the song. To the left of their fire, sitting by himself as usual with his perpetual scowl, Sandor Clegane was picking at his nails with a knife, and glaring at Bronn while he sung.

Bronn held his hands out to Sansa in a sweeping, grand gesture as he launched into the chorus to finish.

“For hands of gold are always cold,

But a woman's hands are warm!

For hands of gold are always cold,

But a woman's hands are warm!”

The women at the nearby fire clapped, and Gilly joined in after setting down the furs she was washing. Bronn rose to his feet and bowed.

“Well sung,” Sansa complimented him, although her mind was really elsewhere. Arya and Gendry had not returned, the little girl Brass had gone missing again, and some of their food had been ruined by mould, on top of everything else.

Bronn sat again, marginally closer to her than he had originally been, she noted.

“Lord Tyrion probably didn’t like that song, I’d imagine,” he commented drily. “If he heard it, that is.”

“It’s very romantic,” Sansa said, neither criticising or praising the song itself. She started wrapping up and putting away the scrolls.

“I like it,” declared Gilly, who attacked her furs again with a scrubbing brush. “We never sang songs like that when I was a girl. The words are true.”

Sansa slipped the scrolls into her pockets. Bronn was reclining against a step in the cave floor, confident and insolent. There was something very coarse about him, she thought, but also a degree of rugged charm, when he tried to be charming. He was trying now.

“I think we would all like to hear you sing, Lady Stark,” he winked.

Sansa held his gaze for a moment.

“I do not have the heart for singing anymore, ser,” she replied, smiling sadly. “Only for listening.”

“What would I have to give to hear you sing?” Bronn asked, leaning towards her as if they were about to exchange a secret. She found herself appraising the crinkles beside his eyes and the curl of his lip. Not that she was attracted to him, a former cutthroat, and the crudest knight she had ever known.

“Nothing you could give would convince me,” she told him firmly.

He might have tried to persuade even more, but there was movement on the other side of the cave, and daylight streamed in from the entrance high up. Sansa got to her feet at once, seeing that Arya had come back, and also seeing that her sister was covered in what looked like dirt or blood.

She was not the only one to get up immediately. Clegane, from his place alone, was striding across the cave, not even attempting to disguise his concern.

“Where in seven hells were you?” the scarred warrior demanded in a way which made Sansa bristle with irritation. He spoke as if her sister was a child to be reprimanded.

Arya looked up at him with a weary glare, refusing to give an answer. The rest of the cave was looking at her now. She was pale, Sansa thought, and her arm…Clegane had noticed the arm too. Arya tried to sidestep him, but he held her shoulder to stop her. Sansa did not miss that she flinched.

“Are you injured, Arya?” Sansa called, coming around her fire.

“I’m fine,” her sister replied, but Clegane’s face had darkened angrily.

“You’re cut,” he stated in a growl.

The light from the entrance shifted again, and this time Gendry came down into the cave carrying his war hammer, looking pleased. Aggressively, Clegane rounded on the much shorter man.

“Why did you not protect her, runt?” he snarled.

Gendry’s face fell, cowed before the Hound’s sudden rage.

“I just saved her life!” he protested loudly, clearly embarrassed to have such an accusation thrown at him in front of the rest of the Cavern.

Clegane sneered. “I don’t see a fucking scratch on you, but she’s nearly missing an arm! Did you save her by jumping behind her?”

Sansa reached Arya just as her sister wrenched her arm out of Clegane’s grasp and glowered at both of the men suddenly bickering over her.

“Shut up! I didn’t need anyone’s protection,” she barked.

Two of the Northern soldiers had risen to their feet, sensing a fight brewing.

“I’ll take you to Sam,” Sansa said gently, and quickly took Arya by her good arm before the confrontation could turn from words to fists. “We can’t afford to fight among ourselves, as we all know,” she reminded the group.

“I don’t want a fight,” Gendry insisted.

Clegane said nothing at all, just watching Arya with a dark expression. It was an improvement from continuing the argument, so Sansa, deciding it was safe to leave them like this, walked with Arya into one of the tunnels. Quiet conversation and the hum of voices returned to the cave as they stepped out of sight. There were several tunnels which extended out from the main cave. This one twisted to the right, then the left, and narrowed into a small, candlelit chamber where Samwell Tarly usually stayed.

“How bad is it really?” Sansa asked quietly.

“Just a scratch.”

There was heavy crimson staining around said scratch, so Sansa suspected it was far worse. Arya hated anyone to see her in pain.

“What happened?”

“Just six wights I followed. Not near.”

They reached the candlelit chamber. Sam was there, mixing a paste of some kind at the far end. The candles were set in the four corners or the room, and around the centre, where the body of Bran was stretched out, prone and motionless except for the shallow rise and fall of his chest. He had been like this for as long as they had been hiding in the Cavern, and would certainly be dead if not for Sam feeding, cleaning and stopping his body from wasting away.

Sam, with a few good-natured jokes, helped Arya as she stiffly removed her fur parka and her leather tunic before rolling up the sleeve of her loose undershirt. While Sam washed out and bound up the slash, Sansa knelt next to Bran’s head.

“How is he?” she asked.

“I’d be lying if I said he was any different than yesterday,” Sam sighed, and roughly tightened Arya’s bandage, causing her to swear.

Sansa pulled back one of Bran’s eyelids. His eyes were completely rolled back, white and veiny. Months ago, he had used his powers to warg into something, they never figured out what, and now he was trapped in some other body, either unwilling or unable to return.

Gently, she kissed her brother’s forehead.

Arya, rubbing her bandaged arm, knelt on the other side of Bran’s head, and met Sansa’s gaze. She was getting more and more reckless, Sansa realised. Every time she went out by herself, she took more and more risks. Perhaps death appealed to her, with any chance of revenge slipping further away. The thought of losing her sister made Sansa’s insides clench. No. No-one else. No more.

“Could you give us a moment, Tarly?” Sansa asked with a polite, calm voice which hid the rising panic in her heart.

“Oh, oh, absolutely,” Sam said, glancing between the Stark girls with vague embarrassment. “I’ll just…I’ll just go see how my family is, then.”

Hurriedly, he shuffled out, with arms full of whatever it was he had been mixing. Sansa waited until he was out of earshot.

“Arya…” she whispered, breathing in the cold, damp cave air. “The Long Night ended, even when most people probably lost faith. This night will end as well.”

Arya’s stormy grey eyes were fixed on Bran. Without her furs and leather belts and gleaming weapons, she looked very small and fragile, and Sansa wanted to hold her tightly. They were the last ones, now, the last of the Starks.

She continued. “When this night ends,” Sansa said, “we must be alive to see it. We have to be there when the world starts again.”

For a few seconds, it seemed that Arya was still not going to speak. But then she did, in a cracked, stranger’s voice.

“I used to believe that would happen,” she replied. “I believed we would triumph, and the Night’s King would fall. That was while Jon was alive.”

Sansa remembered how Jon had kissed them both that morning, and promised to return to them, no matter what. A few hours later, he had thrown himself in front of Daenerys Targaryen, taken a spear between his ribs, and his corpse had burned in the blue flames of the Night’s King’s ice dragon.

The Queen he loved so much died anyway.

Jon had broken his promise.

“He would have wanted us to keep fighting,” Sansa insisted, trying to be brave, trying to be strong enough to keep both of them alive.

Arya’s fists clenched, and when she raised her head, her expression was tormented.

“Every time,” she spat angrily, “I have ever allowed myself to hope that things will get better…they get worse, and someone I love is taken from me. Alone in King’s Landing, I hoped that Father would be set free. He was executed. Out in the Riverlands, I hoped that Robb would win the war, and that I would be reunited with all of you. He and mother and his wife were slaughtered, while I was just outside the door. Then Rickon was killed, and Jon was killed, and now Bran is like this…”

Sansa shook her head, not wanting to hear it, not wanting to let the darkness seize her as well.

“You can’t give up, Arya,” she reminded her. “I know you, you’re better than this.”

The anger slowly retreated from her sister’s pale face. Arya stood with a wince.

“I’m not giving up,” she shrugged. “I just don’t want to hope anymore.”

Picking up her clothes and weapons, she walked out of the chamber. Sansa looked at Bran’s quickly rising and falling chest, wondering where his mind was, and if he was even aware that they were alive.

I have to be strong. Sansa breathed deeply. I have to be the strength they do not have.

But she hated being the leader, and hated having to put on a brave face even when she was screaming within her mind. Arya had always been stronger, and now her sister was beckoning to death like an old acquaintance. Sansa hoped someone could talk her sister back to finding hope again – Brienne, or Gendry perhaps, or even Clegane, who she sometimes listened to.

Meanwhile, Sansa would have to find a way of keeping some hope for herself.

Chapter Text

In the end, he had decided to turn a spit after all, but only for himself. Jaime roasted a pair of rabbits over his usual fire, and now ripped chunks of stringy flesh from the bone. The animals around here were all thin and hungry, and their meat was always stringy, but his fellow residents of the Cavern could not afford to be picky. The worst choice of food was better than starvation.

Despite the poor quality of meat, Jaime’s spirits were fairly high just a few hours after playing with Brass. Even though the child reminded him of what he never truly had with his own children, her enthusiasm for life was infectious. Brass, and Gilly Tarly’s son, Little Sam, both added a sense of hope to the dreary surroundings.

Next to Jaime, Bronn was also taking some rabbit meat from the spit. They had their fire to themselves for once this evening. Lord Royce was on patrol duty, while his men, along with the bastard Gendry, were somewhere else in the Cavern, or gone outside for fresh air. Bronn had told him about how the Hound and Gendry had nearly come to blows earlier. So little happened in this smoky cave, aside from attacks by dead men, that Jaime actually found his interest raised by the gossip.

Sandor Clegane was sitting by himself, as usual, away from the flames he despised so much, yet close enough to be protectively hovering near the Starks. There were such contradictions in the man, Jaime thought, but clearly his affection for the younger she-wolf was very real. Whatever else the Hound was, he was no liar.

Lady Sansa, Arya and some of the other women were sharing out a winter fox between themselves, talking in low voices. Bronn made a clicking noise with his tongue and Jaime turned to look at him, irritated by the sound.

“Do you know what shocks me?” Jaime thought aloud, licking some grease from his palm. “The fact that you’re still here.”

Bronn sniffed and took another bite.

“Aye, I’m still here.” He shrugged. “I’m looking out for myself.”

Jaime laughed without humour, shaking his head. Bronn, evidently annoyed, tossed a bone into the fire.

“What’s so damn funny about that?” he sneered rudely.

“I can’t believe you’re still pretending that,” Jaime pointed out. “Staying here instead of heading to Essos is not looking out for yourself.”

To his surprise, the sellsword-turned-knight grinned an unpleasant, cocky grin.

“On the contrary,” he claimed confidently. “I now have the gratitude of a Lannister and a Stark Queen. Even if you never pay that debt of yours, I’ll win somehow.”

“Assuming any of us live.”

“Oh, I intend to make sure I do.” There was a note of deadly seriousness in his voice, an almost sinister one.

Jaime accidentally dropped his share of the meat for what must have been the fiftieth time. It was nightmarishly difficult to balance things with one hand. The golden one had been useful for that, at least, but he had lost it during a battle north of Winterfell.

“Even if the Walkers were all killed,” he said, still amazed at Bronn’s confidence, “I’d still be a little out of castles and highborn beauties for a while.”

He shrugged. “No matter.”

“No matter?” Jaime stared, finding this changing attitude impossible to buy.

Bronn smiled mockingly. “I’m not putting any stock in the promises of Lannister cunts anymore,” he said.

Jaime bristled at that insult. “So how do you plan to get your highborn wife and castle?” he demanded curtly. “Pure luck?”

Bronn looked intensely at something over Jaime’s shoulder, and smiled as if he knew something no-one else had even considered.

“Like I said,” he retorted. “Gratitude. And a good helping of my natural charm.”

Confused, Jaime looked over his own shoulder at the Starks’ fire. Lady Sansa met his perplexed expression over the flames, and smiled uncertainly for a moment before responding to something Gilly was saying. The fire brought out the red of her long hair. He looked back to Bronn, who waggled his eyebrows and bit his tongue suggestively. Jaime blinked.

“…No…” He gaped. “You can’t be serious.”

“Stranger things have happened,” Bronn smirked.

Unable to help his reaction, Jaime snorted with laughter. “You think Sansa Stark is going to want to marry you?” he hissed under his breath.

Bronn shrugged again, his nonchalant arrogance truly astounding Jaime. “It’s the end of the world,” the former sellsword said, and gestured towards the ladies. “How many suitors do you see around her right now? I like my chances.”

“She’s a queen,” Jaime reminded him. “You’ve gone mad if you think for a moment…”

“We both have our great loves, Lannister,” Bronn asserted suddenly, cutting him off. “Yours – right now, anyway – is your big blonde lady knight from the Sapphire Isle.”

Jaime raised a golden eyebrow. “And yours?” he prompted.

“My great love is myself.”

That, at least, they could not disagree on.

Well timed to end their conversation, there was movement at the entrance of the Cavern. A burst of cold air washed into the area, and the smoke from the fires shifted towards the opening. Lord Royce of the Vale and the black-bearded wildling known as Stix came in from their patrol, their clothes covered in ice and snow.

“How goes the end of the world, Lord Royce?” Jaime called.

“Well enough, my lord,” Royce nodded dismissively, and immediately turned his attention to the source of his loyalty. “Weather’s taking a turn for the worse, Lady Stark!” he said, and strode over to speak to her.

Jaime tried not to be overly annoyed at the continued worship of “Lady Stark” in this cave. To hear the soldiers talk of her, she was a goddess sent to free the North from tyranny, a benevolent spirit, and beautiful as well, which of course helped. It was not that Jaime felt any resentment of the girl, or that he was blindly continuing the centuries of hatred between their houses. He just struggled with the idea of obeying the commands, or even the friendly suggestions, of a girl with next to no command experience, less than half his age.

But he did not dwell on this for long. The return of Royce and the changing of the patrol also meant the changing of the door guard. Brienne was about to be replaced by Bronn, and Jaime was eager for that particular change in companionship.

He waited by the entrance as Bronn and two Northern soldiers gathered their warmer furs and equipment, grabbing dragonglass weapons and torches. Snow was streaming in flurries through the gap.

“Good luck,” he said to the soldiers. “Don’t get killed,” he said to Bronn.

“Eat shit, my lord,” the knight replied good-naturedly.

Brienne came in after they had gone, and closed the screen of bracken and ice before brushing the snow from her hair. She squinted, eyes re-adjusting to the gloom of the Cavern, and Jaime grabbed her right glove. Frost melted on his palm.

“Did you miss me, out there in the cold?” he whispered near her ear.

“Yes,” she admitted shyly.

Glancing around, he noticed that at least half of the residents of the Cavern were now either directly watching them, or failing to pretend that they were not.

“Let’s go,” he suggested quietly, and inclined his head towards the longest of the cave tunnels. Brienne squeezed his hand but looked towards the fires first.

“I should report to Lady…”

“Report what?” Jaime teased. “You were guarding the entrance of a cave, Brienne. What could there be to report?”

She hesitated, but there was the same boredom in her eyes that there was in his, and whatever struggle went on in her head was quickly ended. She nodded her head in consent and let him take her away from the others into the tunnel. Jaime grabbed a torch as he left, and Brienne helped him to light it. The firelight bounced off the craggy, uneven surfaces around them, and a slight icy breeze carried through the tunnel from an unseen gap.

They walked next to each other, arms brushing. She held his handless wrist, and the anticipation grew, like a physical presence, between them.

“I don’t think I can take this boredom anymore,” Jaime whispered. He did not need to whisper, since they were out of sight now, but he knew from experience that sounds could echo at this point in the cave system.

“We can’t leave, not yet,” Brienne muttered. “Only fifteen of us are proper fighters. Besides, reinforcements could still show up.”

That last part was so unconvincing that she probably did not believe it herself.

Jaime did not wish to talk about the winter outside, anyway. Being with her, free to not fear being misunderstood, knowing that she adored him, was intoxicating. They were able to simply be themselves, unconcerned about how people would question them or laugh. So they just talked about mundane, unthreatening things; what they each ate that day, the animals they had spotted, and the weather.

The tunnel branched out, and they arbitrarily picked the route which was warmest. One or two of the other routes already had torches glowing from places they had been rammed into the walls. Unbidden, as they clambered over the rocks, Jaime remembered the many times when he was bored as a teenager after lessons, and used to run after his sister in the more isolated areas of Casterly Rock.

Immediately, he banished the thought. It made him sick that, even now, Cersei’s memory still managed to infiltrate his life. The poison of her golden smiles and beautiful little lies still haunted him, no matter how hard he tried to think of anything else. It was a nauseating thought that he might never be entirely rid of her. She might always be there, sneering at the back of his mind.

They reached a narrow part of the tunnel, and Brienne turned, probably about to suggest that they go back. Angry at himself for thinking of Cersei, and determined to banish his dead twin from his mind altogether, Jaime dropped the torch and flung himself forward to kiss her.

The torch rolled as her arms wrapped around him, and the flames cast dancing lights around the tunnel. His fingers tangled in her flaxen hair, their lips crushed together. Bodies pressed closely, staggering towards the side of the tunnel. Armour and weapons and clothing became a hindrance. Jaime heard his own ragged breaths and felt the heat of Brienne’s flushed neck. There was no manipulation in this love, no games he had to play, no deceit. She was healing him with every touch. Jaime only wished he had realised sooner how much he needed her.

Her back collided with the side of the tunnel. Jaime pressed up against her, fumbling at her armour. Brienne managed to undo his belt, which fell to the ground along with his golden-hilted sword. Oathkeeper joined its counterpart soon after.

“What would I do without you?” he groaned. Clumsy, impatient hands were seeking under leathers and fabric. Brienne tossed her gloves away.

“Don’t talk,” she told him.

Roughly, she yanked at the ties of his britches. Jaime buried his face in the soft skin of her neck when she, quite unashamedly, put her hand on his cock. There had been a time when she was so bashful that even looking at him naked made her become ridiculously shy. Clearly, her shyness had lessened, and he was not complaining.

“I never deserved you,” he moaned, and nipped her ear with his teeth.

“Shut up, Jaime,” she said, in a voice that came out like a gasp.

The feeling of her fairly ungentle hand made his head spin, and Jaime knew he was not going to last long that way. He kissed her mouth again, caressing her tongue with his, and then, holding her gaze, dropped onto his knees.

“What are you…” Her big sapphire eyes widened a fraction.

Jaime pushed her armour aside and pulled her waistband down. “You did tell me to shut up,” he smirked.

Chapter Text

FIVE MONTHS AGO…

He was dead.

Arya was standing on the battlements of Winterfell, frozen in place. She had seen the eruption of fires, orange and red and blue and green, burning where the dragons fought, and she had watched the men running from the battle. Screams and panic filled the night. The horizon was smoke and flame, and her eyes were full of tears.

“She-wolf! Arya!”

The dead were coming. It was over. Winterfell was emptying, people were running in the courtyard. Except her. The snow tasted of ash and fear, but she stood there, freezing slowly, watching the burning edge of the sky, not moving…and not moving.

Let them take me as well…

“We have to move, girl!”

She turned her head slowly, as if in a dream. There was heaviness in her chest, in her legs. He stood there, a shadowy ghost, his dark hair dampened by melting snow and perspiration. Sandor’s mouth opened, and he said more words, but she did not hear. Jon was gone. Jon was gone, and she had been too far away to help.

You’d think I’d get used to this…

Sandor turned his half-scarred face downwards, pointing to the yard, where the castle was in chaos. Horses neighed in fear, children were crying, barrels and supplies were rolling. Torches and pale, terrified faces and snowflakes falling gently…

“We have to go, Arya.”

Yes, everyone was leaving. She did not want to go, not now. This was her home. These stony walls and these battlements had always been where she belonged, and her family was buried in the crypts. It would all be destroyed soon, and their graves would be defiled. Burning, all burning, all gone…Sandor’s desperate expression twisted in frustration. He walked towards her, and wrapped her in his cloak, holding her head to his chest. She clung tightly to his furs, breathed in the solid, warm, metallic smell of him, not even knowing why.

“We have to go, she-wolf,” he told her.

I know…just a little longer…

THE PRESENT…

She snuck out of the Cavern while everyone was settling down to sleep for the night. Quiet despite the crackling ice underfoot, she went unnoticed by Bronn, standing guard over the cave entrance.

The weather was getting worse, and the wind howled through the rock formation. On the opposite side of the formation to the path, beneath the usual large outcropping, Arya found the red eyes and large white paws of Ghost. She crouched under the overhang, ducking her head. The direwolf beat his tail in greeting, and licked her cheek when she came near.

“Hello, boy,” she smiled weakly.

The outcropping was shielding them from the worst of the snow. It was the place that the wolves appeared to have chosen as their den while the humans they followed sheltered underground. Arya looked around and squinted, trying to see through the flurries of snow.

“Where’s Nymeria, boy?” she asked, and stroked his white fur.

Ghost nudged her arm and took a few curious sniffs of her bandage. The stuff Sam had put on her wound did stink, and her shoulder had begun to throb painfully with every movement. The direwolf whined and looked up at her with big, intelligent eyes.

“Don’t worry about that,” she told him, and ruffled his ears.

Arya had hoped to at least catch sight of Nymeria, who, along with the remains of her once majestic pack, had been elusive lately. They probably had to range far to find enough prey. Ghost, however, apparently preferred to remain close to the Cavern, sometimes coming into the caves to investigate.

The cold was already seeping into her bones, and she knew she could not wait for long. But she made herself comfortable next to Ghost, and stared out into the snow, thinking about the state of her life, and the lives of everyone.

It had not worried her that she was taking risks, and had been injured, not until she got back to the Cavern anyway. The guilt of worrying Sandor, and Sansa, was not a feeling she liked to admit, as if guilt was equivalent to caring. It had disturbed her how aggressive he became with Gendry. She preferred it when he directed his anger at her; on this occasion she deserved it far more than anyone who had rushed to her aid. Perhaps she would thank Gendry for that…perhaps. Words of thanks always seemed to clog in her throat.

The cold reminded her of the time Sandor had come to her on Winterfell’s battlements. It had been just two or three months since she fully believed he was dead. Seeing him alive after all those years had rattled her, and brought up all the unfinished, unspoken threads still binding them from their time together in the Riverlands. Hate warred with trust, trust warred with duty, duty warred with friendship. She had never known what Sandor was to her at any one time in her life – enemy, captor, travel companion, protector, friend, victim? All of those things at once? But that time, just before Winterfell was destroyed, she had no difficulty calling him her friend. My worst reflection…

Nymeria was clearly not planning to make an appearance, and night was falling. Arya got up and nuzzled Ghost’s soft fur before heading back to the Cavern. The white direwolf watched her go. Outside the entrance, Bronn was still looking the other way, covered in ice and snow. The wind was howling like a grief-stricken old woman, and the knight did not notice her.

Inside, everyone had stocked up the fires and settled down under all available furs and blankets for warmth. A few faces raised to watch her, but absently. Arya brushed herself off at the door and walked over to the Stark fire, welcoming the heat. Brienne, who was only just lying down herself, looked up at Arya, frowned a little, but did not question her. It did not slip past Arya’s notice that Jaime Lannister was also still awake and sitting up next to a loudly snoring Gendry at the adjacent fire. Everyone had known exactly what was happening when the two of them slipped away together. Not that Arya cared. As long as the group did not have to hear the sounds of the two of them fucking, they could count themselves fortunate. The wildling couple on the other side of the cave, Inett and Stix, never had any discretion, and would sometimes start rutting under their furs right next to the rest of the camp.

The younger Stark girl grabbed some spare bedding, trying and failing not to picture Brienne and the Kingslayer together. Sansa was curled up next to Gilly Tarly, whose young son was lying with his head resting upon his mother’s legs. Brienne lay next to Gilly, and little Brass was curled up in a ball near the tall woman’s feet. The only feature of the little girl visible was an explosion of brown hair.

Arya quietly lay down at her usual place, with her back against Sansa’s. She wrapped the furs around herself, and under her head, and tried to empty her mind.

No such luck.

Sandor was only a few feet away from her, and she met his gaze almost at once. Arya felt uncertain how to read his expression, but she had definitely caught him staring. Naturally, he would have to be the one to look away first. He did not even blink.

The big warrior was completely covered in furs like a solitary bear, with the scarred side of his head against the rocks. Arya found herself wondering if he was warm, the way he kept at a distance from other people and the flames. She continued to hold his gaze, not liking to be outdone. Why did all of their interactions turn into some kind of challenge? Maybe it was simply that it made her uncomfortable when he reminded her of herself. Had she become him; bitter, harsh, repelling other people, hating the world?

You’re better than this, Sansa told her earlier. Am I, Sansa? Am I?

Her mind went back to Brienne, and the way she loved the Kingslayer. It was vulnerability, she thought, to let yourself love anyone that much. They relied on each other the way a torch relies on air to continue burning. Arya had witnessed that kind of love in Jon, and hated how it drove him to give up everything he had. She wanted none of it for herself. That was the kind of weakness she could do without.

Not knowing what Sandor was thinking, still staring at her, Arya sighed. This was a pointless contest, just like the rest of their arguments. She rolled over to face Sansa’s back and adjusted the furs around her injured arm. She breathed in the smell of her sister’s hair, refusing to think any more about Sandor or Brienne or Gendry or anything but sinking her blades into the Night’s King’s icy belly.

Chapter Text

The scent of blood was on the wind.

Nymeria could smell the sickening sweetness of it as she sniffed. Her five pack brothers and sisters hungrily did the same, each of them panting from exertion. Mist spewed from their jaws, tongues lolling. Their much larger leader shook the snow from her pelt and growled.

Humans. Dead humans.

The blood was not fresh. It was old, and rotten, and that made her nervous. The dead humans who still walked had rotten blood, and rotten flesh which tasted wrong. Their meat made her pack sick when they ate them. Nymeria did not want to take her brothers and sisters towards walking dead humans. But she was hungry, and they were hungry, and she needed to feed them.

They took off towards the scent. Snow was kicked up around their paws. They were faster than the wind, strong and powerful, but they did not forget how many of their pack had been killed by the dead humans, and the ice creatures. Those losses had made them wary, and Nymeria kept them near to the living human pack, who would protect them. But the humans could not feed her pack – they were wolves, not dogs, and could not simply accept offerings of scraps. They had to hunt.

Nymeria slowed down, and her pack also slowed, their claws digging into snow.

She lowered her nose to the ground and sniffed a trail of blood. Something had been dragged here, and not by a creature with a heartbeat. Scuffed tracks covered the snow all around the wolves, and the scents were confused. She barked a warning to her smaller counterparts, and they became quiet, before sniffing the ground in circles.

Where are the dead humans?

Where are they?

Where…?

Nymeria sniffed out mice, the old trail of a young deer, and the distant smell of the human pack. The dead smell was everywhere. She raised her hackles and snarled. The others copied her, stalking back and forth. There were many of them, and they were close. Too close. Nymeria felt fear in her body, and heard movement to her right.

She turned and snarled louder. Shining blue eyes appeared between the trees.

The dead humans came closer, and the wolves gathered together, growling their warnings at the enemies. Snow swirled around their legs. Nymeria’s nose twitched. The walking humans had other dead humans with them, ones which did not move, and were not as rotten. They were dragging them along by their ankles. Food. Fresh meat. Her stomach growled.

Raising her snout to the great black sky, she howled and was answered by her pack. Far away, after a moment, she heard her pale pack-brother howl as well. Ghost would hear where they were. He would come to her if she was in danger.

And then, as one, the five wolves and the big she-direwolf rushed at the dead humans.

Nymeria leapt up and her jaws closed over the head of one, crushing it at once. Blood and slimy brains filled her mouth. Its cold body thrashed, and something sharp stabbed at her belly, but she shook the creature until its neck popped free of its shoulders and she threw it aside. Her claws raked down the back of another, and she bit hard down on one of its scrawny arms, breaking the bones like they were small twigs. Its hand went soaring away and struck a tree, before lying to twitch on the ground. Nymeria helped a pack-sister to chew the dead thing’s gnashing head off.

Her pack was still strong, and quick. They bit and ripped and clawed, and the dead humans fell. Dark, rotten blood rained upon the snow.

But now there was heat and pain in her belly. She was impaled by one of their sharp shiny claws, she knew, and was struggling to focus. Nymeria heard one of her pack members yelp, and tried to see where he was.

Her vision tilted, the pain made her stumble. Blue eyes looked up at her, a decapitated head still spitting up gore. She whined, woozy from the agony, and lost her footing.

Hard-packed snow struck her by her side, and all she knew was blackness.

Dawn broke, and Gilly Tarly rose and stretched her stiff limbs.

Even in the Cavern, while the fires were all embers and they were covered in darkness, Gilly always knew when dawn had arrived, and found herself wide awake at once. The rising of the sun meant the start of a new day, and a new day meant that there were things to be done.

Regardless of where she was in life, and what new circumstances she found herself faced with, Gilly had always believed in hard work. In her father’s keep, she had risen at dawn with her sisters and always had something to do: mending clothes, keeping the animals, cooking meals and washing the children. In Castle Black, she had kept herself occupied constantly with cleaning and cooking for the Night’s Watch, despite having to care for a baby. In Oldtown, she had continued to do those things, and also enjoyed helping Sam with his studies. Work of any kind kept a person busy, it kept her alert, and it kept her sane.

Little Sam woke as well, having had his shaggy blonde head resting on her legs. She kissed her son and immediately set to work breathing life back into the fires. Gilly smiled at the sight of little Brass curled up next to Lady Brienne, and also at the Stark sisters, still asleep with their noses almost touching. Gilly thought Lady Sansa was incredibly kind to her, despite the fact that she was a wildling and had a bastard son. They had become quite good friends lately, she liked to believe, and, as a result, she made sure that Lady Sansa always received a generous helping when she made meals.

Little Sam shook Brass by her leg, and the girl raised her tired head. The children started whispering at once about some private joke of their own. Gilly, full of business, headed down the tunnel to the chamber where Lord Brandon was lying unconscious, and found Sam sleeping there as usual. He wanted to make sure he was there if the youngest Stark sibling ever woke up.

Many of the candles had gone out overnight. Gilly lit them again, and gave her husband’s shoulder a gentle shake.

“Morning,” she grinned, and kissed him.

Samwell yawned deeply, and sat up, rubbing his eyes. Gilly looked around.

“Anything you need me to clean or throw out?” she asked.

“How are you always so awake so fast?” Sam groaned, only half conscious.

“Habit,” she replied, and grabbed a pile of soiled clothes before leaving the chamber again. The morning was the best time for activity.

In the Cavern, the others were starting to stir. Brass and Little Sam were chasing each other around the prone bodies of the adults, giggling loudly. Lord Royce was standing, and strapping on his slightly dented silver armour. The old woman Betha grabbed the edge of Gilly’s frayed skirt, and asked her to take a bucket being used as a chamberpot outside. Gilly accepted it without question, and on her way past, asked several of the men if they had anything to wash or throw away. The highborn ones were never fazed by her eagerness to help, probably falling back on their usual attitudes towards servants or commoners. Ser Jaime and Lord Royce in particular were more comfortable with such an arrangement than anyone else. The soldiers and the free folk had been surprised at first, but Gilly did the same every morning, and they had been forced to get used to it. She just liked to be helpful. In this cave, there was never a lack of something to mend or make or clean.

“Here, I have a pair of socks that’re buggered,” Gendry said sleepily, and went searching underneath the bedding for it.

Ser Jaime was awake and fastening his sword-belt, at the same time cheerfully talking to Lord Royce about digging a new trench around the rocks. One of the knights of the Vale who followed Lord Royce, Ser Harry Stone, stared at Gilly with wide, fearful eyes. He was a young man, not much older than she was, with short brown hair and a pale skin tone. He was now crouching right next to the fire, rubbing his hands together violently. That man was always afraid, Gilly thought nervously.

“Are you okay, ser?” she asked, uncertain.

“Okay?” Ser Harry laughed. “Okay, out here, in the cold, waiting for us all to die?”

“We’re not dead yet,” Gilly pointed out. The knight glared at her, as if she had said something wildly offensive.

“We’re not dead yet?” he echoed, and chuckled in a high-pitched tone which unnerved her. “Oh, then it’s okay, and nothing is wrong. I’ve lost my wife and my home and everything I ever cared about, but we’re still alive, so I suppose we’re all just fine, you stupid bitch!”

Ser Harry shouted that last bit, and spit flew from his lip. He rocked on knees, not even looking at her. The other men at that fire turned in surprise, and Gendry stopped searching for his socks.

“Show some respect, Harry,” Ser Jaime glowered at once.

“Lady Tarly just offered you her assistance,” Lord Royce snapped, as always completely proper, loathing unmannerly behaviour. “It doesn’t befit a knight of the Vale to speak so ungratefully. Apologise at once.”

“It’s all right,” Gilly blushed, embarrassed. “I spoke without thinking. It’s my fault.”

She retreated quickly, despite protestations by Lord Royce. Ser Harry was forced to take a verbal beating which undoubtedly woke everyone else in the cave. The bucket under her arm stank very badly, and Gilly felt guilty for upsetting Harry Stone.

Lady Tarly, she thought.

Lord Royce called her that. It was ridiculous – she was no lady, not like Sansa Stark with her regal beauty and kind manners. No matter how many names she carried around, she was still just Gilly, the bastard daughter of a bastard daughter of a wildling, who happened to fall in love with Samwell Tarly.

Outside, the weather had improved overnight, and the winds had died down slightly. A pale, golden sunrise made the icicles sparkle on every branch, and the snow was blindingly bright. The cold made her teeth chatter.

Gilly squinted through the light sprinkling of white flakes still coming down. There was no-one there on guard duty, which struck her as odd. All the same, there were chores to do. She walked around the side of the rocks, and was about to empty the chamberpot-bucket when she heard a scrabbling noise behind her.

Fear gripped her, and she stopped, bucket in hand.

“Bronn?” she hissed, trying to remember who else was outside on duty. “Ser Dard? Torrhen?”

There was silence.

Gilly set the bucket down and edged towards the edge of the rocks, towards the path, which was where she heard the noise. The snow outside the entrance was almost completely smooth, freshly fallen. Only one set of tracks could be seen, a pair of footprints heading down the path. She drew a knife slowly. Maybe Bronn had gone to investigate something. Maybe he was…

A surge of claws and white fur leapt up from the path below, and Gilly screamed.

The direwolf knocked her aside, and dived straight for the cave entrance. She caught herself on the snow, sinking several inches into the white powder. Shouts came up from inside the Cavern, and she scrambled to get to her feet. Was that Ghost? Did he still have red eyes, or…

Terrified for her son and husband, Gilly lunged towards the entrance and stumbled into the cave.

Inside, the place was in turmoil. A wooden bowl was rolling across the ground, people were backed up against the sides of the cave, and weapons were drawn. The direwolf, a frantic mess of white fur tangled with sticks and ice, was pacing and panting before Arya Stark, who was holding out her hands to calm it.

“Settle down, boy, settle down, it’s okay,” she was saying, trying to reach for the beast’s muzzle.

“Be careful, Arya,” came her sister’s concerned voice.

Lady Sansa was directly behind Arya, flanked by Brienne of Tarth and Lord Royce. Sandor Clegane was holding a pair of axes, looking fully ready to attack the animal at the slightest notice.

Relieved to see that the direwolf was not a deranged wight, Gilly looked around for her son, and saw Sam emerge from the tunnel with his sword held awkwardly in one hand. Little Sam was clinging to his stepfather’s leg with wide eyes.

“What’s wrong with him?” someone shouted.

“The beast is mad!”

But, despite his panicked state, Ghost was calming, and allowed Arya to stroke his neck and speak to him quietly.

“Is he injured?” Sam asked loudly, and Gilly felt a rush of affection for him. Sam, always the same, thinking about whether anyone or anything else is hurt…

“No.” Arya continued stroking the direwolf’s fur.

Behind Gilly, the hidden entrance, which had been destroyed by Ghost’s speedy entrance, rustled, and all eyes were drawn to Bronn, coming in and almost collapsing from shortness of breath.

“The…seven hells, that was a long way…” He bent over, hands on his knees, red-faced. “…The big one…” he panted. “The direwolf, she’s injured…you’d better…come see…”

Apparently not requiring another word, Arya, who did not even pause to pick up the rest of her clothes, rushed to the exit clutching her dagger. Clegane followed on her heels instantly, swearing a stream of profanities which had no end.

Lady Sansa tried to call her sister back, but the younger Stark girl had an expression of steel which was deaf to protests. Ghost lay down on the floor of the cave, apparently too exhausted to move any further. Ser Jaime took control of the situation then, as the golden knight generally did when crises developed, ordering some of the soldiers to follow him at once outside.

Gilly ran over to her family. Samwell squeezed her hand, both of them not needing to tell the other how sickened and afraid any and all surprises and shocks made them. He prised Little Sam from his leg, and she clutched her son tightly. His pudgy hands wrapped around her neck. Thank the gods it was only the direwolf this time.

Chapter Text

It took four of them to carry the tawny she-direwolf into the Cavern. Arya supported the beast’s head as they moved her, directing them to a quieter part of the cave system. The other wolves, the four normal-sized ones, were howling outside, upset at the loss of their pack leader. Gendry saw them standing there, all covered in blood, especially around their paws and mouths. The pack kept back from the humans who picked up Nymeria, with wary eyes and snarling teeth.

No-one knew what had happened to the men on patrol – Ser Dard Waynwood and the wildling Torrhen – and if they had been killed or injured by the same threat which the wolf pack had encountered. There was a hush of fear in the Cavern, one which had not been there for a while. They had been here so long, and nothing terrible had happened for months.

Gendry was one of the men who helped move the big wounded beast, and he stayed nearby at a distance when they set her down on a fur blanket. Someone brought torches into this small, quiet part of the cave, and Samwell Tarly rushed over to examine his new, furry patient. Arya sat at the direwolf’s head, scratching behind her ears and whispering comforting words. Nymeria’s eyes were dull with pain, blood loss and the sheer exhaustion of dragging herself towards the Cavern. The wound in her belly was weeping and encrusted with blood and dirt. Tarly wet a cloth and cleaned the wound, wincing every time the direwolf growled and shifted her big paws.

“It’s okay, girl, Sam’s going to help,” Arya whispered, but Nymeria was too tired to move more anyway.

Ser Jaime, Lance Manderly, and even Sandor Clegane, all of whom had helped carry the direwolf, were all backing out of this space to give room. Gendry, saddened by the brittle, breakable strength in Arya’s expression, felt duty-bound to stay nearby. He was her friend, after all. She needed someone to be here to offer sympathy, so he stood against the cave wall and watched as the Cavern’s healer tried to work his craft on the big beast.

Nymeria slumped to unconsciousness after a while, and Arya gently lowered her massive head onto the ground. Tarly worked quickly, stitching up what looked like a stab wound, and then getting Gendry and Arya to lift the wolf’s body so he could wrap a bandage around her middle. After all this was done, the cave floor was covered in blood, and the direwolf’s chest rose and fell weakly.

“I’m sorry, Arya,” Tarly said quietly. The three of them stood over the big creature while she slept. “I mean…I’m just saying, and I wouldn’t lie to you…it doesn’t look good.”

“Will she live?” Arya was cold, arms folded, staring ahead.

“It’s hard to say,” Tarly replied, sighing. “If she makes it until nightfall…maybe. Maybe.”

She nodded, and Samwell gathered his things quietly before shuffling away towards the main cave. They were all thinking wights, but none of them said it aloud. The cause of injury was far too obvious to require stating. Arya, wincing as she leaned on her slashed arm, sat next to Nymeria’s snout and crossed her legs, for the first time acknowledging Gendry’s presence in the cave by directly looking at him. She had not shed a tear, which somehow seemed all the sadder.

“I’m sorry, Arry,” he said uselessly, feeling that nothing he said could help.

The Stark girl said nothing, and Gendry sat quietly opposite her. She had left her furs inside to rush into the snow, and her leather tunic was lopsided, the collar twisted. Her dark hair was far longer than it used to be, tied back from her face. She picked at the edge of her sleeve.

“I hope she lives,” Gendry said, truly meaning it. “That’s the one bit Joffrey’s arm as a pup.”

Arya almost laughed then. “Honestly, that was my fault,” she shrugged, and smiled distantly at him.

It was that smile which did it. Gendry had not meant to get carried away. For months, he had kept his distance, been the friend he thought she needed, only thought about survival and companionship. But, seeing that smile, and the beautiful strength behind it, his mind started flying away to the dreams and visions he held for the future. They seemed so real, so close and within reach, that Gendry could hardly contain his own enthusiasm. In his mind, there he was: standing on castle walls, overlooking a cheering crowd, Lord of Storm’s End, and by his side, Arya Stark, his warrior lady.

Lord Gendry Baratheon…

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to say for a while now, Arry,” he blurted, caught up in his own fantasy.

She waited with a level gaze. Gendry took a breath, but felt certain she would understand him, even if his words came out wrong. Their friendship went deep enough for that, surely. He reached over and took one of her hands in his.

“You’ve been my friend since back when you were just a girl,” he began. “Do you remember what you said to me, years ago? You said “I can be your family”, when I told you I never had one.”

“I was a child,” Arya muttered. Her hand was cold.

“What I’m trying to say, though,” Gendry pressed on, “is that, now I know better. I know who my father was, and who I am. But, even knowing that, I want to be your family, Arry, or at least part of it. You’re the bravest girl I know.” He laughed at himself, and his own pounding heart. The embarrassment made even meeting her eyes a difficult task. “You’re like all the great heroes in all the songs, Arry,” he told her. “You’re my hero.”

She disentangled her fingers from his and rose gracefully and slowly to her feet. It was a deadly grace, he thought, in all her movements. Arya was frowning, not looking at him, quiet, thoughtful. Was she thinking of the same vision he was? She walked to the other side of the cave, with her back to him.

“After this is over,” Gendry continued, sure that she was still listening, “I will be the last living blood relative to the Baratheons. I am the heir to Storm’s End. With…” He got up and enthusiastically grabbed her hand again. “With my blood, and your name, Arya…”

It made him start when she ripped her hand away.

“Stop talking, Gendry.”

The abrupt venom in her voice caused all of his words to turn to ash. Immediately, he realised he had gone too far, although he did not know how.

“Why?” he asked

Arya turned around, and looked up at him with a bitter sneer. “You’re a fool,” she said.

He could feel his fantastical hopes shrivelling away inside. “In what way?” he demanded, trying to cling onto them.

“For talking about future glory and heroes and songs!” she snapped, incredulously. “I thought you knew better than that, Gendry. The Walkers won! The world will never go back to the way it was. Even before, there never were any heroes, and there was no glory.”

He backed away a step, and examined the cave floor under his boots, the shades of grey and green, the damp.

“But, I thought…”

“You thought what?” Arya was angrier than he had ever known her to be with him, defensive and unsympathetic. “You thought I was a hero? I am a servant of the Many-Faced God, an assassin, a killer. You don’t know the things I’ve done.”

Disturbed by the direction her words were taking, Gendry stared at her. Here she was, the girl he had known as Arry, spitting anger at him. It did not occur to him that she would ever be so callous with him, so harsh.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

Arya took a step towards him, with almost threatening purpose.

“I’m nothing but death, Gendry Baratheon, if that’s who you want to be,” she said scornfully. “Remember the list I told you about years ago?” There was something dark and dangerously intense behind her beautiful wolf-grey eyes. “Meryn Trant? I made him suffer more than most of them, gouged his eyes and filled him full of holes before ending it for him. Walder Frey? I baked a pie for him with the fingers of his murdered sons and tricked him into eating it. I opened his wrinkled old throat and watched the life leave him. There was nothing heroic in those kills. I enjoyed it. I enjoyed making them suffer.”

Gendry heard these confessions, and heard the truth in them. It frightened him, and made him wonder if he even knew this woman that wild Arry had grown up to become. There was a hardness, and a vicious new side to the girl he once travelled with. But they had spent the last few months together now, and fought side by side. He had seen Arya cry over her fallen brother, he had seen her put her life at risk, he had seen her kindness and compassion. Could she have changed so much? No. She was still the same girl, within this colder exterior. He knew he could not have fallen in love with a heartless killer.

“I know you,” he said, refusing to be scared off. “You’re a good person. I don’t care what you’ve done.”

Arya blinked, and tilted her head to the side, sneering.

“You don’t know me at all,” she told him derisively.

He shrugged, and looked down at the sleeping direwolf. “I know how you are with your family,” Gendry pointed out. “I know you’ll do anything for the people you love.”

The low hum of voices from the main cave carried along the passage. Water dripped somewhere further underground. Nymeria’s breathing was strained, and the smell of blood was potent. Arya, getting less annoyed, folded her arms and her expression relaxed a little. Gendry knew she was too stubborn to change her mind like he wanted her to, but at least the fury was temporary.

“Gendry,” she said, much softer. “You are my friend, and you’re a much better person than I am. Any woman would be lucky to have you…”

“But not you, right?” He sighed.

“I’m not right for you,” Arya told him. “You need someone…nicer.”

In the torchlight, the shadows around her eyes were deep, and her skin was glowing. Gendry wished he could hold her, feel her skin next to his own, make her happy. There was something so natural about Arya’s smile, when she was happy. He had not seen it for a long time.

“I don’t want someone nicer,” he insisted.

She snorted, and shook her head. “That’s like saying you don’t want to be cheerful ever again,” she muttered.

“Maybe I won’t be, after today,” he replied, more spitefully than he had intended.

Arya had placed up a metaphorical wall of spikes and ice, and nothing he could say would break it down, he realised. Perhaps that was what had changed – she had more walls around herself now.

“I need to be alone with Nymeria,” she hissed.

Gendry nodded, frustration welling up as he backed away. If only I had kept my stupid big mouth shut about everything…

“Sorry,” he said again. “Sorry, Arry.”

Chapter Text

In his younger days, he would have run the boy through without a second thought about consequences. Maybe if these circumstances were even slightly different, he still would have done it. Damn him.

Sandor Clegane sat apart from the usual groups in the main space of the Cavern, up until now watching the goings-on with little interest. He was sharpening the edge of one of his hand-axes with a whetstone, occasionally raising his head to watch the others. Sansa had a flock of fawning followers around her at present: the two peasant women currently in the cave, an admiring Lord Royce, and that smarmy sellsword Bronn, apparently telling them about the Battle of the Blackwater. Oily creep. The Northern women were mending someone’s ripped tunic, while Sansa was sewing something of her own design. Somehow she managed to seem regal even with a backdrop of mouldy rocks.

None of that was particularly irritating. It was the other fire currently in use which drew Sandor’s attention and caused murderous thoughts to rise up.

Gendry had come into the cave with a broodingly sober expression which could have darkened a midday sun in Dorne, and dropped himself next to Jasper Snow and Harry Stone. At first Sandor had concentrated on his axe, entirely uninterested in the arrogant bastard boy and his whining. He still had not forgiven the fact that Arya was injured, and this whelp walked away from the same fight without a scratch, but his anger was cooling about that, and he was returning to tense indifference. However, when he caught the words “how I felt” and “Lady Arya”, the whetstone froze in his hand.

Damn him.

There was a kind of jealous fear which clenched his insides at once. Irrational, sickening panic washed over him for a few moments while he glared at the back of Gendry’s head. Internally, he experienced simultaneously every time he had ever felt a hint of frustration seeing Arya and this pretty whelp of a bastard walking away together to hunt or scavenge. This was worse. Knowing how Arya claimed to perceive Gendry had been reassurance, but hearing this…

Under the pretence of taking a skin of water, Sandor got up and casually positioned himself closer to the group. Gendry, thankfully, sounded upset.

“I got carried away,” the boy sighed, “talking about the future. She didn’t want to hear it, and now I’ve gone and ruined everything.” Sulkily, he tossed a stone onto the fire, and sparks danced.

Of the other two men at the fire, only one was actually paying the whelp any attention. Jasper Snow, a Northern soldier of about fifty years with thin grey hair and a weathered but cheerful face, was nodding enthusiastically. The other, Ser Harry Stone, was, as usual, clutching his arms with white knuckles and glancing nervously about the cave as if blue-eyed monsters were lurking in every shadow and damp crevice.

It made Sandor more frustrated that Gendry did not stop talking even when he sat closer to the fire. Generally, it annoyed him more than anything else that the whelp never perceived him as competition when it came to the younger Stark girl. Despite Sandor’s companionship with Arya, the boy continued to entirely ignore his presence when he could. It was as if the idea of Arya having interest in any other man was so foreign to Gendry that he did not even consider the possibility, even when one such possibility was sitting a few feet away.

Arrogant little pup.

Jasper Snow patted Gendry on the back. Sandor relaxed slightly, knowing now that the she-wolf had rejected any advances the whelp had made. Obviously she would, he reassured himself. She was an untouchable angel of death, with no interest in men.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” Jasper said to Gendry. “If you give up after just one failure, you’ll never get anywhere with the proud ones. Trust me. Just use different tactics next time.”

The whelp raised his eyes and gave the middle-aged soldier a look as if he had sprouted several new heads.

“Tactics?” he echoed.

“Aye, tactics.” Jasper winked with typical good humour. “I was quite the charmer back in my day, you know. You listen to me.”

Sandor considered how easy it would be to simply lift the axe in his hand and insert its edge into Jasper’s greying skull. Across the fire, Harry Stone was glaring at everything and everyone.

“How can you be talking about this when the dead are creeping around just outside?” the nervous knight shuddered. “Do you even care that we’re all going to die?” He punctuated this question with furious blinking and a tremor in his hands.

Jasper waved his hand dismissively. At this point, everyone more or less entirely dismissed Harry’s nervous anxiety. Only when Sandor was cursed with having to patrol with the pasty craven knight did he even speak to him.

“Put a sock in it, Harry,” Jasper said. “Now, Gendry, you listen here. You need to change tactics. Did you compliment her in some way this time? Call her pretty?”

The whelp hesitated, and Sandor, despite his own aversion, waited impatiently.

Gendry looked down, embarrassed. “I…said she was my hero.”

Sandor’s immediate reaction was to feel the need to vomit. Secondly, he honestly had to admit to himself that he was pleased. If he knew the girl as well as he knew he did, there was no way in the seven hells that she had responded well to that. He returned to sharpening with a new vigour, his mood improving now that a wedge had been rammed between his wolf girl and this bastard boy.

However, Jasper kept talking. “Well, that’s where you went wrong, then,” the soldier nodded, and tapped the side of his bulbous nose. “Women don’t like to hear what they already know. Beautiful women are well aware that they’re beautiful. Lady Arya…is well aware that she’s good in a scrap. Don’t tell her that. Next time, you listening? Next time, you need to act like you don’t care.”

It would be extremely easy to kill that man, Sandor mused. If he drew a knife, he could grab him by the hair and stick the blade into his eye before anyone else could move.

“What?” Gendry was frowning.

“I know it sounds risky,” Jasper admitted, “but listen. You pretend you’ve already moved on, maybe chat up some other girl, it’ll drive her mad, I swear.”

“That sounds like lying.” Gendry shook his head uncertainly.

“Not at all!” the soldier laughed. “Jealousy is the best tool to a girl’s heart, believe me. It’s worked plenty of…”

Patience had its limits. Sandor dropped his axe was a clatter against the rocks, and noisily got to his feet. He glared down at Gendry and Jasper, both of whom had started slightly at his sudden movement.

“You’re a bunch of whingeing, stupid shits,” he growled, and stormed off in the direction Gendry had come.

This tunnel had ragged sections of rock, and stalactites hanging close to his head height. Bringing the direwolf down here had been better than leaving her in the main cave, but it had not been easy. Sandor felt for the damp tunnel wall when the torchlight faded behind him and was still barely visible ahead. He had an irrepressible need to find out how Arya had actually reacted, and how much like killing Gendry she felt. However, it was not that he had any expectations of receiving any affection himself. She had made her opinion clear in the past about having no interest in men, and Sandor knew too well that she did not care about him.

He followed the torchlight and turned right to find the direwolf lying where they had left her, with bloody bandages around her middle. Sitting near the beast’s head, Arya was a dishevelled mess, with hair sticking up and her tunic lopsided. Sandor met her stormy grey gaze and leaned a hand against the corner in the jagged rocks. She seemed tired, perhaps annoyed by his presence, but not miserable.

“Are you here just to stare, or is there a reason?” Arya asked in an acidic tone.

Sandor bit the inside of his mouth and shrugged, struggling to repress his own turbulent emotions. “Your bastard lover boy is telling everyone how you broke his little heart,” he said after a pause, purely to see how she would react.

Arya’s eyes glinted and narrowed.

“What?” She sprung to her feet in an instant. “Wait until I get him, I’ll…”

As far as reactions went, that was fairly acceptable. Arya had her fists clenched, charging for the tunnel. There was so much rage in her, ready to erupt at any time. But these days he had noticed an underlying exhaustion in her, a weariness with the world which made her reckless. Sandor, no longer caring about the issue of Gendry, stopped her by putting a leather-clad arm across the gap before she passed him.

“Not so fucking fast, wolf girl,” he muttered. “Gutting him can wait. I have a bone to pick with you.”

She moved away from him, uncomfortable although she was trying to pretend she was not. “And what would that be?” she asked, rolling her eyes.

“This.” He pointed at the bandages over the wound on her arm.

“A scratch,” she claimed offhandedly.

“You didn’t need to attack those wights,” Sandor accused her.

“And you don’t need to talk to me as if I’m a child!” Arya spat, with the potent venom she reserved for him alone. “You’re not my protector, you’re not sworn to look after me like Brienne is to Sansa, and I don’t need the permission of any half-crippled idiot to do anything!”

It was predictable, the way they fell back on old habits. No matter how many obstacles they overcame together or apart, she would still insult him, and he would still bait her like they did back in the Riverlands years ago. Things were safer, that way, in the familiar territory of bickering. They knew the landmarks of that territory, the places of weakness, the high ground and the low ground, and the weapons available to use against each other. But, as much as he enjoyed riling her, this was different. For the first time, he was worried about the demons within her own head, instead of the ones around them.

“What is it you want?” Sandor asked grimly. “To go out in a blaze of glory?”

“No!” Arya looked away, paced silently across the cave floor.

He glowered. “Then what? Death?”

“Valar morghulis.”

The icy sincerity of her voice made him feel sick. The thought of losing her was a knife in the heart, a sword in the guts. Some part of him wanted to tie her hands and feet to stop her from putting herself in danger again.

“You’re better than that, she-wolf,” he said gruffly. He would have talked in a kinder voice, but did not know how.

Arya looked back at him, glaring and guiltless and cold.

“I’ve heard that before,” she muttered. “Sansa said it earlier.”

Sandor stepped towards her, angry and fearful in equal amounts.

“Your sister’s right,” he snapped. “I’ve seen you like this before – worse than you are now.” He remembered the way she was after the Red Wedding, limp and hopeless with dead eyes and mute stares. Arya avoided his gaze, folding her arms around herself. Did she care at all? “Every shit thing that ever happened to you,” Sandor insisted, seizing her good shoulder, “it all made you stronger. I watched you find the steel in you and use it against the cunts who hurt you. This is no different.”

She wrenched her shoulder away and scowled up at him.

“Don’t lecture me,” she warned him. “I’ve seen you giving up before.”

Yes - there had been pain, blood, and damp grass under his hands on that hill in the Vale. His leg was on fire, broken, shattered bone sticking out of the flesh. Sandor tried to banish the memory.

“I had less bloody reasons for going on,” he reminded her.

Arya held his gaze. “What’s your reason now?”

The hill returned to his mind, the cold lack of hatred in her eyes, kneeling a few feet away. Do you remember where the heart is? She had been the only reason, then…and now. How could he ever say that? She was the only one who had understood him so well, but there were still chasms of ignored hatred between them. Where the heart is…? He knew, unfortunately, where the heart was, and it was in a frozen vault from which he could not take it back.

He covered up that momentary lapse with a sneer and a shrug. “Might be I’d like to have a damn drink again before the end,” he told her.

Arya seemed to teeter between the options of continuing the argument and giving it up. She took a step away and leaned against the side of the cave, smirking. “I’ll share that drink with you,” she decided.

“I drink alone, she-wolf,” he glared, but not aggressively.

Her smirk deepened, naturally. “And sleep alone, and eat alone, and kill alone and…”

“Think you’re bloody clever, don’t you?” Sandor sneered.

“Cleverer than you.”

“Can’t argue with that,” he admitted grumpily, leaning next to her against the cave wall. “No-one clever decides to get trapped in a stinking fucking cave for this long.”

They watched the direwolf unconsciously kick one of her paws in sleep. Her breaths were shallow and weak, struggling. Sandor turned his head downwards, awkwardly putting his hands into his belt from lack of a better alternative. Arya picked at the fraying edge of her sleeve.

“She-wolf…” He trailed off. She looked up, raising a dark brow.

“What?”

Don’t fucking leave me. “We’re fighters, you and I,” he nodded. “We’re survivors.”

Arya smiled faintly. “And here we stand, us survivors,” she said slowly. “At the end of the world.”

“Here we stand,” he rumbled quietly. If she did not go on standing, and go on breathing, he did not know if he would want to continue.

Taking one hand out of his belt, he wordlessly ruffled her hair, desperate to relieve the tension in some neutral way. Arya elbowed him in the side, but his fingers were tangled in her soft hair. Instead of removing them, though, he found himself regarding her mischievous, silent expression fondly. The ambivalent desires to strangle her and nibble her pale neck fought and were fiercely repressed.

He wondered if it was even possible that she did not notice that he wanted her, or if that challenge in her gaze contained any amount of desire. They were still not talking, but it did not matter. Their spiteful words only got in the way of…whatever this was. Was it just another stupid mistake to think that she was his better side? Whatever purpose or plan the gods had ever had for him, this was the one he chose. Her lips were curled in brash defiance, and her hair was so soft under his hand.

An echoing clatter sounded somewhere up the tunnel.

Sandor started and tried to quickly remove his fingers from her hair. Arya hissed in pain when he pulled.

“Clumsy ham-fisted ass!” she exclaimed, and elbowed him again.

Samwell Tarly came around the corner, smiling and talking about “the patient” with an optimistic smile. The fat healer knelt in front of Nymeria and examined her, while Sandor exchanged a look with Arya. She averted her eyes quickly, but he refused to allow himself to take that as confirmation of embarrassing thoughts.

Tarly finished examining the direwolf then, and glanced between the two of them with intelligent but completely guileless eyes.

“She’s stable,” he said to Arya. “But she needs to sleep now.”

Sandor tried to resist the urge to hit Tarly. In fact, even being in the Cavern was starting to become stifling, and he desperately wanted some fresh air to clear his head.

“Some of the others went out to spar,” he commented gruffly. Arya glanced up and hesitated.

“I can watch her, Arya,” Tarly suggested. “I’ll let you know if there’s any change.”

“Thank you, Sam,” she nodded, and after she stroked Nymeria’s pelt, turned to go.

Sandor only realised that he had almost entirely forgotten about the incident with Gendry when they passed the whelp on their way to grab weapons and head outside.

Chapter Text

Eventually Meg had started to cry.

The tension had risen in the Cavern with every hour passing, still with no sign of Dard Waynwood or Torrhen. Everyone was asking the same questions, whether they dared speak the words aloud or not. Were they dead? Injured? Had the Walkers finally returned from King’s Landing to eradicate the remnants of the North? Eventually, the worry and fear became too much for young Meg, and the former washerwoman collapsed into a fit of frightened tears. Betha comforted her, wrapping a thin old arm around the trembling shoulders of her friend.

“They might just be delayed,” Sansa had suggested. “They might just be waiting somewhere until it is safe enough to return.” Her optimism was false.

Fortunately, the two children were outside at the time. Once those two were set off by crying, the cave would echo with demanding toddler sobs for hours, Brass and Little Sam each trying their hardest to outdo the other. Sansa massaged her temples as she walked into the tunnel leading to Bran’s chamber, needing to be alone to think and consider what to do next. An ache was starting to pound under her skull. If Ser Dard and Torrhen were indeed killed, and the Walkers came back, this cave system would quickly cease to be a shelter, and become their shared tomb. But leaving was equally dangerous, and Sansa wished badly to rest the responsibility of the decision on someone else’s shoulders.

They were all, bizarrely, still looking to her. Queen, they called her. Lady of Winterfell. It was ironic, how badly she had desired the power and security of that title, and now all she wanted was to cast it away. She could not help wondering if Petyr would have been proud of her, or if he would suggest another path. As much as she acknowledged she had been betrayed by him, he had often given better advice than anyone else in terms of staying alive. Although, being trapped underground had never featured in any of his lessons, and perhaps he would have been entirely useless in this situation.

Sansa lifted her skirts over the craggy surface of the cave floor, and entered Bran’s chamber. The golden light of the candles flickered from the disturbance of her entrance. To her surprise, she found someone else already kneeling next to her brother’s unconscious body.

“Lady Sansa.” Jaime Lannister scrambled to his feet when she came in.

“Ser Jaime,” she said. “Don’t get up.”

He looked somewhat ruffled, as if she had interrupted a deep thought of his and left it unfinished, hanging half-complete where he left it.

“If you want to be with your brother, I will leave you alone,” Jaime offered politely, recovering any lost composure.

“No, stay a while,” Sansa told him, walking into the candlelit chamber. “I need to speak to you, actually.” She sat, arranging her skirts around herself. Jaime did the same, on the opposite side of Bran’s body. “Ser Dard and Torrhen have still not returned,” she informed him, arriving at the point at once.

Jaime frowned, nodding, and appeared to consider that grim fact.

“I’m due next on patrol with Inett soon,” he pointed out seriously. “We’ll try our best to find them.”

“If they are dead…” Sansa clasped her hands on her lap, and looked at Bran’s peaceful sleeping face. “That leaves just thirteen of us who can fight.”

“And only twelve who can fight well,” he admitted drolly, holding up his stump.

She raised her piercing eyes and examined Jaime closely. As always, despite the grimy appearance of all the Cavern residents, he emitted a certain handsome aura of golden arrogance. His grey-gold fringe was hanging over his sharp green eyes, which were examining her just as intently in return. There was more intelligence behind this Lannister’s weary, superior smile than most people ever gave him credit for. It was Jaime, not Yohn Royce, or Bronn, or anyone else, who had settled with the idea of digging the trenches around the rock formation. It was Jaime who had rallied their men and protected the people running from the castle of Hornwood. Sansa had reluctantly gained a respect for him over the months they had been together; a respect which, surprisingly, had little to do with Brienne’s frequent longing stares and occasional rambling about her lover’s supposed honour and goodness.

Sansa took a steady breath. “What do you believe we should do?” she asked, as neutrally as possible.

Jaime set his jaw at that question. If the knight was surprised that she had asked for his opinion, he covered it well.

“Leave,” he decided after a moment. “Now, before the Walkers return to this area. Those ravens are not returning, and neither are the scouts we sent. We had better move quickly before it is too late. I know that you decided to stay for your people, but there is nothing we can do for them even while we continue to shelter here.”

Sansa swallowed her nerves.

“So we travel to White Harbour,” she tried the words out aloud, imagining the startled reaction of the others. “Nearly two hundred miles, the twenty of us, with wights swarming the country.”

He shrugged ruefully.

“There is no other way,” he told her. “Despite the danger, we can’t stay here and wait for the Walkers to come and find us.”

Sansa gently smoothed a crease in her dress, choosing to ignore the patronising tone of his voice. “I know nothing of military matters, I’m afraid,” she admitted, in the interest of keeping him on her side. “So I respect your opinion. Lord Royce has advised me in a similar way before.”

“They all respect you very much,” he commented, aloof in his half-praise.

“They’re good people,” Sansa replied. It annoyed him, she realised, that she was the one they followed. A prideful lion, having to obey the wolves. It must bother him.

However, Jaime had shrugged off the wounds to his pride, and smiled in a friendlier way which set her somewhat at ease.

“You should know,” he began, with an air of divulging sensitive information, “that Bronn intends to pursue you.” He chuckled, more to himself than to her. “I do not imagine he would be pleased to learn that I gave up the game, but he made the mistake of not making me swear an oath of secrecy to him.”

Sansa ran her fingers through her long red hair and tossed the strands over her shoulder with an uninterested attitude.

“If it is a secret, he is not keeping it very well himself,” she laughed dismissively. “I’ve known what he intends for a while now.”

“I see.” Jaime was trying to weigh up her reaction, she could tell. Let him, Sansa thought. She had little interest in a sellsword who could offer nothing but himself.

“It’s ironic, you know,” she continued, on the subject at hand. “Your marriage to Brienne, given her oath to me, will be the closest our families have come to a marriage alliance since myself and Lord Tyrion.”

As she had hoped, that disarmed the golden knight. He looked away, with a distant, fond expression. Whether he was thinking of his dwarf brother or the warrior woman, Sansa was unsure, but he was definitely not lost in memory. She cocked her head inquisitively, remembering how Brienne had spoken up for the man she loved in the hall of Winterfell. The desperation in her sapphire eyes, the intensity of her resolve to defend his already disgraced name…it had been a devotion which stunned everyone into silence.

“You truly love her, don’t you?” Sansa said, not exactly asking.

Jaime’s lip curled. “With every breath,” he declared, without a hint of embarrassment. Perhaps her expression had given away some of her disbelief. “Is that so odd?” he asked, amused.

“No,” Sansa said at once, shaking her head. “After all the things I’ve seen, very little strikes me as odd.”

Thoughts of unlikely love made her somewhat uncomfortable. Her own heart had been hardened beyond such things, so she preferred to believe. She turned her gaze back to Bran, reaching for his limp, weak hand. The skin clung to his finger bones, and his skinny wrist felt very breakable. His poor face was gaunt and sickly, fading all the more every day. Yes, they had to leave. She had to take her brother’s body out of this cave, perhaps even reunite it with his consciousness, wherever it had flown or run on other legs. They had been hiding too long.

“I pushed him.”

Sansa raised her eyes in surprise. Jaime was looking at Bran with a kind of tormented guilt written into the lines of his face.

“I know,” she heard herself say while her mind raced. “He told me himself.”

Jaime met her searching gaze.

“Bran was generous enough to offer his forgiveness,” he told her. “I do not believe I deserved it, but he forgave me all the same.”

The confession was unexpected. They had been in such close proximity for months, yet neither side had tried to bring up the underlying hatreds between their families. Even Arya had managed to keep her mouth shut about the presence of a Lannister in their midst. Sansa tried to figure out why Jaime would say this now, suspicious of motive. Everyone is your enemy. Everyone is your friend. Those were Petyr’s words, and like all of his teachings, they still had a resonance within her mind.

“I understand, perhaps, why you did it,” she said, determined not to let him know that she suspected him of trying to create conflict. “We all do terrible things to protect our families, things that are hard to think about before the moment arrives and an impossible choice is set before us.”

Jaime actually stared at her, and shook his head in bemusement.

“I can see so much of Catelyn in you,” he told her, but quickly moved beyond his appreciation of the similarity. “I don’t suppose I have any right to apologise for all that my family did to yours,” he said regretfully.

“No, you do not have that right.” Sansa frowned. Was that what he wanted? To apologise? Perhaps she was jumping to the wrong conclusions.

“Maybe if this night does end,” Jaime mused aloud to her, “things will be different.”

Sansa relaxed slightly, choosing to look past her own prejudice about the Lannisters. It did appear that he was trying to build a metaphorical bridge over a torrent of mass murder and betrayals. It would make sense, she thought briefly, given his invested interest in marrying her sworn protector.

“If the night ends, perhaps,” Sansa agreed, and allowed herself some room for civility. “It’s strange,” she commented. “You’re not at all how I thought you were, before. Brienne’s very lucky to have you.”

Relief brightened his dark expression. “You’re also very different to what I thought you were,” he replied.

“Perhaps I was forced to grow up,” Sansa suggested, feeling a slight hint of a blush colouring her cheeks.

“So was I,” Jaime said self-deprecatingly. “In all honesty, I have Brienne to thank for that.”

That confirmed it, then; he was making this step of trust out of consideration for his future wife. Sansa, now convinced of his sincerity, smiled in complete honesty herself. The vanity in her heart created its own speculation about whether Ser Jaime would now follow her like the others, and even if he secretly admired her like Lord Royce, but logic told her that the Lannister was still as proud as ever. Sansa started to ponder the fact that, under other circumstances, she might have ended up married to him instead of Tyrion. How different things may have turned out…

Jaime got up after a moment, and brushed down his red leather tunic and furs with his only gloved hand.

“I should begin the search now,” he said brusquely. “Make the most of the daylight.”

Before he left, she quickly rose to her feet and stopped him. The candlelight brought out the gold in his hair, a colour increasingly dimmed by his age.

“Ser Jaime,” she said, and he turned. “If we don’t make it to White Harbour, I want to thank you.”

“For what, Sansa?” He used her first name only, she noted.

“None of us would have made it this far without your leadership,” she pointed out. Flattery generally endeared people to those as proud as this man.

“Well,” he replied, and shifted slightly. “Without your diplomacy, they probably would have killed me, so I think we’re even.” He nodded uncertainly then, and turned to go again, perhaps uncomfortable with the shift in their perceptions of each other.

“See you this evening,” he called back.

“Good luck.”

Sansa waited until he was gone, and then let out a breath she had not realised she was holding. Her heart was pounding, she thought, somewhat confused. Was she truly this girlishly unsettled by a mere conversation? It was a reason to be pleased, this move towards a better understanding between Starks and Lannisters. If Tyrion had lived, so much the better, because then both of the brothers would be on her side. She shook off the weird sensation in her abdomen that she was tumbling, falling and sinking downwards.

Sitting beside Bran again, she considered the condition of their sled, and whether they could easily pull it without horses. Perhaps if she sent scouts to the nearby abandoned villages, they could find horses still living. The wights generally ignored animals, as far as she knew. Her mind spun with thoughts of how they should pack and gather supplies for the journey, how they should set up camp each night, and whether it would be safer to travel during the day or night. It was frightening, all of it, but she grabbed Bran’s skinny hand and knew she had to hold her strength together.

Sansa no longer believed in the gods the way she once did. But, despite that, she liked to believe that her mother’s spirit was nearby, and her father’s and her brothers’. Even Petyr was maybe close, she thought, if he no longer resented her for ordering his death. He might be near, watching over her, proud of his student’s cleverness.

All the many ghosts…all the many people left behind…all of them leading her to a destiny, or a doom.

Sansa rose to her feet, and strode towards the main cave to give orders.

Chapter Text

They picked a large space at the foot of the rock formation, where the upward-climbing path met the forest floor, and flattened the fresh snow. The space was flanked by the rocks and their hidden trenches, so they marked the edge of the trenches with rolled-up bags and unused weapons. Weather had improved remarkably, and in order to make the most of the short hours of daylight, some of the fighters in the group were sparring.

Sandor stood with his feet apart, watching his much smaller opponent with frustration. Neither of them held any weapons this time, and his fists were clenched. The sheen of sweat on his forehead was becoming icy cold. She moved around him in a circle, placing her feet on the packed snow with precision. Every step was an invitation, a challenge, waiting for him to move first.

“What are you waiting for?”

He lunged, aiming a swipe for her head. Arya dodged sideways with all the speed of a released bowstring, and his fist connected with air. Strands of her hair snapped at his knuckles and made him shiver.

Sandor adjusted his feet and pivoted himself around, but she was ready for his next move, ducking under his swinging arm to slide on the snow, jab his hip and leap up out of arm reach before he could aim. He bit his tongue and hissed between his teeth. The uncomfortable tension and old ache in his right leg became more and more irritating in the cold.

Ten feet to his left, metal rang out against metal as Brienne sparred with Jasper Snow. Sandor caught the flashing of steel and the quick movements of the two fighters in the corner of his eye. Jasper doesn’t stand a damn chance. Sitting up on the rocks, the two children were swinging their legs and watching the sparring with big eyes. Ghost lay halfway up the rocky path, silent and blending into the snowy backdrop, except for those intent red eyes. Further up, the wildling Stix was standing guard over the cave entrance, leaning on his spear. The forest was quiet, eerily so, but the silence meant nothing, or so they hoped.

Sandor lurched forward again, his foot skidding a little on the icy ground. His opponent sidestepped, feinting in one direction and then leaping away in the other, holding her hands behind her back in an insolent show of ease. Arya’s boots danced across the snow.

He cursed profusely as he lost balance and had to catch himself on one arm. Brass whooped annoyingly from the rock face, clapping her hands together. His opponent grinned.

“You’re slower than I remember,” Arya taunted him, skipping out of reach. “Older. Clumsier. Are those grey hairs in your beard? Wrinkles next to your eyes? I could stick you before you’d even draw your sword.”

Sandor glowered. His pulse was up, the thrill of the contest nonetheless coursing through his body. “Wait until I get you, little bitch,” he spat, and got back up. “I’ll shove your fucking insults right down your throat.”

Arya smoothed back her hair and folded her arms.

“It seems I’ll be waiting a while,” she said.

He ran at her like a charging bear, and she dived and rolled out of the way, head over heels. Not giving her a chance to get back up properly, he aimed a kick which glanced off her leg as she scrambled backwards. For a moment, she was recoiling on her arse across the snow, but Arya smoothly sprang away from another kick and was on her feet before he could correct his footing. His hands barely brushed her arm before her heel connected with the back of his knee. Pain caused him to stumble.

“Seven fucking hells!” he growled.

“You hurt me too!” she pointed out, and hopped on one leg at a safe distance for emphasis.

There was a startled shout, and they turned their heads in time to see Jasper skidding across the ground on his back. His sword went skidding away too, in the opposite direction. Brienne lowered her blade and sheathed it before offering the soldier a hand up.

“You win, Brie!” Brass screeched in excitement.

Sandor rolled his eyes and caught his breath, leaning on one leg. Generally, he disliked children and their constant yammering, but that little girl was particularly annoying. Arya kept rubbing her leg a little distance away, her chest rising and falling, snow in her hair. He stared at her for a moment, deadly and ruffled as she was, wanting both to break her neck and hold her skinny body hard against his own. Damn her.

Up the path, movement caught his eye. Ghost came plodding down ahead of Jaime Lannister, who was in turn followed by the wildling couple Inett and Stix. It appeared that skittish Ser Harry had replaced Stix at the entrance. Sandor watched the Lannister knight stride down the path, giving a sideways glance at Brienne, who was, of course, watching him too, with that ridiculous girlish blush colouring her pale cheeks. The two of them met at the foot of the path, never including anyone else in their narrow gaze. There they stood, holding hands and whispering, Ser Jaime looking up into her face with all the adoration of an infatuated girl. Sandor averted his gaze, somewhat nauseated.

“Off on patrol, friends?” Jasper was asking, characteristically jovial.

“Off to find Torrhen and Dard,” said Inett, grimly. The wildling woman hefted a hatchet in one hand.

For his part, Sandor had tolerated both of those men, and regretted their disappearance as much as could be expected. Both of them had been decent fighters, and their loss represented more than just missing companionship. There were so few of them who could defend themselves now, and the Walkers could return any day. He turned to say something to Arya, but stopped when he saw her frowning, her stormy eyes fixed on the Kingslayer and the big woman. With clenched fists at her sides, and that inexplicably intense expression, Sandor wondered what was going through her mind. Was she disgusted? Jealous? Or was it something else?

Inett embraced Stix, and she walked to the marked perimeter of the trenches, finding the markers showing where it was safe to cross. On the other side, waiting at the treeline, she called out impatiently to the Kingslayer to hurry up. Ser Jaime peeled himself away from slobbering over Brienne, and hurried over the perimeter. Both of them vanished into the forest, ankle-deep in snow.

Sandor straightened and stretched, trying to shake some warmth into his fingers. Arya turned back to him, any trace of her unknown thoughts wiped away. He prepared to return to their sparring, but then their attention was taken by a loud voice halfway down the path.

“All hell’s breaking loose down below!” Bronn shouted, coming down as well. “Lady Sansa’s decided we’re going to start packing up.”

Sharing the same alarmed expression, everyone glanced at everyone else.

“Are we leaving, then?” Stix asked.

“Well, it’s that or we’re doing some serious reorganisation,” Bronn replied wryly, as if they had enough supplies and resources to warrant organising.

“Where would we go?” Jasper gestured around himself. “Nowhere is safe anymore.”

“White Harbour, and then across the Narrow Sea,” Brienne suggested thoughtfully.

While the others began to discuss in concerned voices how the journey would be made, Sandor shifted up closer to Arya.

“She mention that to you?” he asked, of course referring to Queen Sansa.

“No. Why would she?” she muttered, with a hint of resentment.

Sandor smirked at her disgruntled response, amused by the tension between the Stark girls. “Is the she-wolf jealous of her pretty sister?” he asked in a mocking tone.

“Jealous?” Arya laughed coarsely. “Don’t be stupid, I…” She halted whatever she was saying and dodged his arm, which otherwise would have had her in a headlock. “You’re going to have to try harder than that,” she told him, entirely unfazed.

They started their game again, advancing and withdrawing, stepping and turning, testing the limits of speed and force. Their fighting styles were as different as their heights and statures, but he knew her pulse was pounding with the same rush as his own. They were dangerous, both of them, in their opposite ways, moving as one. She seemed to know what he would do before he knew himself, and reacted faster than he could change his mind. He was playing her game, after all, and winning would require a heavy amount of cheating. At the same time, the flush of her skin, the rasp of her breath and the occasional brush of her clothing against his hand or leg sent his mind to distracting places. If only I could drive her this fucking mad…

Meanwhile, Bronn had challenged Stix to a duel, and the wildling drew a hatchet and long machete. Metal clashed and glinted in the pale, cold sunlight. Feet skidded over the snow. The sun was directly overhead, turning every piece of ice into blinding light. Sandor felt the solid ground under his feet, and the heat of exertion, and for once thanked the gods that he was still breathing.

Sometime later, after Stix had surprisingly knocked Bronn to the ground and Sandor had to admit to a few new bruises on his legs and arms, Gendry was seen descending the path. For fuck’s sake, is everyone coming out of the damn cave? However, his appearance produced an opportunity. Arya caught sight of him, and quickly turned away, pointedly ignoring the whelp, but caused her face to be turned into direct sunlight. The glare and distraction working against her, Sandor roughly caught hold of her sleeve, and despite her quick attempt at struggling free, they both tangled their feet and slipped on the icy ground.

“Got you now, wolf girl,” he snarled victoriously, dragging her down with him.

On the ground, he wrapped his arm around her, pinning her arms to her sides. She lashed out with her feet and cursed. The snow churned under them.

“Fine, you win! Get off!” Arya spat, and wriggled. Sandor breathed in the smell of her messy dark hair and was drunk on the feeling of her body pressed closely to his. Relishing the futility of her struggling, he raised his eyes and looked directly at Gendry, now at the bottom of the path. The whelp was watching them with an unreadable expression. Go on, bastard. Say something. I dare you.

Gendry said nothing, but for an unexpected reason. From the top of the rock formation, a shrill, frightening voice shouted a warning.

“It’s the ice dragon!” Ser Harry screamed. “It’s coming! Get to cover!”

None of them had to say a word. Sandor released Arya and scrambled to his feet before rushing for the rocks. The others were doing the same, not pausing to pick up the bags and weapons they had left lying at the perimeter. He threw himself after Arya behind a boulder, and flattened himself to the ground. She had her hand pressed to the surface of the boulder, lying on her side. Their eyes met briefly when she glanced over her shoulder, ready for the danger.

None of the others were visible to them anymore. Silence permeated.

“That’s odd,” Arya whispered, staring at the sky.

“What?”

“The Night’s King always has the ice dragon with him,” she said.

Sandor pulled a face, wishing he had not left his swords lying next to the trenches. “So?” he demanded.

Arya sighed. “The Night’s King usually comes with a storm. The air is so still.”

That was true. Sandor could hear nothing; no heavy wing-beats, no dragon screeching. If Brass or Little Sam was sniffling wherever they had hidden themselves, they were doing it quietly.

“Maybe the fucker’s loose by itself,” he suggested, examining the grey-white mixture of a sky.

“I don’t hear its wings,” Arya muttered.

Sandor waited a moment, hearing his own racing pulse. With the immediacy of the danger retreating, he became unnervingly aware of her proximity, and the tightness of the space they had hidden themselves in. Her chest rose and fell, and he could feel her fierce energy about to be released. He lifted his hand, damp with melted snow, and rested it on her leg. She tensed at once.

“Remove your hand or I’ll remove your eye,” Arya hissed.

The thrill of their sparring still fuelled his wandering mind. “Why?” he asked, lips close to her ear. “Does that annoy you, little wolf bitch?” He stroked her leg, feeling the warmth of her skin through her britches.

She kicked him. “Stop it,” she snapped. “I said stop it.” She seized his wrist and their hands battled. Their leathers and furs rasped against the rocks. In the struggle, he slipped one hand further under her tunic and felt the heat between her legs.

“That’s warm,” he growled, and ran his tongue over the salty skin of her flushed cheek. Arya made a strange, panicked sound and, from some unknown place, produced a jagged knife, twisting herself around to press it to his throat. So fucking fierce…

“Fuck off,” she hissed. “Or I swear I’ll…”

She never finished that particular threat, because a piercing shriek overhead drew their attention. They both looked up to see a winged shape crossing the sky overhead. But, instead of a dragon, they saw a large eagle swooping majestically over the rocks. All at once, it became clear what had happened.

That craven bloody excuse for a knight…

“It’s just a bird!” someone shouted, outraged, behind their boulder.

The sparring group gradually picked themselves up and peeled themselves off the surface of the rocks. Brienne was brushing off her navy armour from diving into a bush, Jasper and Gendry were struggling to disentangle their belts which had somehow become attached, and Arya immediately established a distance of several feet from Sandor. After the group gathered together and confirmed that the supposed “dragon” was just an eagle, Bronn and Stix started cursing Harry Stone’s name and began stomping up the path in a rage.

“A dragon, eh?” Bronn shouted. “I haven’t seen a dragon with that many feathers before!”

“Are you blind or just stupid?”

Harry appeared at the top near the Cavern entrance, pale-faced and visibly quivering even from the bottom of the formation.

“I was wrong this time, but it will come,” the Vale knight declared. “We’re all going to die sooner or later, you do realise that, don’t you? ALL OF US.”

“Shut up or you’ll cause a cave-in below,” Bronn snapped.

“Get back!” Ser Harry yelled, and drew his blade in a flash. “Get BACK! You’re all mad, MAD!”

Stix came within range of the demented knight, and parried a swipe of his sword, while Bronn ran up behind and soundly punched him in the jaw. An echoing, ringing clatter told them that Harry had dropped his sword. Brienne responded, taking long strides up the path, ordering the men to leave him alone, claiming benevolently that it was an easy mistake to make. Sandor watched with total indifference as to whether one of them broke his nose and drove a bone into his cowardly brain.

Meanwhile, however, Brass and Little Sam took their cues to cry, Ghost growled and drew his lips back from sharp teeth, and the little girl took a perceived chance to try to run off. Arya was apparently ready for that stunt, and caught Brass before she got to the perimeter.

“Looks like that’s the fun over for the day,” Jasper muttered to Sandor, and when he got no response, the soldier walked off at a slow pace to the foot of the path.

Arya, carrying and comforting a sobbing Brass, also headed towards the Cavern. Sandor was then uncomfortably left with just the snarling direwolf and a sullen Gendry. The bastard eyeballed him for a moment, too brave or stupid to just walk away. Sandor waited until Arya was halfway up the path, not wanting to annoy her more than he already had that day. There were few lines left still to cross in their friendship, but when it came to the boundaries that remained, he sometimes decided the wiser option was to respect them.

“If you know what’s good for you, runt,” he eventually glared down at Gendry, “you’ll back off from Arya. She’d gut you eventually.”

The whelp held his gaze, standing with fur-clad folded arms. Then, to the bigger warrior’s deep irritation, he stepped right under his nose and glared up.

“I’ll hear that from Arya,” he said determinedly. “Not you.”

With that, the whelp turned and followed the wolf girl up the path. Holding back from a desire to start punching the bastard’s arrogant head to a pulp, Sandor seethed impotently. Gods, I need a drink.

The large furry shape of Ghost lumbered up next to his leg. The direwolf lowered its big head and growled towards the forest. Sandor followed its gaze and considered the fact that they would, after four months of stillness, finally be leaving. He was ready for some action and threat after all this damn waiting. It was driving them all insane, the lack of movement, and at this point he welcomed the change.

It occurred to him that Jaime Lannister and Inett would have been in serious danger if there really had been an ice dragon flying overhead.

Chapter Text

Jaime trudged through the snow along the usual patrol route, retracing the path which Dard and Torrhen would have taken during the night. The cold whipped into his clothes while the silence made the hairs stand up at the back of his neck. The snow was almost knee-deep in places, and numbed his lower legs and feet to the extent that he felt he was walking on broken stumps.

Inett walked ahead of him, confidently more used to such conditions, and a far better tracker and hunter than he was, off a horse anyway. Her black hair flopped over her weathered, serious face as she knelt to examine some broken twigs.

His conversation with Lady Sansa that day occupied his mind as they continued moving on. We all do terrible things to protect our families, things that are hard to think about before the moment arrives. That had seemed like forgiveness for the crime he admitted to, yet the statement contained just as much underlying threat as it did compassion. If he stepped out of line, it was obvious that she would not hesitate to act accordingly.

Jaime ducked under a set of hanging icicles, and wiped a drop of icy water from his nose. The respect Brienne had for the Stark girl seemed to be justified, at least when it came to her ability to keep people on her side. Perhaps that was what the group needed, most of all, he mused. With tensions running high and everyone needing to set aside their differences, Lady Sansa’s diplomacy might get them to White Harbour over any battle skills or strategy.

We’re a civil war waiting to happen, he thought dismally. And everyone’s going mad.

Inett paused ahead of him, and motioned for him to hurry forward. He drew up next to her, battling a few errant branches and foliage, his hand on the hilt of his golden sword. Down the slope from where they stood, a stream flowing towards the Broken Branch River sliced through the snowy landscape, pale blue and glistening.

“See the bank down there,” Inett whispered, and he smelt raw meat off her breath.

“What about it?” he frowned, feeling somehow that the place was recognisable.

“There used to be a few dead people there,” she pointed out grimly. “But looks like they’re gone now.”

He knew where they were now. This was the place that they had hung one of the Northern soldiers a while back, after he attempted to rape Meg. No-one had missed him particularly, and they burned his body to prevent ever having to see him walking around again. However, the stream had washed up several other bodies here a week ago, and the group had decided to leave them there, as a potential warning if the Walkers returned and started raising the dead in this area.

Jaime exchanged a concerned look with Inett.

“Perhaps Torrhen and Ser Dard saw this last night,” he suggested. “They might have gone off the main route to investigate.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Inett agreed.

They skidded down the slope. Meltwater gushed down the stream, and the bank was slippery with icy rushes and fresh snow. Jaime brushed down his cloak and armour, and watched while Inett examined some grooves in the snow. If the corpses were moved by wights, they must have been directed by a Walker. Otherwise, they generally just dawdled aimlessly by themselves. The group's departure from the Cavern could not come too soon, Jaime thought.

He looked up at the white, heavy tops of the trees, and the greying plumes of clouds above. There was a purity to this winter on days like these, skies untainted with smoke and ash, and blindingly bright snow to clean the ground.

“They were dragged this way,” Inett said.

“Would your cousin have been able to read these tracks?” Jaime asked her, and gained himself a characteristically withering expression from the hardy wildling woman.

“Torrhen and I are of the Free Folk,” she said simply. “We know these things.”

Jaime rolled his eyes as he followed her down the bank of the stream. There was a time when even being allied to wildlings would have bruised his pride, and now he was having to accept insolence from one. Pride, however, and many other useless things, had to be set aside when the Great War began. As Brienne pointed out to him, he needed to forget his own arrogance and egotism.

He thought of all the current conflicts within the Cavern. For a time, the wildlings and Vale men had fought over almost every decision made, with the Northerners coming in between to prevent the arguments becoming violent. A certain tolerance had been achieved recently, but with the danger becoming more immediate again, perhaps they would have more problems. Then there was the apparent tension between Sandor Clegane and Gendry, presumably over the younger Stark girl, although Jaime was unsure just how far or deeply that conflict went. Yohn Royce and Lance Manderly both disliked Bronn, Ser Harry disliked everyone, and it was less known that Daisy disliked Brienne, although that last problem was the most unlikely to lead to any physical violence.

Inett traversed the bank of the stream, poking a stick into the snow ahead of herself in case it would break away underfoot and send both of them tumbling into the near-frozen water. They reached a point where they could cross the stream, and halted. The water meandered away to the right, and a collection of large rocks were effectively slowing the speed of the flow.

“Wights would never use those stones to cross,” Jaime shook his head. “They don’t do well in water, particularly if they were carrying bodies.”

“There are no tracks here,” Inett muttered. “Covered by the snow.”

Jaime glanced around, on both sides of the stream, but saw nothing. Aside from the rush of the icy water, he could hear nothing, not even his own heartbeat. Inett’s breath misted in front of her.

“Let’s split up,” he said. “You head across the stream, and I’ll look over the rise on this side. Meet me back here quickly, whether you find anything or not.”

Inett nodded and headed for the rocks, grabbing several branches which had fallen into the snow. Jaime turned to go, but hesitated.

“Inett?” he hissed. She raised a bushy eyebrow. “Don’t go too far.”

“Yes, milord, anything you say, milord.” The woman bent in half and swept her arms out in a crude mockery of a bow.

“That sort of cheek would get you flogged where I’m from,” Jaime told her, but not in a vindictive way. If anything, he admired her resilience. Three children dead, her home destroyed, in a foreign land she did not recognise, and Inett never lost her spirit or endurance.

“I’m no kneeler,” she snapped, and dug two of her sticks into the stream bed before taking a first step onto the nearest rock.

Jaime shook his head and headed up the slope, digging his boots into the white powder to find a grip. He had also lost children, and the woman who had more or less been his wife. Finding reasons for endurance was difficult, but they all had the same choice in the end: live or die. Jaime thought of his true guardian Brienne, and his little brother, wherever Tyrion was now, and knew he had more than enough purpose to keep going. We all do terrible things to protect our families. Perhaps more terrible things would have to be done before the end of this night, to preserve what remained. After everything that had happened, he was willing to give his life’s blood to protect those he loved.

At the top of the slope, Jaime crouched and crept forward close to the ground. All he saw was more of the same frozen scenery, and no sign of wights or anything else capable of movement. He would have given anything to see a flash of yellow or green in this dull monotony of pristine whites, blues and the squashed brown of the soil and tree bark.

He scanned the surface of the snow around his feet. There were some animal tracks, but only a few. The snows overnight had covered most tracks altogether with a flat new layer. Jaime adjusted his sword belt and pulled his fur hood up, feeling his ears going numb from cold. Where are you…?

A crunching noise to his left made him start, and drop instantly into a crouch.

He stared past tree trunks and hanging twigs and icicles, seeing nothing. The sound came again, followed by another. Footsteps? He glanced behind, seeing, down the slope, that Inett had reached the opposite bank of the stream. He could not call her, not without drawing attention to himself. Besides, the footsteps could belong to anything, not necessarily something hostile.

Jaime swallowed his fear, and crept slowly forward, hating every time his furs caught on twigs or knocked down snow from above onto his head. Still, he could see nothing, and the footsteps had halted. He moved onwards, swivelling his head around to examine the surroundings. The rush of the stream was muted in the background, joined by the increased tempo of his pulse. He tried to breathe quietly, hearing the absence of birdsong as a bad omen.

The sound returned, directly ahead of him. Jaime peered forward, flattening himself close to the ground, and caught sight of movement between the trees. Definitely a human, definitely moving, and in some kind of clearing. He weighed up his options. It could be a wight, and certainly it seemed to be moving like a wight, but what if it was Torrhen or Ser Dard? He could hear no other sounds, no other footsteps. If it was a wight, it could be alone.

As silently and carefully as possible, Jaime rose into a crouch again, and crawled underneath ice-encrusted branches towards the clearing. He pressed himself to a tree trunk and looked around, his knees pressed against roots.

A single figure stood at the opposite side of the clearing, with its hood up, as still as death and looking away from Jaime. Torrhen? It was the wildling man’s clothing, for sure, and his belt with the bear claws sewn into the material.

Jaime crept around the tree trunk and stood, drawing his golden-hilted sword. The metal scraped, but the man did not budge. Jaime walked forward, every crunching step on the snow sounding like a step onto broken glass.

“Torrhen?” he said uncertainly. “Turn around.”

He did not move. Jaime could not see his hands, or what he was doing.

“Turn around, Torrhen,” he said, louder this time.

Still, he did not move. Not wanting to move any closer, Jaime swung his sword in a shining arc and prepared to attack.

“I’m giving you three seconds,” he warned the other man, fairly certain now that Torrhen was dead. “Turn around, or…”

The stick snapped just behind him.

Jaime pivoted around to look over his right shoulder, seeing a pair of blue eyes about fifteen feet away, and metal glinting between icy bushes. He caught his breath and prepared to respond, when he saw Torrhen move out of the corner of his eye.

Turning back, Jaime was in time to see one of Torrhen’s throwing axes catch the sunlight as it spun, before it slammed into his chest.

The wildling’s eyes were as cold and blue as the meltwater stream.

Chapter Text

The sun was sinking behind the tops of the trees outside the Cavern, casting an orange-gold glow through the branches over the cave entrance.

Inside, the activity and tense anticipation could be tasted in the air. Sansa was standing, presiding over the packing process like some kind of self-satisfied septa ordering her underlings to action. She had tied her hair back and frequently could be seen planting her hands on her hips. There was no contradicting her, and nobody tried. The whisper that they were leaving and soon pervaded every activity. At last, finally departing the caves.

Trying to appear busy every time her sister glanced over, Arya was gathering all her valued possessions together into a leather bag. Aside from Needle and her Valyrian dagger, which rarely left their places in her belt, she had few things worth keeping. Into the bag went the coin Jaqen H’ghar gave her all those years ago, spare gloves from Winterfell, a sizeable collection of silver stags scavenged off bodies, and a piece of wolf fur from Jon’s cloak; it was from the one he wore on the day he rode away on a dragon and never returned. She also had an ornate belt she picked off a Northern lady’s corpse, several trinkets she planned to give to Sansa on her nameday, and various dragonglass knives as backup in case she lost her other weapons. Aside from other pieces of clothing, she had very little else in the world.

I’ve got by on much less.

Next to Arya, Brienne was also packing her things into a bag. The fair-haired woman’s face was paler than her hair, and she incessantly glanced at the entrance, where the sunset was beginning to show. It was not very late in the day, but the daylight hours were very short during winter, and sunset came quickly. The Kingslayer and Inett still had not returned.

After his outburst a few hours earlier, Ser Harry Stone had his hands tied, and was chucked in a corner of the main cave to cool down. When he refused to stop shouting, he was gagged. Motionless and dumb, he was now forced to hear old Betha’s own brand of comfort or torment in the form of sage advice. A very sullen Bronn was sent out to take Harry’s shift of guard duty. Arya could see the sellsword’s shadow over the entrance of the Cavern as he shifted and stretched. Harry’s eyes were pits of frantic misery, unsettling to linger on.

Amidst the packing, Brass and Little Sam were behaving for the time being, pulling pieces of string between each other like young pups. In the centre of everything, Lord Royce had marked out, on a slab of slate, the list of food supplies required. He and Sansa were craning their heads over the list, discussing it seriously. Meg and Daisy had been assigned the task of packing away spare food, particularly the boar meat they tried to preserve from a week ago. Stix, with his specialist wildling knowledge, was telling them what they were doing wrong, frequently poking his head out of the caves, undoubtedly to check for Inett. Samwell was stitching together something which looked like a harness, apparently to help them safely transport Bran, assisted by Gilly. She had returned about an hour ago with Lance Manderly after the two of them finished checking the snares and traps for more food. Ghost had come padding into the cave, slipping off to sniff at Nymeria, investigating all the activity, sensing that something was about to happen.

Jasper, much to the approval of Royce and Sansa, had decided to laboriously carve their names into the cave wall, and the number of days they had remained stranded. “In case,” he said, “any future generations of Starks wish to mark the spot, or bards want to sing about our exploits…if we perish, that is.”

Since the events earlier that day, Arya was determined to keep a firm distance between herself and two childish, selfish idiots she foolishly chose to call her friends. Gendry was assessing the condition of their inventory of weapons, armour and other equipment with his blacksmith’s eye, sorting them in order of quality. Sandor was standing idle and eating rabbit meat off the bone. He was contributing as little as possible, aside from getting soundly reprimanded by a haughty Sansa for depleting their rations. As far as Arya was concerned, both Sandor and Gendry could sort out their own respective problems before speaking to her ever again, especially Sandor.

She fastened the straps of her bag and pulled it closed, far more violently than was required. The scarred warrior was watching her across the cave, but she kept her back towards him and refused to acknowledge his presence. If that was childish, she did not care. He deserved it.

I hope Sansa slaps him for eating the rations…

Gendry’s arrogant assumptions and his semi-proposal were one thing. Sandor’s forceful advances, on the other hand, confused her. She would have liked to forget the whole incident, but with very little else to think about, she had started running over what happened again and again in her mind. Eventually, she decided that he must have acted like that because of Gendry. After seeing him, Sandor was jealous, he was possessive, he was grasping, and he was afraid of losing her. She remembered the way his tongue and bristly beard hair felt on her cheek, and the weight of his hand high on her leg, and shivered. No. She shook away the thought. No, she did not want him that way. She wanted no-one like that. It made her uncomfortable that he even thought of her like that.

In an attempt to reconcile the whole scenario with what she knew of Sandor, Arya tried to imagine how she would react if there was a woman interested in him. Generally, she had never known Sandor to enjoy the company of any people, but she knew he must have been with a woman at some stage or other. Had he ever loved someone? Wanted to marry someone? She found it hard to imagine, but considered asking him.

No, I won’t. I’m NEVER talking to him again.

Arya set her bag aside, looked around to see if Sansa was watching, then surreptitiously sat next to the bag. Her sister was briefly occupied with watching Jasper’s carving. Brienne was finished packing now, wringing her hands with obvious anxiety.

“You okay?” Arya asked her quietly. The older woman’s big blue eyes swivelled away from the cave entrance towards the Stark girl.

“Just a bad feeling,” she admitted, shaking her head and tying a knot in the string fastening her bags. “I started feeling sick about an hour ago. It just won’t seem to go away.”

For a moment, Arya glanced upwards, hearing Lord Royce commanding Jasper to be careful. The middle-aged soldier was balancing himself on a narrow outcropping, about head height to the Vale lord, while he chiselled names into the wall. Looking back, Arya caught Brienne staring at the entrance again. She shifted closer to the tall woman around their dead, ashen fire.

“Your one-handed Lannister’s smarter than he looks,” she said, hoping that she sounded in some way comforting. “He’ll come back.”

Brienne smiled in a strained way, and sat back, no less anxious.

“Sorry,” Arya muttered. “I’m no good at comforting.”

“No,” Brienne turned to meet her curious gaze. “You’re not afraid to tell the truth. That’s better than telling lies trying to comfort someone.”

Arya smirked and clasped her hands across her knees. “Not everyone would agree with you there.”

They sat together, watching the others bustle about. Ghost had stolen Brass and Sam’s piece of string, and was wagging his white tail when the children chased after him. Meanwhile, Jasper slipped slightly, and a plume of dust and small stones came down onto Lord Royce’s grey head. Sansa stepped forward to neatly brush some dust from his armoured shoulder.

“Can I ask you something?” Arya frowned, lost in her own concerns.

“Anything,” Brienne told her, raising her blonde eyebrows in surprise.

Arya picked at the dirt under her nails. “Knowing the risks,” she said, “and knowing how dangerous the war was going to be…how did you manage to fall in love?”

At once, Brienne’s cheeks coloured with a blush. She always did that, Arya thought, and it was almost an endearing trait. Navy plate armour scraped a little as the taller woman shrugged.

“I don’t think it would have mattered,” she sighed softly. “If it had been summer or winter, war or peace, I’d probably still have fallen in love. I was in love with him for a long time before I even knew about White Walkers or the army of the dead.”

“So you couldn’t help it?” Arya prompted her.

“No,” Brienne shook her head. “I couldn’t, I guess. It just happened before I even knew it. If anything, the war just gave me the courage to tell him how I felt.”

Nodding, Arya examined the ashes of the fire. Earlier, she had found herself staring at Brienne with the Kingslayer, thinking about bravery, and whether it was brave to let yourself fall in love, and suffer the pain of maybe losing that person. Every day, she wanted to block out the worries which ached in her chest. She had become so much harsher, so much tougher than before, yet she still dreaded the day that she was on her own, without Sansa and Bran and Brienne and the others. Arya chanced a glimpse of Sandor’s wide back while he was fastening a scabbard to his hip, and felt a tightening in her chest.

“I don’t want to hope anymore,” she whispered, and despite knowing that Brienne was watching her with concern, closed her eyes and sighed.

A sudden howling clamour made both of them jump out of their stupor.

It took a moment for everyone in the cave to recognise the sounds of the remaining wolves from Nymeria’s pack. They had loped away early that day, presumably to rest after their exertion during the night, or to hunt, but now it seemed that they were back, wanting their leader.

The Cavern relaxed, returning to their chores, while the wolves kept whining and barking down below. Thinking of Nymeria, Arya considered whether she could get Gilly to help make another sled to carry the direwolf. If Nymeria lived. Allowing herself to hope was too great a risk. She had hoped for hours that Jon would return. Then the flames had spread, the living armies scattered, and her careless hopes had turned to pain. Caring about people was a gamble, and the Many-Faced God took as He pleased.

Sansa appeared in front of them, hands on hips, resplendent with busy ambitions and the power of command in her delicate fingers.

“Why are the two of you sitting here with nothing to do?” she asked sternly, reminding Arya, not for the first time, of their septa when they were children. “Come on, get up, I’ll find you something to do.”

They got up, but Brienne was staring at the cave entrance again.

“It’s getting darker, my lady,” she said, and the Stark girls exchanged a look. Brienne ran a hand over her white face, barely noticing their measuring gazes, and took a shaking breath. “I have to go after him,” she said suddenly.

Sansa hesitated for a moment, and then nodded her consent.

“Take Clegane,” she suggested. “He’s not pulling his weight around here anyway.”

Brienne wasted not another second, and scrambled to grab her hooded fur parka and slide a dragonglass knife into her belt. She crossed the cave with long, armoured strides, and shook Sandor’s arm, causing him to lurch around and glare at her. Nonetheless, after a furiously whispered conversation, Brienne managed to convince or blackmail him to the entrance, and they disappeared out of the concealed arch.

Arya ignored the return of stabbing fear in her chest, and the sickening thought that neither of them would return. Sansa, quite unexpectedly, held her hand.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Of course,” Arya replied, defensively without intending to be. “Why would I not be? I’m not worried about him – them, I mean. They’ll be fine.”

Sansa looked confused. “I meant Nymeria,” she explained, piercing blue eyes analysing her sister closely.

“I’m going to see her now.” Arya covered her sudden surge of embarrassment by making a move to walk away. Usually she was good at acting, and controlling her emotions.

“I’ll come with you,” Sansa offered, apparently ignoring her stumble, for which Arya was secretly grateful.

The sisters walked into the tunnel leading to the place Nymeria was lying. Seeing them leave the main cave, Ghost padded along closely behind, panting from being chased by the children. Arya felt the cool hilt of Needle through her glove and braced herself internally for the journey to come, if or when it came. Sandor called her a survivor, earlier. Perhaps that was all that mattered, until this night ended; survival.

After that, maybe hoping could become a possibility again.

Chapter Text

SIX MONTHS AGO…

She stood in the doorway of the room they gave him, not realising that the next few minutes would forever remain treasured in her memory.

“You look well,” Jaime told her, awkwardly standing at the foot of the bed.

The sheets were wrinkled, as if he had slept poorly and not bothered to straighten them when he woke. Dark shadows under his usually bright, emerald eyes also testified to that theory. Shutters knocked slightly from a cold wind outside, and several candles were flickering gently.

Brienne glanced down at herself self-consciously after he complimented her, hoping that she was not blushing. She was wearing a laced leather tunic and wolf fur cloak in typical Northern style. There was nothing to compliment, she was sure, but he was being polite, which was a start.

“You look well too,” she replied politely.

Although, in all honesty, she was saddened by how tired Jaime was. There was more silver in his hair now, and his face was gaunt. He was still covered in road dust, and his clothes and substandard armour were ragged. She would find him new clothes, she thought practically. Regardless of how anyone else feels about him.

Despite the grime and obvious exhaustion, Jaime still managed to seem unequivocally beautiful when he smiled.

“You’re hovering in that doorway,” he told her. “If you’re coming in, close the door. The draughts in this castle are appalling.”

It was true, Winterfell was becoming colder by the day, but that was not why she shivered. She closed the door, her hand trembling minutely as she turned the latch, but she was sure he did not notice.

“I’m heading out today with Lady Sansa,” Brienne said, keeping her voice level and convincing. “I just wanted to see if you were feeling okay.”

“I haven’t had a decent bed in over a week,” Jaime shrugged. “Any kind of accommodation is welcome after that, even when the hosts want you dead.”

That attempt at humour fell flat. Watching him, knowing that he was brushing off her question, and knowing almost instinctually that he was tormented with pain, Brienne stepped forward. She was not thinking of her own shyness now, or what anyone else in the castle wanted. Whatever had brought them together in friendship years ago, was a lasting bond which mattered now. Fate or the gods had brought them back together, and she needed to help him as much for her own sake as for his.

“Ser Jaime,” she said firmly, and held his hand in both of hers. “I know you came to Winterfell for your brother, and that there’s not much that I can do to help you after everything that’s happened…but anything I can do, I’m here for you.”

Brienne’s bravery nearly crumbled when his surprised gaze lifted from their hands, and the intensity of the eye contact made her insides twist. Were her palms getting sweaty? Was she shaking? How many times had she seen him since the day he gave her Oathkeeper, yet managed to hide what rested in her heart? Those brief meetings had been torturous to her, having to act the dutiful soldier when instinct told her to set all of that aside.

“Thank you, Brienne,” Jaime said, in a somewhat astonished voice which barely registered above a whisper.

She could see every line of his handsome face, every stray hair, every fleck of gold in the green of his irises. There must have been something unguarded in her reading of the mysteries of his appearance, or else she never would have found the courage to lean just a few inches closer, and press her lips to his. She held the contact only for a moment, briefly enough that she wondered if he would somehow misconstrue the kiss as just a gesture of friendship.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted, blood rushing to her face, looking anywhere but into the shocked depths of those emerald eyes. How could I be so stupid? What was I thinking? He could never…

“Don’t be,” he insisted, voice breaking with emotion, and he tilted his head to bring their mouths back together. A rush of disbelief and euphoria erupted in her mind, making every difficulty in life suddenly seem insignificant. Even the Great War was a faraway concept, a bad dream which turned ghostly and false on waking. There was nothing they would not face, nothing that would drive them apart, never again…

THE PRESENT

The torch she was carrying spewed a short trail of soot as Brienne trudged through the snow, eyes peeled on the two sets of tracks ahead of her. She placed her boots into the trenches and prints she hoped were Jaime’s, examining where they intersected or ran alongside Inett’s. She knew little about tracking or hunting, but fortunately their trail was easy to follow. There was hardly a breath of wind, and the sky had remained empty of white flakes in the last few hours.

Clegane was reluctantly following her, flinching when she turned and accidentally swung the torch in his direction. He was in a typical bad mood, but she had not thought to bring the scarred warrior for companionship. As long as he was ready for a fight, his mood hardly mattered.

Brienne felt as if an invisible hand was gripping her guts, and no amount of logical reasoning would put the feeling to rest. It had come suddenly, this sick feeling, like a premonition, not that she believed in such things. She gave no thought to why, only the certainty that she had to protect the man she loved. There was no honour or loyalty in waiting for him to return when he could be in danger. If this move involved leaving Lady Sansa for a time, so be it. Sansa had other protectors around her now; Jaime did not.

Please be alive.

There was so much she still hoped to do with him in her life. If she ever found her father again, Brienne hoped to introduce Ser Jaime to Lord Selwyn as her husband. She wanted to marry him, to see hope and life renewed in his eyes, to…there were too many hopes. Perhaps Arya was right when she said she did not want to hope anymore.

The sunlight was dying, and Brienne had to lower the torch to see the tracks clearly. Fear only grew as the light faded in a commotion of many colours on the horizon. They should have returned, she thought, panicking internally. Inett would never have stayed out so long. The Free Folk knew better than that.

Hold it together.

The tracks veered off, and for a moment Brienne felt a surge of fear that she had lost them where they crossed over several fallen trees. They searched for a tense few minutes, squinting through the dusk half-light.

“Back here,” Clegane grunted, crouching on the ground and gesturing. She brought the torch over, quickly corrected herself when he glared, and nodded.

“They’re still following the patrol route,” she commented, hoping that was a good sign.

“Chances are they’re already back at the Cavern,” he told her. “There’s no way Waynwood and Torrhen are still alive, not unless they found a damned good place to hide, and the Kingslayer’s got to know that, even if the wildling doesn’t want to give up.”

“Don’t call him that,” Brienne muttered, and set off at once after the tracks. She thought she could hear water. They had to be nearing the stream now.

“Habit,” Clegane muttered, snow crunching as he followed her. The ground was glistening with a frosty blue sheen.

“What?” Brienne asked, frowning back at him.

“Habit,” he repeated, sniffing grumpily and holding his cloak around his arms. “Calling your pretty Lannister lover the Kingslayer. There’s plenty of Kingslayers now, but he was the first.”

“I don’t care,” she snapped, tense as a coiled spring. “Don’t call him that.”

“Sore point, eh?” He glowered darkly. “Does it remind you what he really is?”

“Shut up,” Brienne rolled her eyes and moved on. We don’t have time for this.

She almost tripped on a branch, and bit her lip in frustration. The light would be gone soon, and getting back to the Cavern was not going to be easy. She did not allow herself to envision having to carry someone back. Thinking of the possibility that Jaime was already dead would drive her mad, so she blocked it away. …don’t want to hope…Thinking of the Stark girl again, she glanced at Sandor, trudging along on the other side of a rotting stump.

“Lady Arya’s angry at you about something,” she told him, if only to take her mind off the silence and the threats behind every tree and bramble patch.

He grunted. “When is she not?” he muttered.

Brienne hesitated for a moment, placing her feet carefully as they descended a slope in the forest floor. The sounds of water grew louder. “What did you do this time?” she finally asked. Sandor stopped himself from slipping by catching a branch.

“Acted like a drunken shit,” he said grimly. “The wolf girl’s in the right, as per fucking usual. Might be even more than usual.”

There were equal parts resentment and self-loathing in his tone, and Brienne briefly marvelled at their bizarre friendship. They would insult each other and bicker over everything under the sun, but if, even for a moment, an outsider criticised or threatened one of them, the two were a united front of harsh reprisal.

“You really love her,” Brienne remarked.

Even without the torch held in his direction, she could have sworn he bristled at that, but said nothing. Knowing that his temper had its limits, she stopped talking.

The tracks dropped away beneath her feet, away from the usual route, and she could see the stream, now loud and gushing, as it reflected the remaining glimmer of the sunset. There was a mess of icy slush on its bank, and she and Clegane skidded down to investigate.

“Old and new,” he frowned, pointing out scuffed marks underneath the prints of boots. The snow was churned up under their feet.

“I don’t like this,” she whispered, picking up a strange, acrid scent on the air. Smoke? Wights never lit fires, but if one had been lit, it probably meant corpses had been burned recently, and more blue-eyed wanderers might be drawn to the area.

Clegane drew his sword quietly, and Brienne shifted the torch to her other hand in case she needed her right free to do the same. The treeline on the opposite bank was shadowy, a homogeneous mass of dark shapes. For all they knew, standing on this exposed bank, they were being watched right now.

“Time to go back?” he suggested gruffly, his dark gaze darting in all directions.

“They’re close,” Brienne whispered, sensing the presence of somebody nearby. Fear was making every inch of her skin prickle.

She moved onwards, taking the torch with her, so Clegane had little choice but to follow. She heard him swearing under his breath as part of the bank collapsed into the stream, but he regained his footing, and they continued further from the edge. Brienne focused on the slightest movement beyond the golden glow of her torch, and the rush of fast-flowing water. Jaime, please be alive.

The stream meandered off towards the right, and she saw several sets of tracks heading up the hill away from the water. They were confused, going in several directions. With a stab of fear in her chest, she noticed a flash of dark red on the white.

“Up here,” she told Sandor, her voice betraying her terror.

They scrambled up the hill, struggling to gain footholds on the slippery powder. Clegane managed to get up first, and dropped into a crouch. The last of the dusk light was behind them, and she could see nothing past his bulky form.

Almost at the top of the slope, Brienne heard, over the sound of her own shuffling feet, a noise to her left. A split second later, something slammed into her back and clamped clammy skin against her mouth. She swallowed a yell, fell against the slope, and reached for Oathkeeper’s hilt.

“Put the fucking torch down,” a woman’s voice hissed.

“Inett?” Clegane cursed, his sword raised to bring down on top of the wildling. “Seven hells, I almost cut you in half.”

Brienne tried to calm her racing pulse. Inett removed the hand from her mouth, and grabbed the torch, holding the light close to the snow.

“There’s about a hundred of them all together about a mile from here,” the woman explained quietly, with narrowed, fearful eyes. “I saw them from the top of a tree. You start waving that flame around, they’ll be on us in no time.”

The word hundred caused Clegane to descend into another bout of profanity. Unable to contain herself, Brienne seized Inett’s sleeve. “Jaime,” she said desperately. “Where is Jaime? Is he hurt? Tell me, quickly. Quickly!”

Inett yanked her sleeve away. “If you’d let me damn speak,” she snapped irritably. “He’s alive, we’ve been lying low over here. Follow me.”

They pressed themselves to the slope as they crept along, Inett keeping the torch down. Brienne was barely comforted by the woman’s words. If Jaime had not been injured, where had the blood come from? Alive did not mean unhurt. She prayed that he was able to walk, or at least able to move enough to get back to the Cavern.

Inett led them to a large fallen tree about twenty feet from the treeline. They passed a smoking pile of charred bones on the way, and Brienne recognised a belt with bear claws around Inett’s waist. Torrhen. They're dead, then. Against the gnarled surface of the tree, Jaime was sitting, his face pale and clammy, but he looked up when they came into view.

Brienne rushed to his side with a flurry of heady relief, and held his face in her broad hands.

“I was so worried,” she said, and kissed his sweaty forehead. “I love you, I love you, never scare me so badly again.”

“Sorry about that,” he chuckled weakly, and patted her arm. “Minor inconvenience. Axe to the chest. Couldn’t be helped.”

There was a fissure in his plate armour, in the centre of his chest. An axe? She could see that his clothing was also torn underneath, but the axe could not have struck straight on, because the rift was crooked, one edge raised above the other. Otherwise, it could have gone right into his heart. There was torn material stuffed through the gap, crimson with blood, and stinking.

“How bad is it?” she asked. He must be in agony. “Can you walk?”

“With you to lean on, maybe,” he nodded, and she kissed him again, tasting his gratitude.

“Enough, before I vomit,” Clegane grouched darkly from behind them. “We need to get the fuck out of here, now, and if there are a hundred blue-eyed bastards waiting to kill us, we have to warn the others.”

“I quite agree,” Jaime said, and groaned as he tried to hoist himself up. “My lady,” he said, “I require your strong shoulders.”

Brienne slipped her arm under his, and pulled him to his feet while he put his weight around her neck. His face twisted in pain.

“Are you okay?” she asked, worried that she hurt him.

“It’s not so bad,” he shook his head. “Trying to reason with Cersei was more painful than this. Actually, even trying to agree what to have for dinner with Cersei was more painful than this. Really, I don’t feel a thing.”

“Why do you always think you’re funny when we’re in danger?” Brienne rolled her eyes, and they took a first agonised step together.

“Because I am.”

Clegane and Inett went ahead and behind of them. She was holding the torch in front, scanning ahead, and he crept behind, offering dark glares at the shadows. Brienne held Jaime up and thanked the gods he was still breathing. It was just another day of survival now, just another brush with death. Her mind turned to Sansa, and Arya, the threat lurking just behind them, and the oath to Lady Catelyn which still drove her actions.

We have to leave the Cavern NOW.

Chapter Text

The axe had ripped a hole in his armour, but somehow he had remained standing. Torrhen had come running at him, slack-jawed and demented, empty of all his former energy and humour. Killing him had been almost an accident, reeling and wounded as Jaime was, but it felt like setting the wildling’s ghost to rest. Before the wight which had once been Ser Dard Waynwood came close enough to strike a blow, Inett came charging out of the undergrowth, hatchets swinging, and leapt onto the former knight’s back. They had stabbed dragonglass into the corpses, then burnt them for good measure. Afterwards, they wished they had just buried them. The smoke could easily have given them away.

Unable to think or breathe properly from the pain, Jaime had collapsed, and remained useless for an hour at least while the light had faded. Inett had dragged him away from the top of the hill in the forest and deposited him against that tree, pulling out the throwing axe and stuffing ripped cloth into the gap to stem the blood flow. She had put out the fire, climbed a tree on the other side of the hill, and saw the assembled group of wights gathered in the distance.

If Brienne had not come looking for him, Jaime wondered if he would have died there. Inett might have left him eventually, if the choice was between her own survival and his. Not that he would have blamed her.

The rock formation came into view ahead of them, wreathed in moonlight, as familiar as Casterly Rock would be, if he ever saw it again. He felt the steady strength of Brienne’s arm keeping him upright, and tried not to think of the blood continuing to leak from his chest, or the sharp metal of his armour still pressing against his wound. The pain intensified with every step, but they had been walking for over an hour now, and he ceased to care about it. Losing his hand had been a far worse pain, a rotten, agonising one which lasted weeks.

“We’re back now,” Brienne whispered, clearly relieved.

“I’m wounded, not blind,” Jaime chuckled. “Where’s the marker? I don’t fancy landing on sharp stakes in the dark.”

Inett, who had gone ahead with their dying torch, found the marker, and they carefully stepped across the perimeter in single file, Brienne turning sideways so she could continue supporting him. Halfway across, he noticed the reflective eyes of the wolf pack in the treeline, watching warily and pacing. After they made it across, there was a hurried scramble up the path, Inett and Clegane going ahead to inform the others of the imminent threat.

“You look like shit, milord,” Bronn laughed when they reached the top.

“Still better than you,” Jaime retorted at once, but the effort of speaking loudly caused another wave of pain and breathlessness. “I thought Ser Harry was on guard duty,” he whispered to Brienne as they limped past the former sellsword to the entrance.

“Harry had a bit of a turn earlier,” Brienne explained.

“Cracked up like a broken egg, you mean,” Bronn added over his shoulder, still overly amused given the circumstances.

The relative warmth of the Cavern enveloped Jaime’s chilled extremities as Brienne lifted the layer of ice and bracken hiding the entrance. Inside, it seemed that everyone had gathered together, and it also seemed that packing was well underway. He noticed Harry Stone sitting not far away with hands roped together, gagged and furious. Jasper Snow was paused in the creation of some kind of carved list in the cave wall, and Ghost was lying next to the feet of the Stark girls, both of whom were standing while Inett and Clegane explained the situation in the centre of the group.

Brienne gently lowered Jaime to the ground, and gestured at Samwell Tarly to come over quickly. The portly almost-maester rushed across the cave, and Jaime winced in preparation for what would undoubtedly be an unpleasant remedy.

“Did I hear you right?” Sansa was saying, with a surprisingly calm tone. “A hundred?”

Inett cleared her throat. Stix was by her side, likely out of his mind with relief that he had only lost a friend, not a wife as well. “My counting’s not so good,” the wildling woman admitted. “But there were a lot of them. Not far, either. For all we know, they’re coming this way now.”

“And the Walkers are back,” Clegane added in a gravelly voice. “They turned Torrhen and Waynwood.”

There was a pause before Meg uttered a sudden moan of fear or grief, and that appeared to act as a catalyst. Everyone developed a strong opinion which immediately had to be voiced. Voices clamoured for supremacy, bouncing off the damp walls, before the children began to cry, Ghost got up and growled, and Jaime noticed Bronn poking his head into the cave, curious about the noise.

Samwell pulled the bloodied rags out of the gap in his rent plate armour, and pulled a very disconcerting face at whatever he saw.

“Could you try to look a little less like you’ve noticed I’m missing a lung?” Jaime grunted, never having liked maesters or healers and the way they generally viewed people as meat or experiments.

However, he was thankful that Tarly’s wide girth was shielding him from inquisitive viewing by the rest of the Cavern. At least they were all too distracted at present to notice if he screamed. Brienne had left his side, presumably to speak to her precious Lady Sansa, and he found his pain-addled, selfish mind pining for her strong presence, even if all she could have done was hold his hand. I will never deserve that woman…

“Removing this won’t be easy,” Samwell said, ignoring Jaime’s previous comment. “I’ll need to peel this metal back to prevent it tearing away more of your flesh when we unclasp the…”

“Whatever you have to do, just do it,” Jaime snapped. “Don’t make a song about it.”

Samwell turned and called out to Gendry, and the blacksmith hurried over, also pulling a disgusted face at the sight of the wound.

“I’m going to need you to prise this bit back here,” Tarly explained. “Quickly, get whatever you need, and come back.”

Jaime waited while Gendry rushed off, came back, stuck some kind of implement into the gap in his armour, and wrenched the metal back. Then the two men helped him to unclasp the breastplate, and strip off his ripped tunic. All the while, the Cavern was a mass of sound and chaos. Ser Harry, not far to Jaime’s left, was rocking back and forward, making low moaning noises.

“We have to leave now, before it’s too late!”

“They’ll pick us off one by one as we run!”

“The Walkers will trap us down here to die of starvation and thirst!”

Little Sam ran over at one stage to tug at his stepfather’s leg, and Tarly leaned over to comfort the child.

“Are we going to die?” the boy whimpered. “They’re saying we’re going to die, da.”

“Of course not,” Tarly shook his head firmly, pasting on a comforting, fatherly smile. “Go to your mother, she’ll tell you exactly the same. Don’t you worry. We’re all going to be just fine.”

Jaime watched the child rush away towards Gilly, ignoring the stinging and ache as Samwell cleaned out the crimson, weeping flap of skin over the centre of his chest. He was reminded unwelcomely of Tommen, when he was small, or Myrcella with white ribbons in her beautiful golden hair. He could almost see them now, with his open eyes, skipping across cobblestones in the Red Keep and clapping their pudgy little toddler hands, calling him Uncle Jaime and laughing when he joked. Naturally, while his wound was bound up, Cersei’s smirking face came to haunt him again. Leave me alone, sweet sister. She was dead, he told himself, and all of these spectres were ghosts of a forgotten past. Let them go.

Sadly, he searched for Brienne’s shining sapphire eyes. She was, predictably, standing next to Sansa and Royce while the Vale lord demanded in a booming voice for quiet and calm in the Cavern. And, eventually, the cacophony died down. Even the loudest speakers decided they had wasted enough breath on getting their points across. Some sat, some stood, all grim and tired and needing a clear answer.

“Silence and listen to your Queen!” Yohn Royce thundered, and offered the apparent floor to Sansa.

Quite the regal figure, she stepped into the centre of the group and briefly looked at everyone around her before speaking. Her long red hair was tied back, and Jaime noted that her dress had new panels of leather stitched into its warm fabric. “Thank you, Lord Royce,” she said politely. “I think the most important thing for all of us to remember now is that we don’t stand any chance at all if we fight with each other.”

“What should we do, my lady?” Lance Manderly asked, sitting with his hands folded over his knees, clad in faded yellow britches.

“We need to weigh up this decision carefully,” Sansa stated diplomatically. “It seems we have two options at present; leave or stay.”

“If we leave, they’ll pick us off,” the normally quiet Stix muttered. He and Inett were standing side by side, united in their shared opinion. “There are too many of them, and we can’t hope to outrun them in this weather with wounded to drag along.”

“But if we stay, they’ll trap us here and slaughter us in this cave!” Meg wailed, her face smudged and red with tears.

“We can defend this cave better than we can defend ourselves out there,” Bronn pointed out, having come in and quickly grasped the situation.

“Shouldn’t you be watching for the enemy outside?” Royce asked him gruffly.

“Seems to me my opinion’s just as valuable as that of a washerwoman or an old woman,” the sellsword spat sarcastically. “We’d be fools to leave.”

“Thank you, ser,” Sansa said sternly, “Your opinion has been noted. Please return to your post.”

Bronn had the audacity to wink at her before doing as she commanded, and sauntered off with a self-satisfied smirk. While the debate continued, in more hushed tones than before, Jaime glanced at Samwell’s work bandaging his wound. The crimson staining had stopped spreading on the fabric, and the throbbing sensation around the skin flap had started to pulse a little gentler.

“Nearly done,” the healer informed him, before roughly pulling a tight knot in the bandage just under his arm. “There you go.”

Jaime steadied himself against the cave wall, his head swimming with exhaustion and blood loss. Nonetheless, he had enough strength to get to his feet, and pull his tunic back on. It was difficult to sensibly convey a military opinion when shirtless, and he had to tell everyone the harsh truth.

“We have to stay now,” he said loudly, startling the group to attention. “We dug those trenches on the perimeter for a reason, and we have the high ground here. We could defend this cave against a hundred wights, but there’s no defence on the open road if we're discovered by the Walkers. Earlier, I advised Lady Sansa that we should leave, but now is not the time. Not with so many of them right on the doorstep.”

Yohn Royce stepped forward next to Sansa and nodded his grey head.

“Ser Jaime speaks truthfully,” he said gravely. “We have to make our stand here.”

Another voice cut in.

“I say we take it to a vote,” Arya Stark suggested, sitting cross-legged next to Ghost. “Everyone here deserves a chance to decide what we do.”

Lady Sansa blinked, and planted her hands on her slender waist. “As long as each of us agrees to obey the decision of the majority,” she conceded. “I see no problem with that.” There was a wave of approval for once, and much to Jaime’s relief, a decision was made. The vote was taken, discounting the children of course, and Brandon Stark, who was, for obvious reasons, incapable of taking part.

“All those in favour of leaving and taking our chances on the road.”

The raised hands were counted. Five, ignoring Ser Harry’s waving tied hands.

“And all those in favour of staying and defending the Cavern.”

Twelve, counting Bronn, who had clearly been listening just outside.

“In that case,” boomed Royce, with commanding power. “Let us prepare to defend ourselves. Men, form a war council so we can discuss our strategy!”

Jaime tried to catch Brienne’s eye across the cave, but she was occupied, listening to something Sansa was whispering to her guardian and younger sister. There was a similar expression of general disbelief and incredulity on most faces, as if the length of time they had spent here had removed their notions of what the true danger, the one they lost their homes to, even looked like. Meg continued to weep, mourning more vocally than most. Would Brienne cry like that, if he died?

He walked over to the place where Royce was pontificating about their “final stand”, and the bravery each man had to find within himself. His own mind started racing over the various uses of fire, torches, dragonglass, and the thing they had in greatest abundance; rocks. They had a few barrels of pitch taken from a nearby village, and the wildlings had made arrows, while Gendry was a useful asset when it came to fixing broken objects, and everyone here had battle experience. Perhaps all was not as hopeless as it seemed.

No. This would not be their final stand. This is only the beginning.

Chapter Text

SIX MONTHS AGO

The maester informed Lord Yohn Royce on a crisp, fresh winter morning that Lady Sansa wished to see him immediately in the Great Hall. He had viewed the summons as an honour, of course, and was at once willing to comply with the wishes of the Lady of Winterfell. That young woman’s resilience and sensible leadership over the last few weeks had proven what he had suspected from the moment she revealed her identity in the Eyrie after her aunt’s untimely demise; that she was a Stark in her core, worthy of Lady Catelyn’s memory and the legacy of a proud house. Yohn was beginning to think that he would happily follow her anywhere, maybe even before he would follow her wildling-loving half-brother.

He entered the Great Hall with a spring in his step, wearing his full armour and a white cape over his shoulders. The hall was pale and ghostly, hauntingly so, and she was standing behind the high table, facing the roaring hearth.

“Lord Royce,” Lady Sansa said, not looking up.

Yohn strode up the hall. “My lady,” he greeted her warmly. “You summoned me?”

There was a sprinkling of snow over the hood and shoulders of a thick woollen cloak she was wearing, and he could tell that she had been outside recently. Her red hair was fiery with the glow of the hearth, but, he realised, there was deep sorrow in her beautiful, young face. Former optimism and pride diminished to plain concern.

“What is the matter, my lady?” he asked her, sensing that something was amiss.

She turned, and he noticed that her kind blue eyes were watery and red-rimmed. It broke his heart to see such a miserable vision of beauty and distress.

“My lord,” Lady Sansa said sadly. “There is a matter of grave importance which I must discuss with you. Can I trust that you will keep my confidence in this?”

“You can trust me with anything,” he assured her passionately.

She nodded, and stepped around the table, holding her gloved hands close to her breast and controlling her apparent emotions with an admirable iron fist. Lord Royce waited patiently, desiring very much to remove whatever problem had upset her.

“I have something to confess,” Lady Sansa sighed. “And I fear you will only think badly of me after I confess to it.”

“Never,” Yohn insisted. “My respect for you could never change.”

“And yet,” she said, and wiped away a crystal tear, “I fear it will.”

Comfortingly, he gently held her shoulders, and she lifted those sad eyes to meet his own. So young, and so capable, he thought. She had the spirit of her mother and the honour of her father. Nothing, he was absolutely certain, could change his mind about her.

“I swear by the old gods and the new,” he promised, “that I will think no differently of you after this conversation than I do now, my lady.”

And, after a moment, she nodded, placated. Lady Sansa wrung her hands and stepped away towards the tall windows, looking out at falling snow.

“My confession is this,” she told him. “When my aunt died, and you called me in as a witness, thinking me Lord Baelish’s daughter…I lied to you to protect him. Lysa Arryn did not commit suicide. She was pushed out of the moon door.”

Yohn blinked, bitter anger against that insidious snake Baelish rising up within. “I knew it!” he hissed. “I knew it all along. That weasel, that slippery…”

“Please,” Lady Sansa pleaded in a miserable tone. “Don’t blame me for my false testimony. I was frightened and lonely, and did not know who I could trust. At least I knew that Lord Baelish loved my mother, and would attempt to protect me because of her memory.”

Pushing his rage aside and reasserting control of his manners, Yohn took a deep breath and unclenched his fists. Of course, he did not blame Lady Sansa. Poor innocent child, he thought. She’s had to live with such terrible guilt for too long. In his opinion, a lady of high standing should never have been reduced to such desperate measures.

“I understand your position completely,” he told her. “Of course, you had no choice. No blame rests on you, naturally. That rat Baelish played us both. Protector of the Vale…I’d like to rip all those fancy titles away and see how well he manages to defend himself.”

Lady Sansa turned and walked back to him, a sudden change evident in her face. New intensity had replaced the deep sorrow. Those piercing blue eyes drew him close and appealed to every ounce of compassion in his soul.

“That’s what I intend to do, my lord,” she told him, fiercely, confidently. “If you promise me, when the time comes, that you’ll be on my side, we’ll deal with him forever. Will you help me?”

He clasped one of her delicate hands between two of his. How could any man of honour refuse such a passionate plea, especially when it came from a young lady as beautiful and praise-worthy as Sansa Stark?

“You can trust me,” he declared.

THE PRESENT

The wind was picking up, and it ruffled Yohn’s grey hair at the top of the rock formation. The night had passed, and another sunrise was beginning to cover the treetops in a pale glow.

He watched as Ser Jaime ordered Lance Manderly and Gendry Waters to pour oily pitch over the bracken and sharp stakes inside the trenches. They had dug into the half-frozen ground in a semicircle a month into their stay in the Cavern, ignoring the other side of the rocks, which was solid granite and impossible to break into. That was their best defence against the great threat, if it came; their best chance of survival.

“Snow, what do you think you’re doing?” he barked at Jasper, who was helping Ser Bronn and Lady Brienne gather together a large collection of rocks into a metal net they picked up a while ago. The soldier was tying a knot of rope to fasten the net in place, and raised his head to frown up at Yohn.

“Milord?” he said, confused.

“That is no proper knot,” Yohn told the man, and took the rope from his hands. “You’ll end up bringing the whole pile down before the enemy even arrive with a shoddy knot like that!”

Jasper Snow surrendered the tying process without complaint, getting up and raising his hands with a sigh.

“Don’t know a damn thing about knots,” he muttered. “Not a sailor, me.”

Yohn tied the net in place himself, tightening the ropes as Lady Brienne and Bronn came back with arms full of head-sized boulders to lower into the pile. Their faces were covered with dirt and dust from their efforts at collecting and prising enough rocks to fill the net. Bronn wiped his forehead, and smudged more mud across his face.

“This isn’t enough,” he groaned. “I’m going to break my back at this.”

Meanwhile, the women of their group were collecting smaller rocks and stones and leaving them in baskets next to the cave entrance. Gilly and Meg were crouched nearby, sorting them in terms of weight. Further across the flat surface of the formation, Inett was laying quivers of new arrows out, and tested one by lighting it on fire. Regular arrows were next to useless against dead men, but fire was their best possible tool, aside from dragonglass or Valyrian steel. Yohn had not wanted to involve the women in this battle, but Lady Sansa insisted, and in all honesty, they required as many extra hands as possible. With only thirteen capable fighters, only ten of whom were reliable or unwounded, the battle would not be an easy one. Life and death hung in the balance of cooperation between everyone in their group.

On the topic of cooperation, Ser Harry Stone had been taken further into the cave system along with Old Betha and the children, where they would wait out the potential fight, if it came. Yohn was deeply disappointed with Harry’s behaviour. With Ser Dard and his other knights gone, it remained for him alone to represent the Vale in this group, not an honour he would ever think of resenting, but a difficult one for a man of his increasing years.

This could be my final stand.

Well, if it came to that, he was ready to die to defend Lady Sansa and her people. Queen Sansa. The young lady deserved to see her country reborn after this was over, and the people could not have asked for a better leader.

Raised voices from below drew him out of his reverie, and Yohn got up from the metal mesh to look down. The wildling Stix had returned, and was crossing the perimeter.

“They’re coming this way!” came a warning shout from Lance Manderly, cupping his hands up to his mouth. “Everyone take cover and ready yourselves!”

Yohn held up a hand in answer, and turned to the pale faces around himself.

“These will have to do, friends,” he said, nudging the rock pile with the toe of his boot. “Right, heave them over the side. Hurry, now.”

Lady Brienne and Bronn helped him and Jasper to shove the rocks within their net over the edge of the formation, while the women ran into the Cavern to warn the others. For a moment of uncertainty, one of the ropes made an unsettling creaking noise, and sprang loose from its mooring, but the others held fast. They took a collective breath of relief as the net remained in place.

“Who could have guessed it?” Jasper laughed nervously. “I tied that one.”

Yohn pulled up his fur hood and found a place to crouch near the edge of the precipice where he could still see what was happening below. Ser Jaime was waving for Gendry and Lance to hurry up with their efforts of covering the trenches again with branches and as much snow as could be packed down. Stix took long strides up the path.

“Did they see you?” Lady Brienne asked the wildling when he reached the top.

“No, I’m sure they didn’t,” he replied seriously. “They’re just moving this way. There’s a chance, I think, if we don’t give ourselves away, they’ll just march past.”

This news was fairly well received, but everyone was girding themselves for a battle. They were tired of waiting, tired of knowing that the dead were destroying the land they called home without being able to do anything about it. Let them come. Yohn adjusted his sword belt and grabbed his bow, noting the position of one of the quivers. Each of them carried flint, to quickly light their arrows on fire, and they all held dragonglass weapons as well. We’re prepared. Let them come.

The Cavern emptied, all the warriors lining up along the edge of the rock formation, low to the ground and quiet save for worried mutterings. The four women drew back the bracken and ice concealing the cave entrance, and waited on either side of the opening. Lady Sansa had a dagger in hand, hovering in the half-shadows, fearless and beautiful. Samwell Tarly was with them, carrying medical supplies of some kind if needed. The white direwolf emerged and paced before lying still.

Yohn stared at the treeline below, imagining that he could hear the rumble of many shuffling, rotting feet, or the tread of hooves belonging to dead horses. His pulse was thick and steady, and he was prepared.

He was crouched on the left side of the path. Next to him on that side was the wildling couple, Stix and Inett, blending into the rocks like beasts of the Far North. Beyond them were Lady Arya with a deadly expression and her bow poised, Sandor Clegane, bristling with weaponry, and Gendry with his war hammer, looking very much like a young Robert Baratheon reincarnated.

On the opposite side of the path was Ser Jaime, looking rather waxy and ill due to the wound he had taken during the night. The injured lion was kneeling a short distance behind his lady knight, Brienne. Next to them were Jasper Snow, Bronn of the Blackwater and Lance Manderly. What a motley band we are…Wildlings and Northerners, a Vale lord and a Lannister, brave smallfolk and disgraced warriors, all drawn together by fate.

“Look,” Inett hissed, and Yohn squinted down to the same place she was looking. A flash of blue? Had he imagined it?

Whether he had or not, the noise behind him drew his attention away.

There was a panicked gasp, and he turned at once to see Meg, with a blade pressed closely to her throat. Ghost snarled and bared his fangs. Ser Harry’s eyes were swollen and covered in veins, his hand trembling visibly at the woman’s neck. There was a bag stuffed with supplies on his other arm, and a demented look on his terrified face.

“Harry,” Yohn said, steadily as possible. “Let her go.”

“No,” he said, not quietly either. “Not until you let me pass.”

“There’s a whole army of bloody wights down there, fool,” Jasper exclaimed. “Don’t run to them, Harry. Keep your voice down and go inside.”

“NO!” the knight cried out. “No, I’m not staying. You’re all MAD, and I’m not staying to die. Not me. Everyone else is already gone. Do you hear me? GONE!”

Tears began to run down Meg’s cheeks. Yohn felt a lurch of fear in his gut, not knowing if the enemy could hear this shouting.

“Let me go, please,” Meg whispered.

“Ser,” came Lady Sansa’s soothing voice, and she lifted her hand out slowly. “No-one’s going to stop you. Just let Meg go. Lower the sword.”

Harry hesitated, and it seemed that everyone was holding their breath. His bloodshot eyes swivelled around, and finally, just when the tension became unbearable, he dropped Meg and ran for the edge of the rock formation. Yohn watched in horror as he tripped, dropped his sword and went tumbling down the path, crying out in pain all the way down.

“We have to shoot him!” Bronn hissed. “Now! He’s going to give us away!”

Yohn was frozen, watching the demented Harry pick himself up and limp towards the perimeter with pitiful desperation.

“Don’t waste your arrows,” Ser Jaime angrily warned the former sellsword as he got up and aimed. Nonetheless, Bronn loosed the arrow, and all eyes followed it as it fell towards Harry’s stumbling back. It landed next to his foot, and the man tripped on it just beyond the perimeter.

“Mad!” he roared. “MAD!” And he disappeared into the undergrowth.

Relative silence returned to the forest.

The wind whipped through the trees, and they groaned and creaked warnings to the people waiting on the rocks. It was always the worst part of a battle, thought Yohn: the waiting beforehand. The tension mounted until the moment it snapped, and courage was sorely tested in that time. He looked back, and saw Sansa holding Meg’s hand while the other woman wiped her tearful eyes.

The screams were heard about ten minutes later, guttural and cut off sharply. Birds rose from the trees, squawking.

Another ten minutes later, the wolves burst from the trees and leapt cleanly across the perimeter and the trenches. They snapped and growled and ran halfway up the path, clearly disturbed. Ghost loped downwards to join them, and the beasts sniffed each other and whined.

“Now the damn wolves will give us away!” Bronn complained loudly.

“Look.” Lady Brienne pointed, and her voice was tainted with anxiety.

They emerged from the trees as quietly as phantoms, one by one, five by five. A multitude of blue eyes and blank faces came out from the shadows, all of them tilted upwards. They lined up just within view and halted, not making a sound.

“Get ready, Manderly,” Yohn said, and Lance nodded, lighting his torch.

For a few minutes the wights did nothing, all of them so still that Yohn could have convinced himself that they were a hallucination, and that he was in fact only seeing trees. And then, like waves, they shifted, stepping aside.

A pair of dead horses silently emerged, and their icy-skinned riders turned their cold gazes upwards. Yohn clenched his jaw, feeling the freezing power of their stares. Their long white hair fell over black, armoured shoulders, and both of them carried long pale bows.

“Steady,” Yohn whispered, noticing Inett and Stix loading arrows. “And don’t waste your dragonglass until the two of them come within range.”

One of the Walkers raised its hand, and all was as quiet as death.

And then it lowered the hand.

The wights shrieked as one and advanced, groaning out all manner of disgusting sounds as they walked forward.

“Prepare to fire,” Ser Jaime shouted, rising to his feet before coughing and reeling slightly, clutching his wounded chest. Lady Brienne turned and held his arm before he could topple.

Yohn knocked an arrow, lit the end, and aimed at the row of dead faces. The wights surged up to the perimeter, tightly bunched. There’s more than a hundred. There’s more than we thought. At the same moment they released a first volley of flaming arrows, the wights broke the camouflaging layer of branches and snow, and collapsed down into the trenches.

“Light it up, Manderly!” Yohn boomed.

Lance lit the line of oily bracken next to his feet, and it caught fast, spreading the fire right down to the foot of the rock formation. The fire leapt into the trench and spread slowly all the way around the semicircle. Wights shrieked at the perimeter as they caught fire, some of them impaled by arrows and others trapped in the flaming trench. The warriors let out a roar of initial victory.

However, the wights were still coming, ignoring the fallen bodies in front and beside them. The rows approached and used the corpses already in the trenches to cross over the perimeter. Arrows flew down upon them, but they barely paused. Yohn loosed another and lowered his bow, looking for the Walkers, still on horseback. One of them had raised its own bow, and loaded some kind of icy jagged bolt.

“Look out!” he yelled.

The white bolt tore through the air and Yohn followed its trajectory with horror.

“Manderly, look…”

The bolt ripped into Lance’s shoulder and the man collapsed with a scream of agony. Seeing Tarly leap up and race to the fallen soldier’s side, Yohn whirled back to the approaching wights. The wolves were waiting on the path, hackles raised and snarling, fur standing on end.

“We need to get the wolves out of the way, my lady!” Yohn shouted back at Sansa.

Her eyes widened, and she frantically looked around for her sister. While she called out for Arya to somehow move the wolves, flaming arrows continued to fall. Did we get thirty with the trenches? Twenty? There were too many. They would reach the top for sure. Yohn saw another deadly white bolt tear towards them, but this time it went uselessly over the wildlings’ heads when they ducked. Yohn shot more arrows down, watching as flames caught on the bodies of the wights when they met their intended marks. The wights had reached the rocks and the path, and began clambering up, hissing and reaching upwards like beasts.

Arya ran past Yohn, and crouched on the edge of the slope.

“Ghost!” she shouted fearfully. “Back, boy! Come on!”

“Hurry!” someone insisted. “It’s now or never for this!”

Yohn worriedly noticed one of the Walkers was approaching, putting out the fire in the trenches with its feet, and crossing over on the bodies of those already in the ditch. Ghost turned his big white head, and regarded the younger Stark girl for a moment, as if weighing up whether or not to obey. Thankfully, the beast did, and barked as he ran up the path. The other wolves ceased snarling down at the approaching wights, and followed.

Just as the last set of paws scrabbled out of the way, Jasper and Brienne slashed two of the ropes holding the metal net in place. The rock pile fell away, tumbling in a landslide, crushing some of the wights ascending the slope. A bloody, twitching mess remained in their wake, but the following creatures just stepped over the limbs of the fallen. Still not enough. There must be over a hundred still remaining.

“That Walker’s in range!” Stix roared.

There was a pause as everyone reached for dragonglass arrows. Gilly and Daisy crept up near to the path and started pelting rocks down on the heads of the wights below. Tarly had dragged Lance Manderly back to the cave entrance, and Sansa was standing to help him. The noise of shrieking drowned out Yohn’s own thoughts, the battle becoming a haze of unrelenting screams. And then there was another scream, higher than any other, which pierced the air. The nearest White Walker clutched its impaled eye and its entire body shattered like broken glass, while Bronn roared in triumph. All at once, at least forty of the wights collapsed and lay where they fell, motionless.

That leaves what? Ninety of them? Too many. Still too many.

The other Walker screamed as well, and Yohn winced at the sound. The wights growled and hissed, and the wolves raced down upon the nearest group, claws and fangs sinking into flesh. Yohn drew his sword, and heard the scrape of metal on metal as others exchanged bows for weapons of close combat.

“You’re too weak, Jaime!” he heard Lady Brienne shouting over the din. “Get behind me!”

“What kind of ass would I be to cower behind a woman?” came the expected protest. “Why don’t you get behind me?”

“You’re being an idiot!”

“You’re too protective!”

Yohn Royce looked behind to make sure that Lady Sansa was still sensibly standing in the cave entrance, holding her dagger, white-knuckled but impressively calm. He hefted his sword and looked down at the nearest wights, ready to slice the first head clean from its shoulders. And then he froze, blinking, in a moment of recognition of the crawling dead man beneath the place he stood.

Harry…

The wight had an empty, hating gaze, with a sliced throat and crimson staining down its armoured chest. Yohn felt the breath catch in his lungs as he recalled that same face fifteen years ago, eagerly volunteering his services as a squire, wanting so badly to be recognised. Such a light-hearted boy, back then, knowing nothing of horror, ignorantly yearning for the glory of war.

I’m so sorry, Harry. I shouldn’t have brought you out here.

The blood pounded in his ears as he prepared to end the beast which had once been Harry. He lifted his head for a moment, thinking he heard someone say his name. Ser Jaime was shouting, his lips moving with strange slowness, and Yohn could not hear what it was he was trying to say. That’s young Harry down there, that boy, that squire…There was a whine close to his ear, and a rush of air, and something cold struck him in the neck with all the force of a falling tree.

Lord Royce was falling down, the ground rushing up towards his face. He barely registered the impact as an arrow, and barely realised that he was struck. The last precious things he saw before he hit the ground were Lady Sansa’s wide blue eyes, open and filled with blank horror.

Then only blackness.

Chapter Text

They were still coming, through the flames and the fire, regardless of the danger to themselves. Bloodied dead faces twisted into revolting shapes, grasping hands reaching up towards the living defenders of the Cavern.

Sandor saw Royce fall, the Walker’s strange white arrow shaft protruding from his neck. The Vale lord hit the ground, the thud of armour on stone drowned out by shrieking wights, snarling wolves, and the loud chaos of the battle. Blood sprayed the rocks outside the cave entrance.

The Walker which had shot the arrow was keeping out of range of the dragonglass which had shattered its companion, glaring upwards with cold venom in its glowing eyes. All the wights were moving now, crowding at the foot of the rock formation, clambering over each other to scale the rocks, desperate for blood, for more slaughter.

He wiped a layer of fearful sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and clutched the hilt of his longsword, shifting in preparation to cut the first wight to pieces. To his right was the she-wolf, as silent and peaceful as the grave, eyes fixed on the climbing creatures beneath her feet. To his left was the whelp, Gendry, swinging that damned war hammer and moving from foot to foot.

“Don’t even think about hitting me with that thing,” Sandor growled at him.

Gendry did not look up. “Wouldn’t waste my time,” he replied insolently.

The wights reached the top then, clambering over the edge of the rocks and immediately scrambling out of the way of blades and other weapons. Sandor swung his sword and cut off a grappling arm before ramming a dragonglass knife into its blue eye. Gore spilled over his fingers and filled the air with its sickening smell. He kicked the next head, and knocked down two of the wights, which fell, rags billowing around papery skin. He saw Arya slashing and stabbing with her Valyrian dagger, a mist of red splattering from the body of the one which had clambered up in her direction. The wildlings were acting as a unit, Stix using his hatchet and machete, while Inett fired flaming arrows from behind.

A hand reached for his leg, and Sandor crushed it underfoot, feeling knuckles and finger bones shatter. A spinning knife came flying up from another one below, and he lurched backwards to avoid having his face cut open. His sword fell upon the next two, both of them climbing over the writhing body of the one with a crushed hand. They kept coming, despite the gaping slices in their backs and faces, spewing blood in streams down onto the rocks and over the one they crawled over. Sandor stepped back from the slippery edge, exchanging a knife for a dragonglass axe, and used that to imbed into the skull of the screeching one nearest him. The other lost a leg before he gave it the same end.

There was a sharp female cry from the right, and Sandor caught sight of Daisy, knocked to the ground by a wight dragging her leg. A second one climbed up and stabbed at the woman with a long knife. Brienne decapitated it with a well-aimed swing, but it looked like Daisy was bleeding from her arms and body.

He did not have time to see if she lived.

“Look out!” someone, maybe Bronn, shouted, and there was a collective ducking movement as another ice arrow flew over their heads.

Sandor moved fast to parry a vicious blow from the next one rushing at him, and he roared as he brought his blade back around to cleave through its ragged clothes and hack through its ribcage. The creature kept struggling, so he chopped with his dragonglass axe and watched it fall limp. The rocks were getting slick underfoot with blood and slimy, dismembered limbs, and his sword was stuck in the creature’s chest.

As he attempted to yank the blade free, three wights had surrounded the whelp. Gendry swung his hammer in a circle to keep their grasping, claw-like hands and shining weapons at bay, crushing the head of one but only delaying the others from lunging forward. Meanwhile, Arya was a spinning flurry of cutting, piercing violence, a princess of death in her own unforgiving domain, but she was occupied with two victims of her own, using her legs to snap one’s neck while sticking her little sword into the bowels of another.

Gendry cried out as a spear entered the back of his leg, and stumbled, nearly dropping his hammer.

Sandor left the hilt of his sword sticking out of the last corpse, and rushed forward in a few long strides. He seized the one with the spear by its hair and tossed it backwards before cutting its throat with dragonglass. Gendry lashed out from a kneeling position, and knocked the other two off their feet. One of them shrieked and clumsily swung a club as it fell, managing to get a lucky strike at the whelp’s undefended head.

Sandor cursed and lurched forwards as Gendry dropped his hammer and slumped down. He stood over the whelp’s body as the wights got back up, and quickly reduced their necks to bloodied pulp. He had no thoughts of having saved the bastard exactly, because coherent thoughts like that were far away.

“No! Gendry!” Arya yelled, having at last noticed that the whelp was unconscious, and Sandor met her panicked expression briefly.

There was hair and blood pasted across his face, and a ringing in his ears. Heavy, pulsing anger and bloodlust fuelled his endurance as he stood there, looking down the slope in a disorientated daze. Bodies were piled up already around his feet, and rivers of crimson were finding their way to the edge of the rock formation. The wights were a homogenous mass of bodies clambering to reach the top. How many? Seventy? Sixty? He kicked some of the motionless ones over the side to gain some time and knock them back.

He noticed that the snowy treetops were glittering incongruously with the glow of a sunrise, and felt the buffeting force of the wind. The remaining White Walker was edging closer on horseback, another arrow knocked in place on its bow. Everything was blood and madness and flashing steel, but that he was used to.

Death and pain did not scare him. There was only one fate he feared.

Fire was spreading among the climbers from a developing wall of burning corpses. Some of the moving ones were burning, and the smell reached his nostrils, acrid and all too familiar. Sandor felt his old memories locking his joints, freezing him in his core. No. Fuck it, not again, not now…He felt Gregor’s hands pushing his head down, and the golden flames licking eagerly at his young flesh. The smell filled his nose, the fire crackling, burning, wrinkling and eating his skin…

“Help me drag him!”

Sandor snapped himself back to the present at the sound of the she-wolf’s voice. Arya was trying to lift Gendry’s prone body, and he quickly seized the whelp’s legs before they carried him back from the edge. The wights came after them, four of them scrambling over the top, and they were forced to drop him to defend themselves.

A flaming arrow came from the right, and planted itself into the side of a wight’s head. Inett. Fire caught in the hair of the creature, and Sandor wildly slashed in front of himself, desperate to get the flames out of his sight. But the smell remained. It hung in the air like poison, and his mind swam in fear.

Arya’s weapons were moving quickly back and forth, blocking and cutting. She made it look like a dance, like a form of art, painting the ground with gore. The bodies fell in front of them, two of them on top of Gendry, and one of them in two pieces. Sandor stumbled, his feet losing grip on the bloodied rocks. Something jagged ripped at his leg and his back slammed against the ground. He groaned in pain.

“Get up and help me!” Arya shouted. “They’re still coming!”

Steel was flashing in the morning sunlight, and the wights were moonlight pale. Light and shadow danced between the flailing limbs around them, and the smell of burning filled Sandor’s nose. He could barely tell who was who, or where anyone was. The wolves ran across his field of vision, Ghost and two others, snarling, their fur soaked in blood. The direwolf stood near the edge of the rocks and panted in the direction of the wights, looking exhausted, before springing downwards.

Sandor watched Arya drop her weapons and wrap her arms around Gendry’s torso, trying to drag the whelp’s legs out from under the fallen bodies. The wolves had bought them some time, and he tried to catch his breath. The bodies were still smoking, crackling, burning…

“Do you remember where the heart is, wolf girl?” he asked suddenly, laughing at himself as he did. An old joke, he thought, and one she probably wouldn’t recall.

Arya turned around and stared at him with wide stormy eyes, for a moment stunned into guarded stillness. The moment passed.

“Pull it together,” she told him sharply, managing to tug Gendry’s feet free. “We’re still in a battle here.”

“Fuck it all,” Sandor hissed, looking down for the first time and seeing that he had landed on the sharp edge of a dropped axe. “My leg’s buggered.” The pain was strangely distant, almost as if it belonged to someone else.

Arya’s hair whipped around as she looked towards the Cavern entrance, and Sandor followed her gaze. The Kingslayer and Brienne were backed up almost to the opening. The big woman was slashing that golden-hilted sword of hers and the Lannister was armed with a shield and dragonglass spear. Inett and Stix ran to assist them, their shouts ringing as loudly as the clashing of metal. No, Tarly would not find it easy to get out of the Cavern to run over and do some healer magic on his leg, or on Gendry’s bruised head.

“Looks like this might be it,” Arya said over the din, steel in her dark tone. The wolves were retreating back over the top of the formation, and Ghost came limping towards them, weary and probably injured. The White Walker was close to the bottom of the path, ready to fire another ice arrow.

“Don’t fucking do it,” Sandor groaned, watching the girl he cared about more than anything else in the world as she let go of Gendry.

“Don’t do what?” Arya rose to her feet, weapons at the ready, while reaching hands appeared again over the edge of the rocks.

Don’t die for me, or for anyone else.

Sandor tried desperately to get up, and blood ran down his ankle into his boot. The pain was terrible, blindingly so. His vision greyed briefly. The possibility that he would have to die while looking at Arya’s pale corpse overwhelmed everything else.

The wights crawled over the top, the wolves growled weakly, and Arya stepped forward with deadly, final purpose.

That was when it happened.

There was a wrenching war cry, one which could have broken glass. Sandor looked over in time to see Jasper Snow take a charging leap through the wights and launch himself into the air from a place halfway down the path.

He hung suspended in the air over the heads of the wights, the golden-hilted sword in his grasp swinging. A grey cloak billowed around him. The Walker below fired its ice arrow, and the deadly weapon flew in the direction of Jasper’s head.

And then, impossibly, the white shaft missed its mark, and Jasper dropped down onto the dead horse, sword point striking the chest of the Walker.

It shattered at once, not even getting a chance to scream.

All at once, the noise of the wights died away.

They fell, at least fifty of them, toppling like broken dolls, crumpling to the ground. The ones ready to rush at Arya and the wolves dropped mid-step, their blue eyes extinguished. Stix released one he was holding in a headlock, stepping away in astonishment. Bronn got up from the ground, pushing two bodies off himself. All living eyes turned downwards, where Jasper was lying spread-eagled on top of what was now a very dead horse, the legs of which had given way the moment he landed. The wights, which otherwise would have scrambled to eviscerate him at once were limp and lying motionless.

To everyone’s even greater amazement, Jasper raised one hand and twitched.

“Seven hells, that lucky bastard’s alive,” Sandor whispered to himself, blinking, unable to fully believe what had just happened.

He slumped back, taking the weight off his bleeding leg.

Arya was breathing hard, the prospect of imminent death snatched from before her, and she turned back to look at him with wide eyes. For a few silent moments, the wolf girl remained where she was, her expression mirroring his own. Heady, sickening relief made Sandor grin just from the pleasure of looking at her.

And then, in a rush, Arya dropped her weapons and walked over to fall down next to him, leaning her head against his armoured chest. Wordlessly, Sandor clasped her messy hair, molten bronze in the sunlight and sticky with blood. If she had been angry at him during the previous day, all that was gone for the present. For a while, at least, he refused to care if anyone else had even survived the attack.

Nothing existed but the continued beating of their hearts, and the sound of the wind rustling the clothes of the corpses.

Chapter Text

The wind snatched and tugged Sansa’s hair as she knelt just outside the Cavern entrance. She barely felt its bitterly cold grasp, and the howling sound it made was peacefully quiet in comparison to the battle.

There was drying blood on her fingers, which she now withdrew from Yohn Royce’s poor, torn neck. She held the edge of her sleeve and gently wiped away the traces of gore which he had hacked up before the end came. His gentle, compassionate, honourable face was still and white, so she closed his eyelids to give him peace. May his eyes open again on the other side. One of her tears fell onto his cheek, so Sansa raised her head and corrected her grief. He would not have wanted to see her cry. Lord Royce had wanted nothing more than to see her wishes fulfilled, and Sansa had valued none of her followers quite as much as she did him.

Gone. Gone, but deservedly at peace.

The dead, meaning the newly dead, numbered only three, but there were few of their group left unscathed by the attack. Three bodies lay together on the rocks, side by side. Yohn Royce had died quickly. Daisy bled from her stab wounds and sliced arms, and slipped away from even Samwell’s power to help within minutes. Ser Harry, or the wight which had once been him, was ended by a swing of Brienne’s sword, but had already possessed a gruesomely slit throat.

Meanwhile, Sansa knew that both Gendry and Sandor Clegane had badly injured legs. Lance Manderly was weak after taking one of those ice arrows in his shoulder, but was recovering. Jasper Snow was bruised in almost every area of his body after leaping off the rocks, and Samwell suspected he had broken a wrist. Brave Gilly also had a head wound from trying and failing to protect Daisy.

Getting shakily to her feet, Sansa realised there were only five members of the group left without old or new injuries, aside from the children and Old Betha. How were they going to make it to White Harbour now? They could not possibly stay with the sheer number of rotting corpses surrounding the rock formation. The smell alone was enough to make anyone retch, and vermin would be drawn to the decomposing flesh, disease with them. It would take a truly gigantic fire to burn them all, and after that, the enormous smoke signal could lead a larger army right to the Cavern.

She stood, looking around herself with bloodshot eyes. The wind was welcome, drying the tears on her cheeks and freezing the grief in her chest. Sansa desperately wished for a last piece of guidance from dear, departed Royce, or from any of her beloved ghosts.

Mother, father…Petyr…what do I do now? Our hopes rest on my decision; stay or go.

The howling gusts offered no assistance with that choice.

Everyone was scattered around the Cavern now, either drifting in dazed disbelief outside, or resting indoors, being treated by an exhausted, overworked Samwell. She had barely exchanged a word with anyone since the battle ended, aside from basic instructions or information.

She carefully started to descend the path, which had been cleared of bodies. Dead eyes in blank faces still watched her from where the corpses had been pushed aside, and she felt irrationally certain that they would reach out and grab her. Even an hour after the battle, her pulse still thundered, and the world itself seemed unhinged, unreal, with a decided lack of normality.

The wolves, minus the one which had been killed during the fight, were picking their way across the bodies towards the trees. One joyful moment to emerge from the bleakness was the emergence of a slightly drowsy Nymeria from the cave. She had slept nearly a full day, and was now reunited with her bedraggled pack, looking a little worse for wear but still proud and able to wag her tail at the attention from Arya, who had eagerly ruffled the direwolf’s tawny fur. Both sisters had wondered how long the bandages around her middle would last when Nymeria started running through the snow and brambles, but at least she was on the mend.

Better than some.

Ghost was in the Cavern with a broken paw. None of the others would let Samwell near them without snapping, so their injuries would have to remain in the hands of the gods, if indeed the gods cared about wounded beasts.

“How’re you doing, milady?”

Bronn watched from the bottom as she slowly trudged down the path. The former sellsword had been lording his Walker-slaying achievements over even Jasper Snow. Sansa wondered if anyone could call either of those men heroes, when they had little choice in what they did except the crucial one; life or death. When she made no response to Bronn’s enquiry, he continued.

“Once everyone’s gathered their wits and come back inside,” he suggested, “I could start getting a few of us to move the bodies into the trenches.”

Sansa nodded weakly. She was afraid that, if she spoke, her sadness and vulnerability would be obvious, and Bronn would pounce upon that weakness. It had not taken Ser Jaime’s revelation to tell her that the grimy knight wanted a chance to win her, and she did not have the energy to deal with a proposal now. There was blood on his face, and he stank as badly as the rest of the place.

“Is it the smell?” Bronn grinned, frowning at her. “Do you not want to open your mouth in case the stink will enter?”

“The smell does not bother me,” Sansa said, with a false air of indifference.

“You ever smelt a battlefield before?” he asked, hands tucked into his belt, leaning on one leg in a casual way.

She recalled the fall of Lord Stannis’ army outside of Winterfell, the slaughter after Jon was killed months ago, and the many deaths she had witnessed over the years of her turbulent life. Still, Sansa hoped that she never gained the ability to not care about the suffering of others. The day she stopped feeling something at the sight of pain and murder was the day she lost her remaining humanity. How could Bronn be so apathetic to everything? The man had his good qualities, even if he denied having them, but this was a side of him she disliked.

“I’ve seen and smelt all I want of such things,” Sansa said haughtily.

Bronn regarded her with an amused expression which, under better circumstances, she would have labelled as insolence. Unfortunately, she did not have the power or freedom to remove herself completely from his presence.

“Are you not going to tell me I fought well, milady?” he grinned. “Is that not what fine women do after a battle?”

“Everyone fought well,” Sansa nodded, and adjusted her cloak around herself, glancing downwards at her shoes. The snow was turned to slush or mud here, where the wights had trampled it down or mixed it with soil from the trenches.

Bronn shifted casually towards her, and Sansa noted the glint in his eye.

“Is there no reward for the victorious warrior around here, then?” he winked, and she set her jaw with irritation. The implication in his words was clear, and she resented it, especially with the fresh grief weighing down her heart.

“I need to be alone, ser,” she told him firmly, holding his gaze levelly.

Bronn continued smiling as if he held some imaginary power over her. Sansa could feel defences rising up in her mind, primed by his ridiculous, obvious assumptions. Never again did she intend to give any man the favour of her affections. She would rule the North alone, at least until the kingdom recovered from the turmoil of the past decade, and her husband would be the pursuit of security. So she refused to show the slightest flicker of brittleness before this presumptuous reprobate.

Are you proud of me, Petyr? You taught me to be this cold.

“Your grace!”

Sansa raised her head upwards, shielding her head from the sun. Old Betha was waving her wrinkled hands around at the top of the rock formation.

“What is it, Betha?” she called up.

“Little Brass!” the elderly woman cried. “She’s nowhere to be found!”

Sansa grimaced. It had been impossible to shield the children from the horrors outside for long. The two of them, however, had been disturbingly calm about the sight of so many corpses and the gore strewn across the rocks. Brass and Sam had been upset about sweet Daisy, who had combed their hair, and Royce, who had told them so many exciting stories, but seemed blind to the blood and carnage, as if they had seen too much already, and no longer registered horror. Perhaps Brass had just strayed away to investigate, or followed someone else wandering around nearby in the forest.

“Bloody brat,” Bronn muttered.

“We’ll find her, Betha!” Sansa shouted. “You go back inside and help Sam with the wounded!”

“Right you are, milady!” the woman replied, and turned back to head inside, hunched over and moving slowly. It was little wonder she had lost track of Brass.

Sansa looked around. Stix was checking some of the better-dressed bodies for valuables not far away, but anyone else outside was out of sight. She had no idea where Brienne had disappeared to shortly after they embraced in the moments after the battle, or where Arya was for that matter. Sansa remembered seeing her lying with her head on Clegane’s chest, and thinking how oddly content and comfortable the two of them looked, despite the slaughter which had just taken place.

“Stix!” Sansa called out. “Could you help us find Brass?”

She had asked mainly out of a desire to avoid having to stay alone with Bronn for any prolonged time during the search, but also due to a fear of more wights emerging from the forest and catching them off guard. The wildling man rose from frisking a corpse and nodded grimly.

The three of them started calling softly for the girl, setting out over the perimeter. Brass probably would not have liked to stay for long near the bodies, even if they held a certain macabre fascination for her. Sansa picked her skirts over the ashy remains near the trenches, wrinkling her nose at the smell. The wind was swirling soot and ash around their feet, kicking it into the air to sting eyes and irritate noses.

Thankfully, they did not have to look far to find Brass.

The girl was standing next to a wide, gnarled tree, with her back to the people coming after her, carrying a bundle in her arms. There was a strange black basket of some kind at the foot of the tree, with a velvet blanket within and elaborately designed metal clasps around the edges. Sansa stared, realising that the basket was made in the same ridged style as the armour the White Walkers always wore.

“Brass,” she exclaimed, worried. “Step away from that thing.”

And then Brass turned.

“What in seven hells…” Bronn breathed.

In the child’s arms, wrapped in black embroidered cloth, was a baby. The baby had white flesh like icy glass, and glowing blue eyes which watched the three people approaching with intent curiosity.

Chapter Text

They had slipped away from the others after the surrounding area was checked for more wights, desperate to be alone. Upwind from the disgusting stench of bodies, in a sheltered crevice in the rock formation, on the opposite side to the Cavern entrance, they embraced. Jaime, weak from his chest wound but no less high-spirited, joked breathlessly about “celebrating” their continued survival. Brienne was dazed and her muscles ached with exhaustion from the battle, but nothing felt better than sharing her relief and desire with him. It was too cold to take off their armour, and the rocks were jagged in places, but she did not mind. Comfort or convenience never mattered when it came to their love.

They lay face to face, basking in the afterglow of their unusually careful love-making. Calming breaths merged, foreheads rested against each other. Jaime was shining with pleasure, the corners of his lips tugging upwards despite his tiredness. Their legs were still wrapped tightly together, britches tangled around their boots. She could feel the heat of his naked thighs against her own, and the pulsing warmth where their bodies had been joined.

“First septon we find…” Jaime whispered.

“…we get him to marry us,” Brienne finished, and he kissed her for the hundredth time, their lips lingering together.

She recalled briefly how she had once been concerned about her virtue and the dishonour she would bring upon her father or herself if she lost it. Such notions seemed silly and petty when death lurked always around the next corner. There were far more important demands of honour in the world than the need to keep herself “pure”, as she had once been told. Besides, Brienne thought, she was as good as married to Jaime now, and no-one in the Cavern begrudged them their happiness. There was only one potential consequence which worried her, but she pushed that to the back of her mind.

“We’ll have to leave now, I imagine,” Jaime commented quietly. “No more waiting for dead ravens or reinforcements which will never come.”

“White Harbour,” Brienne thought aloud. “I’ve never been there.”

“There could be a septon,” he speculated, clearly single-minded. “Or we could find a weirwood tree somewhere, or a red priest across the Narrow Sea.” He grinned and stroked her grimy flaxen hair. “I’ll make you a Lannister somehow, my lady.”

“Husband,” she said, trying the word out on her tongue with its new meaning.

“Wife,” Jaime returned, then frowned thoughtfully. “I never thought I’d ever have a wife.”

“I never thought I’d have a husband,” Brienne shrugged, “but I think my reasons for thinking that were different from yours.”

He nodded in agreement. They did not need to explain to each other why discussing their past reasons would be unpleasant, so neither of them tried. Sometimes Brienne would still be astounded at the fact that he loved her this way, despite her obvious faults and imperfections. It never astounded her that she loved him, however. There was a time, years ago in Harrenhal, when he revealed his true soul to her, and from that day she had been defenceless against the power of her attachment to him. Hundreds of miles, all the opposing calls of duty or honour, the lines of conflict being drawn, or even the knowledge that he loved another had not prevented her from caring about him. The things we do for love.

Jaime’s face twisted in discomfort, and he raised himself up on his right elbow to cough suddenly, clutching at his chest.

“We should get back,” Brienne told him, thinking also of Lady Sansa and the wounded members of the group. “You need to get Tarly to look at your chest.”

He groaned and collapsed next to her, wincing. “If I die,” he said dramatically. “Weep for me.”

“You’re not going to die.” She shook her head confidently. “I’ve seen you in a worse state than this, and you pulled through.”

“Because of you,” Jaime smiled, looking at his stump with a wry expression. “You convinced me to live, told me I’d be a coward to die. Tell me,” he said, examining her closely with sparkling emerald eyes. “Did you feel something for me then?”

Brienne smiled and stroked his chiselled jaw, fondly thinking, not for the first time, that he was too conceited for his own good. “No,” she admitted. “I just hated what they did to you, and didn’t want to see them win, especially after you…saved me.”

For a strange moment, she felt tears begin to sting her eyes, and the confusion and chaos of the past few years weighed on her. Lady Catelyn, Sansa, all that searching for the sake of the oath both of us made… She cupped his face in her hands and their lips melded again, chasing away former fears with the present strength of their promises. She truly felt as if he was part of her now, and if he was gone, it would be like a limb had been torn from her body.

A voice distracted her from the smooth taste of his mouth and the touch of his wandering hand under her armour.

“Oi, Lannister! You’re needed up here!”

Bronn’s rude, slightly distant voice came from somewhere on the top of the rock formation. Jaime and Brienne looked at each other with disappointment. He made an irritated noise and sighed, his warm breath tickling her chin. Neither of them moved.

“He sounds as if he means it,” Brienne pointed out reluctantly.

“If I say nothing, do you think there’s a chance he’ll go away?” Jaime asked, and they laughed quietly together, at the same time fully aware that they were undoubtedly required in the Cavern anyway. All the same, these snatched moments were too precious to cut short.

Bronn’s voice moved closer, getting louder.

“Come on out, lovers!” he shouted. “There’s something up here you should see!”

Brienne felt a rush of fairly irrational mortification, and reached down to yank up her britches and buckle her belt. The idea of being seen in such a position made her deeply uncomfortable, regardless of the fact that everyone in the Cavern knew about her relationship with the golden knight. She watched Jaime adjust his own clothing, and resisted the temptation to assist him with fastening the straps of his armour, knowing that he hated to be treated like a cripple when it came to mundane tasks. Even pale, bloodied from the battle and wounded, he was still the most beautiful man she knew, and even the ability to look at him so freely was a blessing.

They emerged together into the sunlight, smoothing their hair and brushing themselves down. Bronn, about ten feet away, stopped peering into another gap between two rocks and leered at them, greasy hair pasted across his face with dirt.

“So that’s the fucking place,” he commented with a crude smirk. “Here’s a thought. Next time, do it somewhere the rest of us can watch. It’s been months since I’ve had any action, you see, and desperate times call for desperate measures.”

Jaime and Brienne both glowered at the former sellsword, entirely unimpressed. She felt her cheeks flushing with a mixture of anger and disgust while Bronn wagged his eyebrows suggestively.

“I take it your current romantic venture isn’t going very well, then,” Jaime sneered, and she glanced between them, wondering who he could mean.

“That’s a long game, that is,” Bronn replied, nonplussed and arrogant. “Could take years, but I’ll get what I want eventually.”

“Oh, I see,” Jaime laughed sarcastically. “You must be an acquired taste, then, which after years of loathing she’ll suddenly realise she could not possibly do without.”

“Exactly.”

“What exactly did you call us for, Bronn?” Brienne asked curtly, already tired of his particular brand of lewd humour, and beginning to suspect who they were talking about. Does Lady Sansa know? She found herself re-evaluating every conversation she had ever witnessed between the knight of the Blackwater and her lady.

Bronn gestured for them to follow him back up to the top of the formation.

“The little brat found something in the forest.”

“What was it?”

“You’ll know when you see it,” he said darkly, creating an odd sense of mystery.

They clambered up over icy rocks after him, and Brienne watched Jaime out of the corner of her eye to make sure he did not trip or fall. She made a mental note to remember later to ask Lady Sansa about Bronn’s advances, and to criticise Jaime for keeping that information from her. As the Stark girl’s guardian, she was entitled to know such things, surely.

Outside the cave entrance, Brienne paused and looked at the three bodies lying side by side, peaceful in their eternal slumber. She had beheaded the wight which stabbed Daisy, but too late to prevent the kind widow from taking fatal injuries. Guilt welled up within her chest. Had she been too occupied with protecting Jaime? Could she have saved that woman if she had been less focused on her own heart’s selfish fears?

“Brienne,” Jaime called her from the entrance. “Come on. It looks as if something’s got everyone fascinated in there.”

That was an understatement. Almost everyone was gathered in the main cave, with the notable exceptions of Arya Stark and Gilly, who were still outside somewhere. The fires were burning anew, and the wounded were gathered near the warm flames. Gendry and Inett, were slumped down asleep, recovering from head wounds. In the centre of the wakeful group, drawing the attention of all staring eyes, Lady Sansa was clutching a bundle which wriggled and settled in her arms. Brienne was confused to begin with, but on coming closer, she noticed its shocking, glowing blue eyes and stared in astonishment.

A baby Walker?

She walked up next to Sansa, who raised her piercing eyes to regard her sworn sword. Her thoughts were impossible to read, but Brienne noted the obvious aggression in the cave, directed to the curious creature resting against the warm fabric of the Stark girl’s dress. The icy-skinned baby met her gaze for a moment, and Brienne shivered at the sight.

“What are we still bloody waiting for?” Clegane snapped, sitting while a partially distracted Samwell Tarly wrapped torn rags around his sliced leg. “Just kill the damn thing before it raises all the bastards outside again.”

The group was quiet, considering. The children were sitting together at Sansa’s feet, looking upwards at the adults’ concerned faces with interest.

“Is that what I think it is?” Jaime was saying, rubbing his hand over his face in disbelief. The baby was picking innocently at the wolf fur on Sansa’s cloak.

“Brass found her,” the Lady of Winterfell explained matter-of-factly. “She must have belonged to the two Walkers which attacked us.”

Jasper, standing nearby and drinking from his flask, peered closely at it.

“She?” he echoed. “It’s a girl Walker, then?”

“Never seen a woman White Walker before,” Bronn commented.

“Can Walkers even have babies?” Meg wondered. She was sponging Gendry’s sleeping face, and for once her eyes were clear of tears. “I mean, if there even are Walker women. They’re made of ice.”

Jasper chuckled lightly and winked at Meg. “That’d be a chilly embrace,” he commented.

Lady Sansa looked over at their maester substitute. “What do you think, Tarly?” she asked. “You’re the learned man here. Have you ever read anything about Walker children during the Long Night?”

“Not a word,” Samwell admitted, shaking his shaggy blond fringe. “Naturally, no-one living ever observed the White Walkers in their…natural habitat, wherever that is. But it makes sense that their numbers would grow, in some way. Perhaps there are women of their kind. Perhaps not.”

Stix cleared his throat, and drew some attention to himself. The wildling man was standing over Inett’s unconscious form, and glaring at the creature, stroking his black beard. The firelight brought out a truly hating glint in his eyes.

“Those demons killed Torrhen,” he rumbled. “They killed Ser Dard, and Daisy, and your Lord Royce. That thing should be killed now, Lady Stark. For all we know, it’s calling its own kind towards us right now.”

Brienne dubiously watched the baby tug at Sansa’s red hair, kicking one of its tiny feet under the black silk blanket. It did not appear to be conspiring against them. In fact, it seemed pleased to be among living people.

“It could be too young yet to raise the dead,” Jaime suggested. “But I agree it should be disposed of. We do not know how the Walkers communicate.”

Disposed of? Something instinctual and perhaps irrational leapt in Brienne’s chest at the thought, and she looked with shock at Jaime, surprised by his decision. It was a child, and a defenceless one which was making no effort to escape.

“It can’t be right to kill a child,” she declared suddenly. “This infant possibly knows nothing of the crimes of its own people.”

Jaime met Brienne’s gaze, but if he was annoyed that his own fiancée had directly opposed his opinion, he covered his reaction well. The others glanced between the couple, sensing gossip-worthy tension.

Clegane snorted incredulously. “For fuck’s sake, it’s a bloody Walker!” he said harshly. “No matter the age, that’s what it is. Kill it and be done with it.”

“Agreed,” Bronn nodded.

“No.”

The group looked with surprise at Lady Sansa, and Brienne could sense that her mind was made up regardless of anyone’s opinion. She was holding the baby protectively, wrapping the blanket around its icy body. There was a determined strength in her face now which reminded Brienne very strongly and poignantly of Lady Catelyn.

“Who are we if we abandon our compassion and murder a baby girl?” she asked righteously. “Perhaps such cruelty is customary in some places in the world, but not in the North I intend to rule.” Here she actually looked pointedly at Jaime, and Brienne uncomfortably felt a stirring of the conflict between the two of them.

Jaime narrowed his eyes. “Are you willing to endanger everyone here for the sake of this one child?” he asked.

“I will not have innocent blood on my hands,” Sansa stated.

Stix folded his arms. “Inett and I have followed you, Lady Stark,” he told her, “like we followed Jon Snow, because you have led us as well as he did, and spoken for the Free Folk when others told you not to. But I will not agree with this. Kill the spawn before it grows and kills us.”

“I’m sorry,” Lady Sansa shook her head. “I am endlessly grateful to you and Inett, Stix, but I will not change my mind. The child lives. It’s an orphan like Brass here, and we took her in without a thought. This is no different”

With that, she flipped a few errant strands of long hair over her shoulder and walked towards the tunnel leading to her brother’s chamber. Brienne smiled, proud of Sansa for standing her ground. However, her pride dimmed when she looked back at Jaime, and saw the raw bitterness in his handsome face. Three of the men looked particularly angry at this decision, but while Clegane and Stix were easily swept aside in Brienne’s mind, Jaime’s anger shook her ideals of loyalty slightly.

It occurred to Brienne that Lady Sansa was indeed a beautiful woman with strong ambitions and a disregard for the golden knight’s opinions. That, frighteningly, sounded rather like someone else once very close to his heart.

Chapter Text

Arya scurried into Bran’s chamber, not believing what the others had told her. She had washed the grime and blood from her face with snow along with Gilly, and they had then returned to the Cavern, desperate for something to eat. Her body ached from the fighting and lack of sleep the night before, but she still moved quickly now, confused and desperate to know the truth.

Sansa was crouched next to Bran’s body, with an expression which spoke of deep thoughts and the usual calculation. Arya halted in the entrance, hand on the golden hilt of her Valyrian dagger, glaring at the icy little creature sitting placidly by itself next to Bran’s head. It met her gaze with a haunting, unnatural level of recognition, and revulsion rose up inside her.

“I didn’t believe it!” she hissed angrily. “When they told me what you did, I didn’t believe it. Are you insane, Sansa?”

Her sister regarded her without a trace of guilt, and Arya tried to figure out what could possibly be going through her mind.

“Be quiet, Arya,” Sansa sighed. “You need to understand…”

“Do you know what they’re saying about you out there?” Arya said, pointing violently towards the main cave. “They’re talking about the battle going to your bloody head! Even Meg, of all people, thinks you’ve gone mad! Why would you bring that thing here and turn them all against you?”

She could not accept that it was as the others said, and that Sansa was simply too soft-hearted to kill the creature because it was so young. There was definite hidden coldness and practicality in the Lady of Winterfell that others did not notice or chose not to see, but Arya knew it was there under the layers of kindness and diplomacy. Because of that, she could not comprehend the risk her sister had taken. It was a jolt to realise how fragile their group was, and how easily the tide of loyalty was beginning to turn away from their previously worshipped lady. Sansa twisted her sleeve, white-knuckled and clearly conflicted.

“No-one here is thinking,” she whispered intensely, her voice cutting through the quiet of this chamber. Candlelight flickered, and Bran’s chest continued to rise and fall, his breaths rasping as if through sandpaper.

“They’re thinking about living.” Arya tensed, watching the baby’s creepy little ice fingers clasping its silk blanket.

“What about winning this war?” Sansa answered, raising her voice and betraying strong emotion. She kept distressing the edge of her sleeve as she rose to her feet, glaring with wide, blue eyes. “How about bringing an end to this night for good? Of course, I don’t expect anyone to understand, they just want to save themselves! Do you seriously expect me to tell them to take a risk for the sake of a whole country? For the world? None of you ever think that far ahead.”

There was anger in her usually polite, measured tone. It was a frustrated, terrified rage, growing with every word.

“The greater good?” Arya stared, coming into the room slowly, not moving her hand from the hilt of the dagger. A sick understanding came over her. “I see,” she whispered accusingly. “You want to be the Northern Queen who saved the world. The great Sansa Stark: beautiful, noble, and forever adored by all. They’d sing songs about you for thousands of years.”

She drew up in front of her sister, all the horror and fear of the past months fuelling her desire to wipe the righteous expression from Sansa’s face. Would she lead them all to destruction for the sake of some glorified vision in her mind? This was worse than Gendry’s senseless dreaming. It was worse than the imagined weakness the others suspected her of.

“If you want to give up, be my guest,” Sansa snapped harshly. “There’s a chance here, a chance for all of us, but everyone is too blind to see it.”

“Think about saving the world after we get across the Narrow Sea,” Arya insisted. “Not before.”

“Don’t you see?” Her sister pointed at the baby, and a tear slipped down her cheek. “This child is a chance for us to discover how to defeat them.”

Arya paused, hearing the heightened emotion in Sansa’s strained voice. They were both afraid, that was true. Everyone was. The fear was driving them all insane, and when that happened, there would be nothing to hold them together. She looked up coldly at her sister, then at her unconscious brother. We are the last ones. The last Starks. What did that mean when their home was destroyed once again, and their armies were scattered? What did honour or duty mean anymore?

“I know how to defeat them,” she hissed, and drew her dagger with a quick motion of her hand. “And if you won’t kill it, I will.”

Sansa stepped in front of her when she moved towards the baby.

“Don’t make this mistake.” She shook her head miserably, the tears coming down her pretty face. “I know it’s a risk, but even if we make it to White Harbour, who knows what could happen? For all we know, the Walkers have already made it across the Narrow Sea. This fight won’t end there, and we need to think about the future.”

All this time, the silent white creature was staring up at them with perfect calm. Arya hesitated, her blade poised. It would have been easy to shove Sansa aside and end the little monster in a heartbeat.

“If they turn away from you,” Arya said slowly. “Then they’ll scatter, or turn to Jaime fucking Lannister to lead them instead. Do you want that, Sansa? Do you want that?”

Sansa shook her head, and sobbed suddenly. Arya, alarmed by this display of emotion, was unsure how to respond. Recently, Sansa had been the strong one, never once flinching no matter how grim or maddening their long stay in the Cavern became. She was a vessel of endless endurance, and it stunned Arya to numbness that she would react like this. Perhaps the death of Royce had shaken her strength, or perhaps the pressure of leadership was falling too heavily upon her.

Arya sheathed her blade and wrapped her arms around Sansa’s waist. The Stark sisters clutched tightly to each other next to Bran’s body, isolated together amidst a surging storm of fear and threat. The last Starks…Perhaps that did still mean something, even now. Arya rested her head against the soft wolf fur trim of Sansa’s cloak and felt the sobbing tremble in her body as if from a distance. It disturbed her, how far away she felt from her own self in that moment. She could have been hovering outside the exchange, watching dispassionately, so overwhelmed by the deep fear of being hurt again that she could not bear to accept the love poisoning her heart. The list she had once recited, of the names of those she had promised death, was now replaced by another list. This one read like a prayer, and although she hated the fact that it existed, it never left her mind.

Sansa.

Bran.

Sandor.

Gendry.

Brienne.

They were all she had left. Arya remembered walking through the courtyard of Winterfell, reunited with her siblings after years of absence. She remembered being frozen with shock, seeing Sandor emerge on horseback through the snow, a ghost she had long thought dead, coming back to plague her with confusion. She remembered how Gendry had thrown his arms around her and called her Arry when they met again after so long. She remembered sparring with Brienne until they had been reduced to exhaustion and bursts of laughter.

Carefully, Arya drew back from her embrace with Sansa, and handed her sister the hilt of the Valyrian dagger. She was numb with the effort of repelling fear, exhausted from the battle and the fact that yet another problem was placed before them. Her face was slack, devoid of emotion.

“You have to kill it, Sansa,” she whispered.

Sansa stared at her, distraught but trying to muster her faltering strength again. She clasped the dagger hilt, wiped the tears from her face, and nodded weakly.

“You’re right,” she admitted, tiredly. “I’m sorry. I’m thinking too much of a future that may never come.”

They both turned back to the baby, sitting and watching them benignly beside Bran’s still head. Arya had to admit that it did not appear particularly villainous, but she knew better than most people that appearances were often misleading. For the sake of cohesion in the group, it had to go.

“There’s no other way,” she told her sister. “If you want them to keep following you, you have to do this.”

Sansa swallowed, and knelt in front of the baby. It raised a horrifying white little hand to tug a strand of her red hair, and Arya shivered in disgust. For once, she thought, Sandor’s profanity regarding the creature had been fairly justified. It looked almost as dead of natural emotions as a rock, and barely reacted when Sansa held its head down against the ground.

The dagger was raised above the infant’s icy chest. Sansa’s hand was trembling, and Arya stood back, allowing her sister to make this decision herself.

And, in a flash of reflected candlelight, the dagger was brought down.

Chapter Text

He rubbed his pounding head, tentatively prodding the area of bruising just over his right ear. The headache throbbed as if drums were being played inside his skull, while his leg was hot and swollen with pain.

He had been unconscious for most of the day, and now it was dark outside. The main cave was less crowded than he recalled, five of its former occupants now being dead. The three which had not yet been burnt were lying outside the cave entrance, everyone being too exhausted or hungry or injured to arrange enough wood for a pyre. Gilly told him they would have a funeral of sorts in the morning; it was a chance to properly send off their former companions, and prevent them coming back.

Gendry had also heard of the White Walker baby, and the conflict which had arisen over it. Lady Sansa and Arya had emerged from one of the tunnels just after he woke, and announced that it was now dead, before asking Sam and Gilly to help load their brother’s unconscious body onto the prepared sled. The plan was that all of them would leave after the funeral, and probably never see the Cavern again. As much as Gendry had come to consider these damp rocky walls and uncomfortable slimy ground his home for the last four months, he would not miss the place. Anywhere, even a strange foreign city bloated with refugees, would be preferable, especially when the rats started arriving and drinkable water became tainted by the corpses.

“Here.”

Sandor Clegane tossed him some unidentifiable meat still on the bone, and Gendry caught it. The scarred warrior was braving his well-known fear of fire in order to frazzle some of the meat. Tearing some away with his teeth, Gendry felt with an empty pang just how hungry he was. His taste buds ached at the taste of the meat, despite the fact it was stringy and parts were burnt and bitter. Naturally, he did not complain to the cook.

Most of the Cavern residents were asleep. The Stark girls and Brienne were curled up beside each other, wrapped in furs. Samwell Tarly and Gilly still had not returned from Brandon Stark’s chamber. Meg was awake, staring blankly into the fire, with the children dozing up against her legs. Old Betha was snoring, her few remaining teeth reflecting the firelight. The wildlings were on guard duty, just outside, protecting both the living and the dead from the dead. Jasper Snow was sleeping next to Gendry, and a pale Jaime Lannister next to him, but Clegane was wide awake.

Gendry felt his stomach turn when he remembered the pain in his leg when the spear went in, and how certain he had been that he would die. Reluctant gratitude spread in his tired body.

“You saved my life,” he whispered, not wanting to wake the two men sleeping at their fire. Clegane was silent for a moment.

“Can’t bloody afford to lose any other decent fighters, can we?” he grunted dismissively. “Shut up about it, runt, I didn’t do it for you.”

The meat crackled over the fire, and Sandor pulled an uncomfortable face as he removed it from the spit. Grease hissed as it landed on the rocks, bubbling briefly before settling.

“You did it for her,” Gendry realised. His head may have been hit pretty hard, but he recalled flashes and visions of what could have been reality. One such image stuck in his mind, of Arya, streaked with gore, lying with her head resting on Clegane’s chest.

I was a fool not to realise before…

The older man turned his head, dark hair shifting over his fur-clad neck. There was a dark, resentful bitterness in his eyes which Gendry refused to cower from. He was the son of Robert Baratheon, and he would not allow himself show fear to anyone, particularly not a grumpy dog.

“Seven hells,” Clegane growled in a low voice. “I did it because you were getting yourself beaten and stabbed, runt, and I happened to be the fucker standing there watching.”

“My name is Gendry.”

“I know what your name is, runt,” he sneered under his breath. “Do you think I had the time to think if I was going to let you die or not?”

Gendry chewed another mouthful of greasy meat, and knew that he was getting under the warrior’s skin. It amazed him that he had taken so long to notice what was so obvious now, probably to everyone else as well. No wonder the man hates me.

“You love her, don’t you?” he observed.

Clegane said nothing, glaring at him with silent annoyance. The silence spoke as loudly as any confirmation, and Gendry dropped his gaze, frowning. The idea was not so bizarre, once he considered it. The two of them had clearly developed some connection during their time together in the Riverlands, and he had not been blind to Arya’s concern about the scarred brute every time they were attacked. However, the knowledge that the connection had morphed into something deeper, at least on Clegane’s part, changed everything in Gendry’s own perception of the future he had planned and laid out in front of himself. Did Arya want Clegane? He was sure she did not, although he was no longer sure of much. Did she have options other than himself, though? Yes. He had not considered before that her heart belonged to anyone else, and the thought concerned him. Was I really so arrogant?

“This changes nothing,” Clegane said to him then. “The she-wolf doesn’t want either of us, and you’d better get it into that bashed-up head of yours before she cuts you into small pieces. Might be I’d find that amusing to watch, but you wouldn’t.”

Gendry was quiet, thinking about the sparring match he had witnessed the day before the battle, and how they had been rolling around in the snow together. It surprised him a little that he felt not revulsion exactly, but a cold kind of acceptance of the fact that Arya was uninterested in the future he desired. In fact, now that he focused on the dream, the lady to be present by his side was faceless and uncertain.

“We’re a pair of fools, then,” he decided dejectedly.

Clegane’s face actually lightened slightly, and his sneer became less threatening.

“You’re the damn fool,” the older man told him. “I don’t expect anything from her. You went ahead and fucking proposed.”

“I can’t help loving her,” Gendry defended himself, and tossed a bone into the fire. “Even if she doesn’t care.”

Betha’s snoring echoed in the Cavern. A stick collapsed within the fire, shooting sparks up. Clegane chuckled darkly after flinching.

“That girl can’t stand the fact she’s a woman,” he muttered.

Gendry regarded the other man in the firelight, seeing a familiar frustration in his half-burnt face. As much as he disliked to admit that there was any similarity between them, he could tell that, on one subject at least, they felt vaguely the same.

“Maybe we should be pitying each other,” he shrugged. “Not hating. What would you say to a truce?”

For an instant, Clegane looked surprised. Then he shook his greasy dark head and turned away, settling down to eat with a typical sneer.

“I don’t like you, runt,” he grunted. “That you know. But you’ve got balls to say that.”

“Do you accept, then?” Gendry asked, rolling his blue eyes.

“If it’ll make you bloody shut up,” Clegane said with indifference, ripping off a chunk of flesh from the creature he had roasted.

“It might do.”

“All right, then.”

Feeling somehow better, Gendry settled down, adjusted his bloodstained clothing, and stared at the ceiling. He reminded himself to get Gilly to mend his britches, if she ever returned to the main cave. She and her healer husband had been in Brandon’s chamber for a long time.

Outside, he heard the wolves howl, but their voices were distant. Where had they gone? He knew Arya would miss Nymeria if the big she-direwolf decided to lope off with her pack and disappear. But, after so many wolves had died over the last months, he could hardly blame them for vanishing to find somewhere which had more prey and fewer dangers. Thinking of danger, he wondered if perhaps he could get something to help him walk easier, or if Tarly could do something to ease the pain.

So he hoisted himself up onto one leg, and grabbed the stick next to himself, wincing from the effort. Clegane watched him with a highly unresponsive attitude.

“If you trip, don’t expect me to catch you, runt.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Gendry smirked, and slowly picked his way past the sleeping form of Jasper Snow, and a passed-out Ser Jaime, who had a line of drool making its way down his chin.

He clumsily made his way into the tunnel, nearly crying out from the agony when he accidentally slipped with the stick and put weight on his injured leg. The candlelight ahead lit his way. Hearing voices from Brandon’s chamber, he should have announced his presence, but was stunned into keeping quiet.

“…if it’s like the wights, I don’t think it will eat anything.” Samwell’s voice was thoughtful, concerned. Gilly’s was, by contrast, distressed in a muted way.

“If it cries, Sam, then…”

“They’ve gagged it. It won’t make a sound. You wouldn’t even know it was there. What’s wrong?”

“I’ve been thinking, Sam, about my brothers. What if…when they were taken…”

The voices sharply died down to whispers, and Gendry realised they had probably heard his stick scrape against the rock. He cleared his throat, and came around the corner. Samwell Tarly had a bowl of green paste in one hand, and a stone he was using to mix it in the other. Gilly was standing, with her arms folded stiffly and a startled expression she was trying to hide. Brandon Stark, still unconscious of course, was lying on a new stretcher which could be quickly turned into a sled with sturdy leather pads, courtesy of some ingenious handiwork.

“Sorry,” Gendry said, unsure why he should be. “But I was hoping you could give me something for my leg, Sam.”

Samwell dropped the bowl and stone, and waved the new patient over.

“Sure, Gendry. Let me look at it.”

While Tarly prodded and poked at his leg, Gendry watched how Gilly sat and awkwardly stitched at Bran’s sled. There was something she was hiding, otherwise she would not have glanced away so strangely when their eyes happened to meet. Suspicions sprung up in his mind, and he thought back to how the Stark girls had appeared when they announced the death of the Walker baby. Lady Sansa’s eyes had been reddened with apparent tears, while Arya had been uncomfortable, not meeting anyone’s gaze. At the time he had thought that was due to whatever argument the two of them had, but now he was second guessing himself.

“My sister has convinced me to put an end to the baby.”

Lady Sansa had seemed so sincerely conflicted, and truthful. Gendry watched Gilly as she patted the material and the straps over the Stark boy’s legs.

He could have sworn the material moved, just a little.

Chapter Text

The pyres sent three pillars of smoke into the fading afternoon sky two days after the battle, and coloured their departure with the shadow of grief.

Sandor was standing with the use of a large branch under his left arm, listening only vaguely while pretty, queenly Sansa made a pretty speech about her dear Lord Royce, and the flames reduced the Vale lord’s corpse to ash and dust. They were all aware that a hush of fear lay over their group, which, aside from the three non-fighting women, consisted now of only ten decent fighters, a Citadel dropout posing as a maester, one barely sane old crone, two children and an unconscious wolf boy. Among the warriors, almost no-one was left unwounded, and there was no time left for healing now.

The smell of acrid, burning flesh made his stomach churn, so he stood at the back of the group, leaning his wounded leg against a bag of supplies. All of their useful provisions were gathered and everyone was wearing all of their gear, furs and armour for the sake of travel. Sandor could feel the cold seeping through his thick winter clothing nonetheless, and dreaded the journey. It was nearly two hundred miles to White Harbour, and the snows were growing no kinder. Food would be scarce, and the dangers would not be easily evaded. Death could still come for them on the road, and they would find it difficult to put up a strong fight.

Valar morghulis, as the she-wolf would say.

Sandor longed for a mere mouthful of wine, or even a horn of bad ale, if only to warm himself against the cold. His main desire was that they would come across an abandoned village on the way to the eastern coast, and discover an ice-encrusted barrel or two of fine Dornish red. However, he attempted to focus on the words being spoken over their fallen companions.

“…a loyal man, and true, and I only wish that we could have taken his remains to what may remain of his family, and have allowed him a proper burial.” Sansa spoke in her sweetest voice, and Sandor would have been bemused by her queenly manners if he did not know that she genuinely mourned the Vale lord. The little bird showing the best of her plumage, but for what? They had no choice but to follow her, bound by blood and loyalty and basic survival instincts.

“The same for all of them,” Jaime Lannister added after a pause, and was approved by mutterings of agreement, although finding the family of widow Daisy might have proven fairly difficult, even in the best of circumstances. Sandor thought of having his own remains taken to his so-called family, and nearly laughed aloud at the idea. The pain of his leg was definitely going to his head, to even think that.

Some more words were said, but he did not listen, his mind drifting happily away from the fire and the smoke. Besides, funerals always exaggerated truths and created honour in death where there was none. He looked for Arya without considering why, seeing her standing with her hood up against the biting wind. There had come a time, years ago, when he had resigned himself to the fact that her safety would forever remain a priority in the back of his mind. At first he had resisted admitting it, even in his drunker moments, but since that day in the Vale, Sandor had not known a single day when he was free from the thought of her.

She turned, as if she had sensed his gaze, and their eyes met through a gap in the heads of others in the group. Gendry was standing next to her, leaning on his stick. It struck Sandor as oddly ironic, that both of them had acquired leg injuries during the same battle, as if the gods were laughing at their unintentional rivalry. Rivalry? No, he refused to admit that this was anything so trivial or idiotic. Arya wanted neither of them, she had made that clear, and no amount of competing with the whelp would make that change.

With words spoken and bodies turned to ash, the group slowly began to trudge or stumble towards their belongings.

Stix and Bronn were given the task of dragging Brandon Stark along, while the Kingslayer led the group, walking ahead with his only hand resting on the golden hilt of his sword. Pretty Sansa took her sister’s arm, and they walked past Sandor before disappearing into the forest. There was a quiet acceptance in the group’s attitude as they slowly started their journey. Meg held little Brass’ hand, and Gilly clutched her sandy-haired son in her arms.

Sandor looked up at the rock formation, with the darkened blood smeared on its surface. The bodies were buried in the trenches and smouldering under layers of bracken, but the blood remained as a grisly reminder of the danger they would have to face again in the future. He shouldered his pack of supplies, tasted the smoke on his tongue, and turned to go.

I was starting to think I’d never leave that shithole.

“Ugh, my bones are aching.”

Jasper Snow punctuated this statement by bending backwards and cracking his spine, muttering to himself about the horror which was ageing. There was a general sigh of relief in the group as they dumped their provisions and equipment and began to set up camp.

They had travelled slowly since midday, and set the Cavern some distance behind them. These winter days were short and unforgiving, however, and the sun was already setting behind the harsh snowy hills. They had reached the edge of the forest, and now decided to rest, especially for the sake of the wounded among them. Sandor secretly planned that, if they found a decent horse or two, he would take Arya, gag her, and ride away from the doomed group. She would hate him for it, but she would live, and that was all which truly mattered. As if I’d ever bloody do it…Honestly, it seemed the mark of a sane man to abandon a sinking vessel, but Sandor decided that he did not fall into that category.

Lady Sansa took over managerial duties after a moment of hesitation by the Kingslayer, telling everyone in polite, regal terms that they would be sleeping on bare snow and freezing their arses off overnight. Sandor dumped his sleeping roll onto the snow next to the Stark fire, feeling that, for once, it would be in his interests to lie next to other warm bodies. His fingertips, even through thick gloves, were numb with cold, which he realised when he tried to undo the ties of his pack.

“Here.” Much smaller hands and skinny fingers reached over and undid the ties. Sandor was nauseated with his own swelling affection for the she-wolf. If anyone else had tried to help, he probably would have cuffed them over the head. Arya guardedly met his gaze, and was as cold as ever. Never change, little bitch.

Their meal that night consisted of the remnants of the small creatures Gilly and the wildlings had killed with snares before the left the Cavern. Two fairly large fires would have given away their location to any watching blue eyes, so they huddled closely together and wrapped the children and Brandon Stark in warm furs to keep the icy cold at bay. Brass wrapped herself under Brienne’s cloak and under the big woman’s muscled arm, and Jasper appeared to have ingratiated himself enough with Meg to wrap the usually tearful former washerwoman in the same furs as himself, comforting her with a possibly colourful tale of his own exploits as a younger man. Sandor considered his own exploits when he was younger, and felt just blank revulsion.

“Gilly,” Sansa said, getting to her feet after finishing her meal. “Come with me to check on Bran. You too, Sam.”

The three of them headed to the place they had wrapped up the Stark boy’s body. Brienne was playing with Brass a few feet away, but for the most part, as Sandor quickly became aware, he was the only person immediately next to the wolf girl. Arya picked at her fingernails with a knife, and was clearly pretending not to have noticed. He took advantage of the silence to gird himself for a confrontation of sorts. Directly bringing up the aftermath of that sparring match days ago would be a mistake, but letting the issue fester would also be an error. Eventually he cleared his throat, and she turned to raise a dark eyebrow and wait.

“I want…” he said slowly, tangling his tongue over the words, so instead he spat them out. “Fuck it, I want to apologise, she-wolf.”

She examined the edge of her knife, considering her own response.

“You’ve nothing to apologise for, as far as I’m aware,” Arya commented icily.

“Well, I’m apologising anyway,” he grunted, unwilling to be tricked into some kind of mind trap.

The snow crunched and flattened under him as he shifted on his sleeping roll, hoping the material was still watertight. She still had her hood up, and her breath misted in front of her. Sandor watched her carefully, uncertain of her mood.

“Things have been different between the two of us recently,” she finally said.

“In what way?”

“You’ve been a rat’s ass lately.” She pointed the tip of her knife at him, casually.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“You know what it means, dog.”

He looked aside, and noticed that Brienne was watching them before the big woman glanced away, embarrassed just to have been caught staring. You love her. In as many days, two ignorant mouths had accused him of that, and he wondered himself if there was any truth in it. The word seemed far too simple and banal to belong to the collective, complicated, ambivalent feelings he had for the she-wolf. He hated her as well as adored her, and it was an impossible bond to identify.

“You’ve been acting like a selfish little shit, yourself,” he glowered at Arya.

“How?”

“You tried to throw your life away,” Sandor muttered, not able to look at her. “More than once.”

“Don’t exaggerate,” she sighed dismissively. “We’re all in danger. So what if I want to face it rather than hide?”

He closed his eyes, and remembered the night of the Red Wedding in a rush of disgust. The fires burning, screams and yells, blood and sorrow, and Arya’s young head lying limp and senseless against his chest as he urged his horse away from the carnage. He had to strike her across the head to stop her running straight to her own demise. Grief drove her then, and grief drove her now. Jon Snow. She always loved the bastard.

“Do what you like,” Sandor finally growled. “I never do any fucking good trying to get in your way. Kill yourself if you like.”

Arya regarded him, and there was genuine hurt in her stormy eyes which made him freeze a little inside. She glared.

“You did exactly the same to me,” she snapped. “Don’t forget that. I spend years thinking you were dead because of me.”

“Don’t try to pretend you cared, she-wolf. You left me to die rather than give me mercy,” he snarled.

There was a powerful intensity in her expression, and he could feel his own anger and resentment overflowing. Part of him was poisoned with guilt, while another part was eaten up with bitterness, and he could see the same reflected in her hardened young face. Why did she always mirror him in such an infuriating way?

“Do you think I felt nothing because of that?” Arya hissed angrily, keeping her voice down but failing to disguise her visible outrage. “How can you say that after everything that’s happened since?”

He reached for her wrist, and his fingers closed over her sleeve. “How can you fucking tell me you don’t care if you die when you know I…” Sandor felt the word stick in his throat, and swallowed it like spoilt wine. The she-wolf stared at him, and the other mumbled conversations near them had become drowned out in the thick pulse of blood in ears and heads. She tugged her sleeve from his already limp fingers, and he cursed himself internally a thousand times.

“I’m sorry,” Arya whispered.

Shocked, he looked closely at her, not knowing if this was one of her crueller mind games. She never apologised to him; that was one of the few facts obeyed in the battlefield which was their relationship. Guilt was his territory, not hers. She seemed to regret nothing, in any quest she pursued. Yet she was looking down at her hands, her face engraved with confusion and shielded emotion.

“Seven fucking hells, what are we doing?” Sandor rumbled under his breath.

Brienne was still pretending that she was not watching them, and Brass was rolling around just behind her. Meg was combing some of the knots in Jasper’s beard, and some members of the group were already asleep, the whelp included. Lady Sansa and the Tarlys were returning to their side of the camp, and he covered his turbulent inner conflict with the usual grumpy expression which warded off questions.

Arya’s quietly whispered comment came out of nowhere, just before they came back within earshot.

“We’re doing what lovers do,” she muttered, with a short laugh.

The casually spoken word sent a jolt through his gut, but the others were back, sitting down, before he could say anything else. Not knowing whether Arya was just being ironic or trying to tell him something in her own shielded way, Sandor was forced to sleep that night without an answer.

Chapter Text

TWO WEEKS LATER…

The North was the largest kingdom in Westeros, a sprawling mass of heath and hill during summer, or a pale canvas of snow and ice during the winter. Some may have called it harsh, or forbidding, or have seen its landscapes as cold wasteland. However, standing next to the widening White Knife river, listening to the distant howling of wolves one night, Sansa felt the sadness of familiarity in her heart, and knew, miserably, that she belonged here. There had been a time, when she was a vain young girl, that the bright lights and warm days of King’s Landing beckoned to her, but now she adored the fierce, frozen protection which the North could have provided under better circumstances. Home. And now I have to leave it again.

She knelt by the riverbank to fill her flask, feeling the icy water run over her wrist. There had been tears as cold as that water on her cheeks when Betha died, but not when their provisions ran out, and not when they were forced to hide in a bear cave, stepping over the stinking remains of dead cubs. Sansa knew she had been forced over and over again to find new strength to continue, and never knew where it came from day to day.

There’s no justice in the world, not unless we make it.

Where was the justice in a world which no longer cared for people with a heartbeat? She wondered if her dream would ever become a reality, or if unburnt wolf banners would ever fly over the walls of her castle. The North was hers, by all rights which should still have existed, and what was she doing? Freezing her hand off to drink icy water, starving in the snow.

She screwed the top back onto the flask with numb fingers, and felt Brienne’s comforting, hesitant hand on her shoulder. Having not noticed her protector’s approach, the touch would have made her jump, if she had the energy to be shocked.

“Are you alright, my lady?” The warrior woman’s voice sounded as tired as Sansa felt.

“No.”

The once Lady of Winterfell struggled to get to her feet, stiff from cold and fatigue, supported by Brienne. She had never known this kind of hunger, some days needing to chew bark or leaves just to stave off the pain in her stomach. They were all tired, every day, and, worryingly, they never seemed to be far from wight activity. Wights never did well in water, though, so the group had travelled vaguely south-west from the Cavern for two weeks, and made slow progress to the White Knife river, which meandered towards and through White Harbour.

Sansa and Brienne trudged away from the riverbank towards the camp, bending under hanging branches and wiping snowflakes from their clothing. The edge of Sansa’s dress was torn and muddy, and her boots had given her several blisters over the course of the journey.

Be strong…

They arrived back in camp, where everyone present was huddled quietly in twos and threes, with tiny fires they simply had no choice but to light to keep warm. Stix and Inett were scouting ahead, and some of the men had gone hunting for something Tarly needed. If she was not so exhausted, Sansa would have been repulsed to observe how Arya was sitting with her back pressed against the back of Sandor Clegane, the two of them whispering their dark little jokes and baring teeth weakly at times. A stray dog for my wild she-wolf of a sister. Fitting. The children were curled up next to Gilly, who was humming a sad tune in a reedy voice, while Meg was stroking a whimpering Brass’ head.

Both Bronn and Gendry, who had been sitting close to each other, rose when they saw Sansa return.

“My lady,” the sellsword sidled up and placed his own threadbare woollen parka over her shoulders. She did nothing to stop him, and stumbled over to Gendry to quietly sit down next to him. Bronn joined them, while Brienne picked up some of her equipment several feet away.

Gendry was holding a metal makeshift cup over the small flames next to him, and he offered it to her with gloved hands and a wan smile.

“Here. It’ll warm you a bit,” the young blacksmith sniffed.

Sansa took the warm metal in her lap and felt the heat spread into her chilled skin. She could feel Bronn’s presence like an extra problem waiting to happen, but Gendry was inoffensive to her, mainly because the young man would often slip into private musings and be silent.

“How about a song?” Bronn suggested, clutching at final straws of non-existent enthusiasm.

The children somewhat brightened at that, stopping their whimpering and looking up. Sansa cringed inwards, and decided to retreat within her own mind for the duration of the following rendition of The Dornishman’s Wife.

“The Dornishman's wife was as fair as the sun

And her kisses were warmer than spring

The Dornishman's blade was made of black steel

And its kiss was a terrible thing.”

While Bronn’s lilting tones carried around their dark camp, Jasper returned with arms full of dry twigs and sticks for topping up the flames during the long dark hours. The northern soldier was thinner and less jovial than usual, but he spared a smile for poor Meg, whose frequent fits of crying he appeared to have soothed. Sansa thought of having someone to soften her own fits of misery, and hated that her mind went to Petyr. Why could she never escape the memory of his life’s blood pouring onto the floor of the Great Hall in Winterfell? I betrayed you, but only after you betrayed me.

“Brothers, oh brothers, my days here are done

The Dornishman's taken my life

But what does it matter? For all men must die

And I've tasted the Dornishman's wife.”

There was a brief silence when Bronn stopped singing, and a decided lack of applause. Brienne dropped something which crunched into the snow, and muttered to herself. Arya, still leaning against Clegane’s wide back, smirked.

“Valar morghulis,” she laughed weakly. Her usually round face was gaunter than Sansa had ever noticed, but the dark glint in her expression had only darkened.

“All men must die,” Bronn nodded and smirked insolently. “Too right, girl.”

“Stupid fucking thing to die for,” Clegane rumbled.

“I don’t know about that,” Gendry shrugged, and shivered immediately afterwards. “Is there not honour in dying for love?”

“There’s shit all honour in dying for any reason,” Clegane responded sharply. “And what the fuck’s that got to do with the damn song? Bastard never said he loved her.”

Brienne shuffled into the group, and rubbed her hands together as she sat heavily onto her sleeping roll.

“I don’t think someone like that would die for anything less worthy,” she shrugged in her usual righteous manner.

Jasper snorted and chuckled to himself, not rudely.

“I watched a man die trying to get his shoe out of a frozen lake,” he pointed out. “Men will die for lots of reasons.”

“Women too,” Arya added, inclining her head in a way that made her hair slide over Clegane’s shoulder. Sansa felt her head spin with revulsion at the sight of the casual contact.

“Aye, milady, women too,” Jasper grinned.

“Not willingly,” Brienne muttered under her breath. She had been noticeably different regarding her usual dedicated attitude lately, but that hardly set her apart from anyone else. No-one was unaffected now.

Meg shifted and carefully lifted Brass into her arms. The child was limp and weak from hunger.

“That’s what I don’t understand,” she said quietly. “How can the singer tell his tale, if he’s killed by the Dornishman?”

“Tales are told by the conquerors,” Bronn laughed. “I’d think the bugger lived. What would you say, my lady?”

Sansa was attempting to ignore the conversation, but death was all any of them could effectively think about. She breathed out slowly, watching her breath turn to mist.

“I wonder if the Walkers have songs about their conquest?” she said.

That effectively silenced the conversation for a time. For all the horrors they had inflicted on the land, very little was known about the enemy and its nature as a culture or a collective. Sansa, sitting with a point of warmth held in her hands, thought of the icy child she had held briefly in her arms, before having to set the baby aside. So very human, yet entirely strange…and could she be the secret to undoing all of this? Sansa did not believe in the gods, but she could feel something about those alien blue eyes, and the understanding behind them. It had reminded her of Bran, oddly, as if the child also had sight beyond the natural limitations of physical eyes.

First watch was taken, and the group wordlessly decided to lie and attempt to find the bliss of oblivion. As quietly as possible, Ser Jaime and Manderly returned, along with Sam Tarly who had required a particular dangerous plant to mix into a concoction to assist Bran’s increasingly laboured breathing. Her brother needed to wake up, and fast, before his body wasted away.

Sansa attempted to sleep while the others did, but her mind continued to race through darkened paths. It was entirely unhelpful to consider the darkness which lay behind usually shut doors in her mind, but the temptation to delve deeply into those realms was too strong in her fragile state of mind. Hunger had brought out a strange, clutching jealousy in her. She saw Brienne determined to protect others, and desired all of that protection for herself. She saw Jaime Lannister commanding respect or looking affectionately at his lover, and wanted both the respect and love of someone worthy. She saw Arya being comfortable around a man who had once terrorised her as a young girl in King’s Landing, and resented the warmth which even her psychotic little sister was able to glean from a fairly conflicted relationship.

Sansa felt the cold, inside and out, and hated her own harsh desires. What did Bronn’s admiration matter, when there was no challenge in gaining his attention, and no benefit to indulging it? Across the camp, she coldly watched Brienne talking to Ser Jaime, and the way their heads were inclined in apparent conspiracy. A certainty came over her, an unworthy one, that she could steal the golden knight’s heart if she so desired. She could steal Clegane’s revolting affection from her own sister. Such dark, selfish thoughts plagued her, until Sansa could no longer stand the tracks made by her own mind, or the maddening ache of her own hunger.

She walked quietly to Bran’s stretcher, and felt his cold face, hearing his terrible, ragged breaths. And then, her mind running through possibilities, she slipped her hand under layers of fur and fabric. Bran’s leg was bone and skin without a pick of flesh to touch, but then there was a shifting of the material.

One of her fingers was quietly clasped by a little icy hand, and Sansa held in a breath of anxiety, not wanting the group to hear her.

Chapter Text

Morning always came too soon.

At night, he could pretend that they had reached their destination, or at least that they were still securely hidden in the Cavern. During the dark, frozen hours, he found himself warm and laughing. He was learning to spar in Casterly Rock as a boy, he was alone with Cersei when they had fewer consequences and fewer lies, he was feeling the strength of his right hand, and he was alive in a way he had not been for a long time. Complications were the problems of men with more responsibility, and during his dreams, Jaime had little responsibility for anything.

The morning came.

Jaime breathed out, feeling the twinge of the chest wound which had not yet closed over. Sticky and weeping, the wound remained, directly over his heart. How ironic. He forced himself to open bloodshot eyes and face the waxy dawn. Brienne’s sleeping face was a foot away from his own, and Jaime found himself thinking that the woman was withdrawn from his dreams lately, as if their precious spoken promises seemed further from belief than the past. Yet he still reached over and stroked a scar on her cheek. She shifted, flinched in half-waking confusion, and opened those tired sapphire eyes which lacked some of their usual light.

“Ser Jaime,” Brienne mumbled sleepily.

“Lady Brienne,” he replied, attempting a weak smile, relieved that at least she had some of her usual humour. Recently, she had been snappish with him for little reason, unapproachable when he needed to hear warmth in her tone, and withdrawn into thoughts he could not read. It disturbed him to be the less brooding one for once.

The rest of the camp was still asleep, aside from Bronn and Arya Stark, both of whom were on watch as the dawn slowly crept its tentative fingers of light across the snow. A breeze licked his numb face, and the hunger pangs returned with a vengeance.

“Just another few days of this,” he whispered. “We’re not dead yet.”

“No. Not yet.” Brienne’s voice crackled from disuse and exhaustion.

“I dreamed we were getting married at last,” Jaime lied to cheer her up. “I dreamt that the sun was beating down and the sky was as blue as your eyes.”

To his immediate anxiety, she looked away and grimaced inexplicably.

“Don’t…” she breathed softly.

“What?” he asked, frowning. “Why do you not want to hear that?”

“We can talk later.” She rolled away, resting her almost shoulder-length flaxen hair on the scuffed material of her pack. He reached for her arm.

“Talk now. Why are you pushing me away like this?” he demanded quietly, sensing that there was something she was not saying. Brienne had never been an effective liar, even before he knew her well. The woman may have been built strongly, but the defences around her emotions were parchment thin.

“You assume I want the same things you do,” she whispered over her shoulder. Jaime tensed, reminded distantly of past conversations with Cersei. No. Don’t think of her, don’t think of that past. Brienne is my future.

“You never said you didn’t want to be married,” he pointed out, as gently as possibly. They so rarely argued in a serious way, limiting their disagreements to harmless bickering. He wondered if she was thinking of the Starks, and the loyalty she felt to her fulfilled oath. It was a strange, irritating jealousy which rose up in his heart.

“I do want to marry you,” she said simply.

“Then why are you acting like this?” Jaime asked, when she refused to elaborate.

“Now’s not the time.”

“Now may be the only time.” He leaned close and kissed her earlobe, but Brienne shrugged him off.

“Leave me alone, Jaime.”

Irrationally, those words made him feel a rush of panic. It must have been the hunger, or the constant fear of death, or the ache of his unhealed chest wound, but Jaime could not bear to hear her being so tetchy and curt in her replies to him. Therefore, with a lump in his throat, he hesitated before stiffly attempting to get to his feet, coughing quietly. Jaime refused to look back to check if Brienne watched him leave the camp and slump through the snow towards the river. The sight of greenery through the white was no longer a symbol of hope. The sky was grey and lifeless. He could taste his own fear, a powerful bitterness on his tongue.

You always were the stupidest Lannister.

Cersei had been right, perhaps. He was certainly foolish enough to suddenly become obsessed with the desire to make Brienne truly happy. Anything she wanted, he wanted to give. Was he an idiot to have imagined their love would remain unadulterated with moods and dark patches? The difficulties reminded him too much of Cersei, and he failed over and over again to remove her from his mind. How could he love someone as much as he loved Brienne, and still find himself plagued with poisonous memories? He could remember his own words, his own delusions playing over in his head. The only two people in the world…or the two people in my mind, anyway. Cersei would not go away, and would not let him live alone in his thoughts. Sweet sister, how you would laugh at me now…

Close to sinking into an uncontrollable rage, Jaime trudged almost blindly towards the river. He might have walked right into the rushing water, if he had not heard voices as he approached the bank. Looking down the bank in the direction he imagined was south, he saw Bronn leaning against a tree, facing Sansa Stark, whose back was towards the former sellsword. Knowing the tension between the two of them, he wondered if he should quickly announce his presence. At present they had not noticed him, half obscured behind an icy shrub.

“Please end this line of conversation, ser,” Sansa was saying in a strained but polite tone. “I do not feel well.”

Bronn was smirking up a storm.

“All you highborn ladies,” he chuckled dismissively. “You love to stand behind your airs and graces, don’t you? But you do know what I’m asking, even if you pretend you don’t. I am right, aren’t I, Sansa?”

Jaime stood, watching with bemusement, actually taken aback by Bronn’s outrageous arrogance. Sansa folded her arms and looked at her feet, still with her back to the man apparently proposing to her.

“I know what you are asking, ser,” she told him. “I just don’t care very much.”

Bronn languidly pushed himself off the tree he was leaning against, and moved towards the Stark girl, hands casually tucked into his belt.

“You’ll warm up to me eventually,” he declared with a wink. “You’re the kind of girl wants someone to fight for her. I’m willing to fight for any prize worth my while.”

Sansa stuck out her chin, and Jaime felt strangely proud of her. The girl had come a long way in terms of strength from the time he met her in King’s Landing, briefly married to his brother and seemingly as timid as any child bride and hostage ought to be. We’ve all changed, haven’t we?

“I don’t think you know what kind of girl I am,” Sansa said firmly, looking measuredly at Bronn.

“I know some things,” he replied. “I know you want everyone to love you and everyone to be a puppet you can use. I know that you don’t care about me, not because I’m repulsive to you as a man, but because you can’t use me to gain something. Don’t give me that face, milady, because I do know these things. I know that you’re fucking terrified of letting everyone down, because some part of you has to be the damn hero here. You need the adoration. You crave it.”

During this profession, Bronn had been getting inch by inch closer to the Stark girl’s face. They were of a height, challenging each other with what appeared to be matching levels of vanity.

“But let me tell you this,” the sellsword smirked again, more obnoxiously than before. “You’re not as loved as you think you are. And sooner or later, you’ll be damn lucky to have someone as trustworthy as me.”

Sansa laughed sarcastically, and pulled an incredulous face.

“You?” she said. “Trustworthy? I’d sooner trust a Bolton.”

Bronn grinned. “I’m trustworthy when there’s something to gain. Just like you.”

He winked and reached, attempting to cup Sansa’s face in a gloved hand. The girl was tensing to recoil when Jaime decided the time had come to announce his presence. Any longer would have made the announcement painfully uncomfortable for all parties involved.

“He’s not lying there, in fact,” Jaime said, and stepped towards them, trying to sound casual. Bronn and Sansa stepped somewhat away from each other, but while her expression betrayed a moment of relief, his was tinged with anger.

“Lannister,” Bronn snapped.

“This former cutthroat saved my life on a few occasions,” Jaime clarified, walking over in a way he assumed would appear unbothered. “When he thought I’d reward him.”

Sansa clasped her hands and Jaime noticed just how tired and thin she was beginning to look. The man who had proposed to her now regarded his former commander with a withering glare.

“And how much I regret it,” he commented.

“I was about to walk back to camp, Ser Jaime,” Sansa said benignly. “Will you accompany me?”

“Absolutely.”

He felt strangely reminded of more extravagant times and places when the Stark girl accepted his offered arm and the two of them trudged away from the river. There were times when courtesy and honour and fine items seemed highly important to him. All the wonders of court and knighthood…how foolish I once was. Jaime chose not to ask Sansa about her reaction to Bronn’s advances while they walked, and felt oddly protective about the beautiful girl as she lightly held his arm. Perhaps that was Brienne’s yammering rubbing off on his impressions of the Lady of Winterfell, or his thoughts about his younger, idealistic days. Sansa also seemed determined to say nothing, and her face looked shadowed by a storm cloud.

As they drew close to the camp, raised voices carried through the trees, and glancing at each other with concern, they hurried onwards.

Jaime heard the shouting before he saw the reason for it. Emerging into view, the scene was a bizarre one. Stix and Inett, who had been scouting ahead, had blood-stained lips and faces, and held the leg of a horse between themselves. Their weapons were hidden, but angry words and expressions were being exchanged between them and certain members of the group. Arya Stark was criticising them loudly, while Jasper Snow was glaring, Sandor Clegane swore, and Brienne spoke softer but with equal disapproval.

“What’s going on?” Jaime demanded.

“They killed a horse!” The younger Stark girl exclaimed angrily.

He blinked.

“You found a live horse,” he said to the two Free Folk, needing clarification. “And killed it?”

That was confirmed, and he was rendered speechless for a moment by the shock of the discovery that there were any living horses left, and the even greater shock that the wildlings would kill the beasts without asking permission. Inett was livid, resentful apparently that the group did not appreciate their crude generosity.

“We need to eat,” she pointed out. “Here is the food you imbeciles could not have the sense to get for yourselves.”

“We also need to travel,” Sansa sighed deeply. “And we need horses to speed us up before the Walkers notice us.”

“What does that matter if we died of starvation first?”

“The decision to kill the animal was not yours to make.”

“Nor yours. We are not kneelers, Queen Sansa, not to you nor anyone.” Stix was unmoving in his words and actions, dumping the bloody leg in front of the group. Inett seethed next to him, clearly with half a mind to slaughter everyone or leave the group to fend for itself.

“Were there no other horses?” Jaime asked, trying and failing to sound patient.

“Just one scrawny one,” Inett said. “Why? Will you complain about there not being enough meat as well?”

The argument continued, but stomachs started to ache just with the smell of blood and meat in the air. Meg eventually seized the leg, regardless of the protests of her companions, and offered it to the children. All of them were, at their bases, animals of course, and there was little to be done once a starving feeding frenzy was reached. The children were like small wolves, tearing with little teeth and snarling with desperation.

“Don’t eat raw meat like that,” Tarly complained, but his protest was futile.

The thought of bloody meat made Jaime drool as well, although he tried not to let his head spin overly much.

“Have you left the meat somewhere safe, at least?” he asked the wildlings, and after they nodded, finally being taken seriously, he cleared his throat. “Let’s go make the most of the kill, then,” he said, and the group set to packing.

Chapter Text

She tried not to think of her ravenous, terrible hunger as meaning anything other than her own starvation. It meant nothing else. Nothing.

They packed up and followed the wildlings to the place they had hidden the corpse of the horse. It was concealed under branches and packed with snow to preserve the freshness of the meat. Manners and etiquette entirely forgotten, several members of the group knelt in the snow and literally tore at the flesh of the dead animal. The stench of discarded bowels and death made Brienne’s head spin, but her hunger was the worse cause of dizziness. She had never been this starving before, during any journey. But that meant nothing except that she had never gone so long without food before. I can’t think of the other thing, not now, not ever.

At first, she stood while Lady Sansa covered her mouth with a delicate hand and hesitated, obviously as hungry as everyone else but disgusted by the sight of usually civilised individuals reduced to animalistic desire. The younger sister, however, had no compunctions whatsoever, and sunk teeth into the horse’s skinned flank.

“Have some restraint, all of you,” Jaime tried to protest. “We need to ration this meat properly. Can you not wait to cook it as well?”

“Fuck off, Kingslayer,” Clegane snapped, and knelt next to Arya to bury a knife into the flesh and rip off a chunk. Blood spurted from mouths and ran down chins.

“Let us eat, ser,” Jasper Snow mumbled through a mouthful of gore.

Eventually, Brienne could stand it no longer, and knelt as well, trying to hold onto some semblance of normality while she sliced off a slither of meat with a knife. The children were there too, chewing under supervision by Gilly and Meg. Meanwhile, Samwell Tarly was muttering about the various dangers of ingesting raw meat, and the wildlings watched over the gory scene with weapons drawn, ready to spot any approaching wights. The slimy flesh was chewy and tough in Brienne’s mouth. She met Jaime’s tired, frustrated eyes, and felt a sudden rush of panic that he would somehow read her mind, so she looked away.

Can’t think about it, can’t think about it…

There was a satisfaction in putting something into the vast, empty hollow that was her stomach. She felt saliva run from her lip along with blood, and saw the same hunger-crazed expression on normally sane faces. Meg’s long brown hair was hanging on slimy exposed ribs, and Jasper Snow had several small chunks of flesh stuck in his beard. Brienne continued to eat until it occurred to her that she should cut some off for Lady Sansa. After what may have been hours or minutes, they heard a low growling, and Ghost appeared at the edge of the clearing, rushing over to bury his massive jaws in the animal’s middle, slobbering and gulping.

“That’s spoiling the best of the organs!” Bronn complained, but Ghost bared fangs at him, and the former sellsword quickly gave up trying to argue with the direwolf.

Lifting another piece to her lips, Brienne paused, feeling nausea rise and the hairs prickle on her arms. She felt a surge of sickness, and stumbled to her feet, clutching at her middle futilely through armour. Staggering like a drunkard, she reached the edge of the clearing and heaved up everything she had just eaten. Ignoring the disgusted sounds of protest from the other members of the group, she groaned and leaned against a tree. Don’t think about it, don’t think…

“This is what will happen if you continue to gulp down raw meat!” Tarly pointed at her. “We need to cook this first, I’m not just saying this because it’s disgusting to watch!”

Brienne wiped blood from her hands and sheathed the knife she had been using, closing her eyes and feeling sickness roil in her gut. Acid burned her throat from the vomit, and light-headedness made the world tilt. Feeling a sympathetic hand on her arm, she looked down to see Sansa smiling up weakly but supportively.

“Have some water,” she offered. “Might help you keep down the meat, or at least clear your throat.”

Brienne accepted the flask in Sansa’s hand, and gulped down the icy water. It was difficult to tell how much of her nausea was fear now, but fear was a contributing factor. She avoided Jaime’s concerned expression from the place he was frozen, standing uselessly and watching the bloody, revolting scene. Did he think badly of her? Did he guess at the secret which she desperately hoped was a false terror? She could not tell as easily as usual. Hunger and horror certainly lessened her powers of observation, which were frequently proven to be limited at the best of times.

Sansa headed back over to her sister, who was getting up and wiping the crimson trails from her chin. The younger Stark girl was about to give Clegane another piece of meat directly from her palm, when Sansa hissed something in her ear, and dragged her sister away from the dead horse. It was obvious to Brienne that the sisters were hiding something even from her, although she had no idea what exactly it was. There were strange divides forming in the group, and she felt entirely torn and confused about whose side everyone would be on if a conflict arose.

The Stark girls disappeared towards the supplies and their brother’s body. Jasper Snow got up and parted from the rest of the group to saunter over to her tree. Brienne nodded towards him, trying to wipe any remaining vomit from her face.

“What is it they say about flogging a dead horse?” the northern soldier chuckled, and then inclined his head towards the place Jaime was still standing, looking on at everyone else with frustration. “Trouble in paradise?” Jasper asked.

“Something like that…” She avoided Jaime’s gaze.

Brienne liked Jasper. Every time she beat him during sparring sessions, he never sulked or became offensive like some men would, but laughed and picked himself up with a typical grin. They had never established a friendship as such, but trusted each other as acknowledged soldiers without true say in any of the pivotal decisions made in the group.

“Take the advice of an old charmer,” Jasper said, speaking in a sage tone. “What would always irritate me the most about a woman was if she expected me to figure out what was wrong without actually bloody telling me. Men like to fix things, milady. If there’s a problem, we can’t be expected to read your minds. Tell your man what’s wrong, and he’ll thank you for it. Trust me.”

Brienne examined her bloodied fingernails, and felt a minor blush coming on. There was no use in what the soldier suggested. If she told Jaime about her deepest growing fear, his reaction would only make matters worse, one way or another. This was a secret she would bear until she no longer could.

“I don’t think that will help,” she said sadly. “But thank you, Jasper.”

“My pleasure.” He backed off, likely sensing that his advice came as unwanted. That was perhaps his least favourable quality: usually not knowing when his insight was not required. However, this time he had managed to pick up on her reluctance to listen.

After everyone had taken what they pleased of the horse meat, the rest was cut from the bones and packed away as further rations. Gendry was examining the bones themselves, trying to figure out if they could be used as weapons. The wildlings took the skins and shared pieces out with Meg and Gilly. The children, for the first time in a week, were chasing each other around the trees, having found energy in some hidden reserve now that they had full bellies. Brienne smiled at the sight, but felt terrified at the same time. The secret weighed down upon her with terrible weight.

What am I to do? Ignore it. That’s all I can do now.

Once they had packed their possessions, the sun was at its highest, and the group was losing valuable daylight hours which would have been used for travelling. Jaime took the lead with their map, chewing on a strip of meat. Stix and Inett walked next to him, steering the direction of travel away from an area they spotted while scouting, where there was a group of idle wights. The group started trudging along, at the usual slow pace.

Clegane’s leg had improved recently, and he was pulling Brandon Stark’s sled. Arya walked next to him, twirling a knife between her fingers. Brienne walked ahead of them, behind Sansa and Gilly, not entirely due to chance. She had noticed the recent, more noticeable closeness between them, and was becoming curious about the extent of the change, if there was one. Perhaps Arya was simply as miserable and hungry as anyone else, and craved the warmth of another person. The girl’s reasons for picking the scarred warrior baffled Brienne, but she did not judge the choice.

“How’s the leg?” Arya was asking her companion.

“Just a scratch.” Clegane was gruff, as usual.

“Right.” She did not sound convinced.

“What about your shoulder, she-wolf?”

“I was able to fight with it two weeks ago,” she sighed with a voice which suggested rolled eyes. "Obviously, it’s fine.”

“Just bloody trying to be nice…”

“Don’t be,” Arya told him. “You don’t do nice very well.”

“Neither do you.”

“I can do it well when I want to.” She was confident about that, and Brienne believed her, having witnessed some of her subterfuge before in a situation involving a pair of Vale knights and a peasant child. Arya explained her acting proficiency as being a result of her training in Braavos, and Brienne had not wished to pry any further, disturbed by even the slightest hints of that darker past.

“Thing is, wolf girl, you never want to,” Clegane pointed out grumpily.

“Maybe I just don’t want to be nice to you.”

“I see the real side of you,” he claimed. “And it’s fucking unpleasant.”

“Says you.”

“Aye, says me. That shows just how nasty you fucking are.”

“Oh, shut up,” she snapped irritably. “Go stick your ugly face in the snow.”

At this point, Brienne regretted her decision to eavesdrop. Clearly, nothing had changed in terms of the well-known bickering between the Stark girl and the big warrior. Their squabbling had a reputation for lasting hours. Having suspected that there was a new form of tension between them, it was almost a relief to have proof that nothing had changed, and Brienne chose to try to ignore them. Arya Stark could clearly look after herself, anyway, so there was no reason to be concerned about things which were not her duty to pry into.

Besides, her own difficulties bothered her enough to occupy her mind with more personal concerns. She looked at the back of Jaime’s head over the rest of the group, and felt ill again. She now feared telling Jaime a secret for the first time since they had admitted their feelings for each other, and hated the abyss which her concealment had created between them. Brienne took off a glove and picked at a scab at the back of her hand, using the pain to feel a little more awake. When they arrived at White Harbour, if there were living people or not, she decided she would have no choice. The secret would not keep itself for very long.

Stop thinking of it, stop thinking…

Brass skipped over to her and raised her thin little arms. It was truly wonderful to see her with some of the old, brazen light in her eyes.

“Brie, Brie, lift me, lift me.”

Brienne attempted a smile, made sure that her hands were relatively clean of blood, and hoisted Brass up onto her shoulders.

“Never get older,” she whispered to the girl.

“But I want to be a lady knight like you.” Brass swung her legs and petted Brienne’s hair. “I want to fight to look after the queen, like you and Arya.”

A single tear, which the child would not see, traced a path down Brienne’s pale cheek and became icy cold. She painfully swallowed her own anxiety.

“I’m not a knight,” she said sadly, feeling the truth of that more keenly than she ever had before. I’ll soon be chained to another way of life instead…

Chapter Text

The sun sank quickly in the uncaring winter sky, observing their group as they attempted to haul themselves the final distance before setting up camp again.

It was a routine they had settled into. Fifteen times they had dragged themselves to a sheltered place to sleep since leaving the Cavern. Arya could unpack her essentials and assist her companions to start small fires or mend broken equipment without having to think. She was lost in her own mind most of the day, and when the sun sank away with its precious daylight, she sank deeper. There was a delight in being free to roam places other than the bank of a south-racing river, and she wandered through new landscapes in her mind. Small things dragged her back to reality. Bickering with Sandor kept her wits sharp, becoming frustrated with Sansa made her feel at home, and worrying about Bran reminded her that she had to remain alert to protect her people. There was no point in allowing her own dark impulses to take control, not now that they were nearing the end of the journey.

Considering Bran while striking sparks for a fire, Arya glanced at his sled, specifically at the wrappings around his wasted legs, knowing that it was still hidden there. The alien creature never made a sound, not even when others jolted the sled or when they pulled back the wrappings to check it was still alive. Its blue stare made her stomach turn, but Arya kept to her promise to Sansa, and the one to herself. If she could not trust her sister, here at the end of the world, she was truly alone. Maybe Sansa would be right, after all the doubt.

Not that I’d ever tell her I thought so…

Strangely, despite the group becoming increasingly unstable and miserable, especially when the food ran out, Arya had been feeling more uplifted than she had in months. Being on the move gave a sense of purpose again, and she envisioned finally knowing that her siblings were somewhere relatively safe. Then, and only then, would she have the power to decide her own fate again. She would be able to decide whether to face the enemy herself at last, or to continue running. Jon would not have continued to run, but Jon was gone.

I will return to you, little sister.

It was becoming easier not to be affected by the memory. She was no longer in denial, no longer in a stage of disbelieving numbness, nor was she in terrible pain. Jon was just another ghost, not yet avenged.

Gendry swung his stick clumsily as he lowered himself next to the diminutive flames she was breathing life into. Arya ignored the thought of his proposal before they had left the Cavern, happy to perceive him the way she once had as a child, albeit now with a much grimmer outlook on life.

“Have you seen Brass?” he asked tiredly. “Meg’s looking for her.”

“No.”

Meg was indeed searching the edge of the clearing, hissing Brass’ name. Arya glanced around the camp, which was in the shadow of an enormous snow-covered tree. There were a few cold-looking birds in the branches, occasionally fluffing their feathers for warmth. The group was quiet as always, muttering words barely audible. She noticed that Sansa was still fending off verbal advances by Bronn, that Brienne was avoiding the Kingslayer, and that Samwell Tarly was kissing his wife. Arya glanced away, made mildly uncomfortable by public displays of affection. It appeared that the group was almost entirely comprised of couples now, either real or potential, and she longed more than ever to be rid of the fuss caused by such things.

“She never goes far,” Arya said to Gendry, taking Needle out to polish its blade. “Not with everyone still here. She’ll be back for food.”

He nodded. “I’m sure you’re right.”

Since the incident with the raw horse meat, the group had been chewing pieces of it along the way, but not stopping to properly cook a meal. The children had begun complaining about hunger again, as if they had forgotten the true pain of starvation that they knew mere hours earlier.

“How are you doing?” Gendry asked.

Arya glanced up at him, wondering at the contents of his head over the last half-month. Gendry had frequently been keeping to himself, lost in thought and difficult to reach even for her.

“Wonderful,” she muttered sarcastically in response to his question. “Couldn’t be better.”

Gendry grinned while unlacing a boot. “Me too,” he joked, blue eyes sparkling.

Arya was secretly very happy to see him smile. Their friendship had been on unstable territory after that unfortunate conversation in the Cavern, but now it seemed more secure. Neither of them had mentioned the incident since, and it appeared to have been the correct decision. All the same, Arya now felt entirely unwilling to get into a deep conversation with the blacksmith, and for that reason their relationship was tainted. How could she ever act the same, knowing what he felt, or at least what he thought he felt?

While Gendry took off his boot and examined his leg wound, and Arya watched her sister talking with the Kingslayer in a serious tone, Sandor was ambling over to their spot. He dropped himself down with a grunt, wincing. Arya ignored the sense that there was tension between the two men.

“Have you seen Brass, dog?” Gendry asked casually.

“Yes,” Sandor stated, and then said nothing to elaborate.

“When?”

“While we were travelling.”

Gendry sighed. “I meant have you seen her since we made camp?”

“Should have been more fucking clear about that, then, runt.”

“I was clear about it.”

“Didn’t seem that way.”

Arya felt as if she was watching a jousting match, her eyes shifting from one of them to the other, anticipating a collision. However, when she thought it would happen, Gendry just rolled his eyes, and the two of them smirked to themselves before falling silent. Having prepared herself to intervene if necessary, Arya was stunned. What?

“Since when have you two been able to stop snapping at each other?” she frowned.

Sandor looked at her with blatantly unconcealed amusement.

“Might be you’d prefer us to hate each other, wouldn’t you, she-wolf?” he chuckled, and grabbed his flask. Sometimes Arya wondered if he forgot there was only water in there, and if he was disappointed every time.

“No,” she claimed, glowering. “I’m just surprised.”

Gendry and Sandor exchanged a look, a brief unreadable one, and Arya’s frown only deepened. This was new; the two of them were apparently sharing an understanding. It annoyed her that Sandor was, in fact, correct. She would prefer them to hate each other, because she was familiar with their mutual aggression and knew how to deal with it. It bothered her slightly, that these two men, both of whom she considered her friends, were talking behind her back, possibly even about her. Was it selfish to expect them to constantly butt heads over her? Had some part of her even enjoyed it?

Damn both of them…

Gendry was picking at the crusty edge of his puncture wound, flicking a flap of skin and grimacing. From the other side of the group, Ghost came bounding over, tongue lolling. He sat back and started sniffing Arya’s hair. She leaned against the direwolf’s thick furry neck, and breathed in his musty smell.

“I need to get this looked at,” Gendry sighed, and struggled to his feet. Arya moved to help him, but he waved her away. “I’m fine,” he muttered.

As the blacksmith limped towards Tarly, Arya scratched Ghost behind his big ears. The direwolf panted and then turned his head to lick her face with enthusiasm. She nuzzled his face, enjoying the softness of white fur against her cheek.

“I’d give a leg to be that fucking wolf right now.”

Arya turned her head towards Sandor, raised a dark eyebrow at his comment, and kept stroking Ghost’s fur. She still did not know if she was comfortable hearing him speak like that. Something caused her to feel an anxiety in her gut, but she was no longer certain what that feeling was. His expression was intense, and he was running his teeth over his bottom lip in a way which trapped her gaze and would not let it go.

We’re doing what lovers do.

Arya had said that as a joke many days ago, but after saying it, the words had fixed in her mind, although she could never tell why. She did not love him, and the idea was ridiculous to her, but the thought was somehow repellent and enticing all at once.

“Nothing to say, girl?” Sandor rumbled.

“Nothing worth saying,” she replied.

“If I didn’t know any bloody better, I might have said you were staring at me,” Sandor commented, and took another mouthful of water from his flask. Arya, before realising she was doing it, watched a drop of water fall through his beard. The thought of leaning over and licking it away was strangely attractive.

“If I was staring, it must be because you look particularly ugly today,” she smiled cruelly, and he sneered.

“You can’t fucking hurt me with my face, little bitch.” He patted the scarred side of his head. “Had this too long to care much.”

Arya momentarily pressed her forehead to Ghost’s muzzle, feeling the direwolf’s hot breath on her cold skin. “If I was trying to hurt you, you’d know about it,” she muttered darkly.

“That I damn believe.”

Across the camp, Samwell was talking to Gendry, gesturing for the younger man to follow him. Arya thought about the various times she had been attracted to Gendry, and tried to determine what made a person desire another person. The young blacksmith was brave, handsome, and honourable in all the ways a lowborn bastard could be. Naturally, she had found herself somewhat attracted to him. The attraction was a friendly, dull one, however. What she felt about Sandor reminded her vaguely of the thrill after watching an enemy’s life drain from their eyes. It was intense and a feeling confusingly like a desire for vengeance.

It means nothing. I want no-one like that.

She looked at Sandor again. He was turned away, absorbed in his own grim thoughts, but their eyes met again, and he smirked fondly at her in a way which both infuriated and freely gave power at once.

“Still staring, she-wolf. Planning ways to kill me?” he asked.

“I’ve run out of ideas,” Arya smiled coldly. “Years of thinking about killing someone will do that.”

“Yet all you do is think about it.” Sandor held her gaze, and continued speaking in a deeper whisper. “Just like I do.”

Arya felt her skin prickle. “Like you do?” she echoed. “Why? Are you planning on killing me too?”

He bared his teeth. “In a way, I’d fucking like to.”

Those words hung between them, yet another challenge on their own battlefield. Death was surrounding them, possibly even waiting to strike, but this exchange unnerved her more than the threat of death. She knew every indentation of the scars on his face, the exact shade of brown of his eyes, and the way his lip would curl in derision. She knew how to rile him or how to placate him, and she knew that he was part of whatever substance made up her soul, whether she liked that or not. Arya did not particularly want to desire anyone in a sexual way, but recently any time she had imagined herself in that role, she found her mind drawn to Sandor. My worst reflection, my curse and companion, my guilt and relief…Even the thought of being another hapless victim of the affliction which others called love made her feel ill, but perhaps there was no choice in the matter. Perhaps that was why people fell in love, and did not climb to it. There was no decision. It just happened.

A scream ended her train of thought.

The high-pitched cry of distress was familiar, and everyone was on their feet within another moment, grasping at weapons and staring with wide, frantic eyes. Little Sam clutched at his mother’s clothing. Ghost growled, white fur standing on end, and Arya patted his back reassuringly. A moment later, Lance Manderley’s voice broke into the silence.

“Was that Meg?”

The washerwoman was nowhere to be seen, but before they could call her name, Tarly and Gendry came crashing back into the clearing, dragging Bran on his sled.

“Who screamed?” Samwell asked.

“Meg, we think.”

“Where did she go?”

“Stix went with her,” Inett shouted, with a note of concern. “I’m going after them.”

“No!” The Kingslayer stopped the wildling woman with a stern glare, stepping in front of her. “We need to stick together until we know what…”

“Look!”

Stix came rushing out of the undergrowth, and in his arms, red-faced and clutching at her throat, was Brass. Arya stared in dumb shock as the girl thrashed in the wildling man’s arms, and the group rushed forward to try to help her. Tarly shoved the others aside and Stix lay the child onto the ground in front of their healer. Meg was weeping in the background, having followed Stix into the clearing, and held onto Jasper Snow like a limpet.

“What’s wrong with her?”

“She ate something weird, all green and mushy, like mashed…”

“Oh, shit!” Tarly exclaimed. “She didn’t get into my supplies, did she? Was no-one watching her?”

“Don’t start accusing everyone, just help her!” Sansa cried, holding the girl’s shaking hand. Brass’ face was going bright purple, her eyes red, not a sound escaping her swollen throat. Brienne was holding her head in her lap, and tears ran down her pale cheeks.

Arya watched, feeling her mind drift away from the scene. She barely registered emotion as Samwell became more and more desperate, attempting to lean the girl forward and convince her to cough up whatever she had swallowed. The whole nightmarish scene could have been a dream to her, or a memory.

She must have been hungry to try to eat some of Sam’s medicines.

Tarly gave five sharp blows between Brass’ shoulder blades with the heel of his hand, but she still made no sound, her eyes large and red with desperation for air. Little Sam was wailing, and even Jasper found no humour in the situation, his face slack with horror. Arya stood, frozen, feeling nothing. When Brass fell limp, Arya continued to be numb and lifeless, unable to feel the pain she should have felt. Where has my heart gone? I need to remember where…

Sandor clasped her head and she leaned against his chest. His fingers in her hair felt solid, an anchor to the sorry fact called life, one she no longer felt anything for.

The group continued to wail and desperately attempted to force Brass to throw up, or spit out the paste she had eaten, but the damage was done, and her throat was swollen closed. Ironic, Arya thought with vague revulsion, that the child had survived so many wight attacks, only to die from eating poisonous paste. Valar morghulis.

They burned her body instead of burying it, regardless of the risks.

Arya wished that the girl had been peaceful looking in death, but the choking had twisted her face into a pained expression. Despite the fact that Brass died of her own curiosity and hunger, Arya still felt that this terrible second Night was to blame. Without the army of the dead, that girl would have had parents to protect her, and a home to grow up in.

Rest easy, Brass.

Rest, for I will avenge you and your family. I swear it.

Chapter Text

The child’s face haunted the backs of his eyes as he lay, unable to sleep through the chill night. Poor Brass, so young and spirited, undone by her own curiosity and impulsive nature. The girl had reminded him of Arya, when he met her. She had never listened to anyone when ideas entered her mind, but he admired her bravery and resilience nonetheless, right from the beginning. People changed, though, and people died. Both inside and out…

His leg was improving, and the fever was gone, but it still throbbed from time to time and caused terrible pain when he leaned on it. Calluses had developed on his palms from holding his makeshift staff. He found himself shifting to using his war hammer instead as a support, that is until the heavy weight of the weapon began to make his arm ache. His thoughts were tainted with grief and self-pity. Here he was, having somehow estranged himself from Arya, wounded and hungry and cold. Gendry found himself wondering if things would have ended better if he had remained in King’s Landing almost a year ago when Ser Davos came to find him.

He could not see in the darkness, not with the thick soup of cloud overhead, but he could hear the others breathing nearby. Lady Sansa was on his right, the gentle sound of air whistling from her nose informing Gendry that she had finally dropped off. Arya was somewhere to his left, silent like a shadow, and still as death. She never made a sound sometimes. When had the girl he once imagined himself marrying become so strange in his eyes? Perhaps her harsh words to him after he proposed were affecting him at last.

“The world will never go back to the way it was. Even before, there never were any heroes, and there was no glory.”

It had been a secret desire, to take his place among the great heroes of the songs. He had the blood of royalty in his veins, and more bravery than most of the many arrogant soldiers he had reluctantly crafted weaponry for over the years. But he had been carried away recently, and his dreams were slowly losing their glittering charm. Arya, who he knew he loved, would not have fit into those dreams anyway.

I will find a path to honour by myself, Gendry thought mournfully, and perhaps another love will follow when I do.

He trusted the power of his conviction, but was doubting the solid nature of his fantasies. This Night was so very cold. It smothered all fires and dimmed all light.

“Are you crying?”

Gendry remained silent at the sound of this whispered voice. It was Arya who spoke, but not to him. Brienne of Tarth was lying on the Stark girl’s left, and it was the warrior woman who answered. He was uncertain how Arya had determined that the lady knight was crying, given the utter darkness and the lack of sound, to his ears anyway.

“Did I wake you?” Brienne asked.

“No.” Arya’s tone was distant.

There was a brief silence. Gendry wondered if it was dishonest to keep listening, but kept quiet regardless.

“Are you crying because of Brass?” Arya was whispering again, and a shuffling sound told him that she had moved closer to Brienne.

“Yes and no.”

That reply was slightly evasive, and even Gendry realised it. Did everyone have secrets in this group? Or perhaps, he considered, she could have also discovered that the baby Walker was still alive. He had not breathed a word about it to anyone, knowing the conflict that it would cause, but someone as honourable as Brienne would surely be appalled at the discovery.

“What else is wrong?” Arya was whispering. “Aside from everything, that is.”

There was another pause. A particularly cold breeze bit Gendry’s exposed face, and he silently pulled his furs tighter around his neck.

“I can’t…” Brienne’s voice was more emotionally charged than he had ever heard it. “I haven’t even told…I couldn’t say…it’s my burden to bear.”

“What is?”

There was a crunching sound of snow being compressed. “Promise you won’t say a word to anyone else?” Brienne hissed.

Arya’s tone was full of sincerity. “Promise.”

Gendry could not help himself from straining to hear what they said next, but whatever it was must have been whispered barely louder than a heartbeat, because he could not make out the words. Lady Sansa’s delicate, whistling breaths and the branches of trees creaking in the wind were all he could discern. They were still near the bank of the White Knife river, in the relative shelter of snowy bracken.

“Seven fucking hells,” was the next phrase he could make out.

Arya was clearly shocked by something, a fact which confused him. It was almost certain that both Stark girls already knew about the Walker baby. Was there another secret as well? Gendry began to wish he had plugged his ears with snow and kept his nose out of other people’s affairs. Nothing good had ever come from being too curious.

“Are you sure?” Arya then asked, apparently disgusted.

“Ssh,” Brienne hissed back. “No, I’m not sure. You can’t say a word, Arya, please.”

“I won’t, but…shit,” Arya blurted quietly, and let loose a string of muttered profanity. She could never have been the Lady of Storm’s End. Why had I ever thought that? Gendry attempted to set aside some of his own unfair bitterness for the sake of trying to figure out what this new secret was. He shivered, vaguely aware of the temperature seeming to drop even further.

“I don’t know what to do,” the lady knight was saying, worriedly. It sounded as if she was on the verge of more tears, which shocked Gendry. He had always seen the tall woman as a rock of strength, untouched by feminine emotions.

“Isn’t there some way of…” Arya hesitated. “Of getting rid of it?”

Another silence.

“I couldn’t do that,” Brienne replied with deathly certainty. “I wouldn’t.”

“But it could kill you, you know that, right?” The Stark girl was incredulous. “I’d get rid of it if that happened to me.”

Brienne made a pained sighing sound, and there was more shifting as one of them moved. Gendry heard something move in the trees behind him, and wondered if some animal had ventured out, or if Ghost was there. Clegane and Manderly were both on patrol, and the wildlings had taken to sleeping away from most of the main group. The sound was no cause for concern.

“This is my future anyway,” Brienne whispered, barely loud enough for Gendry’s limited hearing. “There’s no point in delaying it.”

“Fuck that,” Arya replied passionately, almost failing to keep her voice lowered. “You’re one of the best fighters I know. Don’t throw all the good you could do away for…”

Her voice cut off, and a strange, instinctual tension settled into Gendry’s body. He could sense, somehow, that something was wrong, and listened, his blood rushing louder than any outside sound. When Arya’s hand reached over and touched his face, cold skin on cold skin, he started. She patted his chest and indicated that he should look behind himself. Gendry rolled and propped himself up on his elbows.

There was a bluish glow from behind one tree, so faint it would have been easy to miss if he had not been searching for it.

The wights had found them at last.

The body of Brass had been burned in a remote place earlier that day, miles of travelling before they made camp, but the smoke was still a signal to searching, listless eyes in the area. Perhaps they had followed, trudging along behind the group, until darkness fell over the cold land. How far are we from White Harbour if we have to run? A day? Two? It was difficult to think of anything while he stared at the hazily glowing eyes behind the trees.

“We have to warn everyone else,” Gendry whispered as quietly as he could.

Arya’s breath was close to his cheek, warm in contrast to the chill breeze, but her words were chilling.

“I’ll lure them off,” she said. “Get the others together and cross the river.”

“No,” he hissed, but could hear her moving. “What do you…” But he feared raising his voice, and missed when he reached towards her clothing to pull her back.

Sansa made a low mumbling sound, and he turned in that direction, hoping to warn the Lady of Winterfell before it was too late. And that was when the gnashing sound started, from another direction. More of them? It continued, with a quality akin to metal filings being gargled in ripped throats. There was so little time to warn anyone, and Gendry cursed his injured leg as he scrambled to find his war hammer. Lady Sansa shifted, and he quickly pressed a hand to her mouth, as gently as possible. She started, but made no sound. The groaning, gnashing sound increased.

“What is that?” Sansa asked, and Gendry shivered at the feeling of her lips moving against the palm of his hand.

“They’ve found us,” he hissed, “and I don’t know where…”

His explanation was cut off as a snap echoed amidst the quiet groaning of their enemies. Sparks and then flames licked upwards from a torch, and Arya Stark’s face and halo of dark hair was illuminated on the other side of the camp. Gendry did not know how she had moved so silently, or been able to tell where the others were lying in the blackness, but his heart leapt into his throat. What are you doing, Arry?

The wights screamed, and Gendry caught sight of a pair of blue eyes barely five feet from Arya, looking at her with fury and venom. The girl whipped around, her eyes glowing with torchlight.

“Come after me, bastards!” she yelled. “End it, then!”

And Arya ran with the torch into the forest, away from the river. Her tunic flapped against her nimble legs as she moved. Screams sounded, and snow crunched as dead feet chased after her.

There was a shout from somewhere else, possibly Manderly or Clegane, but Gendry did not know where they had gone, or how the wights had managed to get past them while they patrolled near the camp. Perhaps it was just too dark to see, even with torches. He had only seen one wight near Arya, but there was at least one other, and chaos had erupted in the camp. Lady Sansa grasped his sleeve to steady herself as she tried to rise to her feet. Glinting metal swished as weapons were drawn, and Little Sam was whimpering. As Arya’s torch danced away, everyone became a formless mass of shadow again, and Gendry was overcome with frustration as his leg ached. He needed to chase after those wights, and protect Arya, but he could not move.

“The river!” Jaime Lannister was shouting. “Get to the river! Everyone stay close. Follow my voice.”

He kept talking, saying more of the same. Sansa Stark clutched Gendry’s arm as they started shuffling towards the rushing, icy water. People were moving in front of them, quickly and breathlessly. He made out the silhouettes of Stix and Inett running to join the others, breathing heavily and cursing in confusion.

“My brother,” the older Stark girl was saying, rambling, with fear in her tired, dazed voice. “Where is Bran? Does someone have him? And Arya, why did she…? Brienne, is she there?”

Gendry could feel nothing but the cold, and the pain of his leg, and the weight of his hammer, and the pressure of her hand gripping his sleeve. He heard rasping breaths, shifting clothing, and the pulse of his blood over any terrified or brave voices.

“I’m here, my lady.” Brienne was holding onto Sansa now, and Gendry felt her fingers prise off his sleeve before the women moved away. He heard a gurgling sound behind himself, and spun, unable to see anything, frozen still.

Arry, where did you go? He could not see her anymore.

Someone lit a torch at the head of the group as it moved off towards the water, but Gendry was at the back of the group. The darkness was still a soup just beyond his feet. There was a sliding sound over the snow in front of himself, and he caught his breath, sweat icy on his forehead.

Everyone was behind him now, surely. How many wights were there?

Hearing another sliding sound, closer this time, he brought his hammer up, and swung it towards the sound. There was a dull, sinking crack as something broke under his swing and Gendry let loose a war cry, both out of a desire to find courage, and from the pain of his leg. He held his hammer and waited for a strike to come. None did.

He turned, seeing the light of the torch and the tail end of the group disappearing over a rise. Where is Arya, and the others? There was a frightened shout from the retreating group as they descended towards the river.

“Sam!” Gilly was screaming. “Sam, where are you? Sam!”

The once-wildling woman was hesitating, peering into the gloom where Gendry was standing in a strange, half-waking daze. He caught his breath, looking back at the darkness, ready to defend against the rest of the wights which were surely out there, and maybe protect anyone else not accounted for. Yet, he realised, he had seen no glowing eyes this time. In fact, there was no sound of anything in front of himself.

He fumbled in the dark, breathing heavily, hearing snatches of yells and once a clashing sound of metal on metal. Arry, where are you? He found a stick and fashioned a torch, pulling flint from his pocket to strike up sparks.

The group was gone when he finally lit a flame, disappeared in the direction of the river. He held it up, squinting.

He dropped the torch at once, and it rolled on the snow, flickering.

Samwell Tarly was lying next to Brandon Stark’s sled, still holding rope in his hands, a shocked expression on his round, still face. Blood was running in streams over his forehead and had dyed the snow where he lay. Gendry swore and felt his gorge rising, sickened and frozen in horror. The healer’s blood was still on his hammer, crimson and wet. Tarly had not made a sound.

What have I done? Gods be good, what have I done?

He heard the group shouting and calling names, more than one of them. Snapping out of his horror, Gendry rushed over and took the rope from Tarly’s hands. He almost threw up, feeling the almost-maester’s limp fingers touch his own. What have I done? Through a nightmarish veil, he recalled the Walker baby in Bran’s sled, and tore at the fabric, deciding to put an end to the creature and spare the group from the conflict if it was ever discovered. However, even ripping away most of the fabric, he could not find it. It must have slithered away. Maybe it even called the wights here.

He dragged the sled to the river, barely thinking, barely conscious. Nothing felt real, to the extent that Gendry fully expected to wake and find that this reality was just a bad dream. The pain of his leg no longer registered. Sounds of shouting as he pulled the sled down the hill towards the riverbank were meaningless. What have I done?

Lady Sansa actually threw her arms around him with gratitude when he re-joined the group, but he was numb.

“You went back for him,” she said, clearly relieved for her brother.

Ser Jaime was trying to get the warriors into a defensive line on the bank, while preventing anyone or any supplies from falling into the river. Gilly was desperate to know where her husband had gone, and Gendry could barely meet her gaze. Nothing had ever sickened him so much that he was incapable of words, but this did.

“Where is Sam?” she was asking, hysterical. Her usually calm brown eyes were wide and terrified. “Did you see him? Gendry? Gendry, answer me!”

Arry, please come back. Where are you?

Chapter Text

He would never understand how the wights had managed to creep past him in the dark. Everyone knew that wights would fly in furious rage at any living person, and he assumed that they would have seen him before he saw them. All the same, they had slipped past him and Lance Manderly without making a sound, and Sandor could not afford to spent time thinking about how.

She was flying between the trees forty feet from where he stood, dancing like a spirit of flames with a torch in her hand, chased by bloodthirsty creatures intent on harming her. As fast as a real she-wolf…

He was stunned at first, and his stomach turned slightly at the sight of the flames. He heard Manderly cry out behind him. The northern soldier was also being attacked by something, but even squinting through the trees, Sandor could not count how many wights were attacking him. The decision did not take up much, if any, time. He ran after the wolf girl, leaving Manderly to defend himself.

Sandor dumped his own torch to pull out a dragonglass axe to use alongside his sword. Carrying fire that close to his own skin was bothersome anyway. He followed the dancing light from Arya’s torch in the distance and the gravelly hissing of the wights chasing her.

What are you doing, she-wolf?

She had expressed some uncertain guilt for her recklessness the first night they were camped out here in the Northern wilderness, and he had been stupid enough to believe that she was genuine. Was everything she said laced with lies? Bitter anger mixed with instinctual fear as he stumbled through the near-blackness. There was no moon in the sky tonight, and flakes of snow were beginning to fall.

“Come after me!”

Her voice was a taunting song, reminding him of the way she taunted him when they sparred. His leg still ached, adding pain to every step.

Nearly tripping on a branch, he found himself faced with two pairs of blue eyes, glowing faintly and looking directly at him with mindless fury. Sandor said nothing to them, because there was no point in speaking to a corpse. He slashed and cut, almost blinded in the dark but fuelled by frenzied desperation to reach Arya’s side. He could hear her taunting voice coming from a clearing up ahead, and saw the dancing flames of her torch. Although he could barely see what his weapons were doing, he felt the connections of metal and flesh, and felt wet droplets of blood on his face and the backs of his hands. Wight blood was never warm, and it felt like rain.

One pair of eyes went dark, and Sandor felt the body slump next to his leg and twitch. The other wight was still snarling, and managed to slice at his face accurately enough to cut into his cheek. He recoiled, cursing. There was clashing metal in Arya’s direction, and loud growling shrieks. Was she facing off against four of them? Five? Where was the rest of the group? With a roar, he stepped forward and swung his axe at the shifting dark shape in front of himself, and the wight shrieked so loudly that his ears rang. There was a splattering sound on the snowy ground, and he stabbed his sword into the creature’s chest. Sharp nails and a knife flailed at his exposed face and neck, but Sandor’s reach was greater, and the wight scrabbled at his armoured arms instead. He buried his dragonglass axe in its face. It spat stinking fluid at him before falling limp as a last spiteful move.

He dropped it hurriedly, and pulled out the axe before staggering towards the torchlight. Don’t you fucking die, she-wolf…

Arya had dropped her torch at her feet, and was crouched in the centre of the clearing. The flames licked upwards just in front of her, illuminating the feral glint of her fierce eyes. Patterns of dark gore were spiralled around her on the white snow, and blood dripped from the tip of Needle and from her Valyrian dagger. There were three corpses around her, two of them tattered with cuts, while the third was on fire. Three more wights circled her, moaning and snapping. Just as Sandor ran to assist her, she sprang at one of them, blades flashing with golden torchlight. A whirlwind of well-placed cuts and parries disarmed the dead man. A sword dropped blade first into the snow, and Arya stuck her dagger into the wight’s throat.

Sandor had reached one of the others now rushing at her. He decapitated it with one swing, and hacked at the body, which was still running, with dragonglass. Raising the axe again, he was ready to throw it at the last wight present, but Arya had that one dealt with already. Her skinny legs were wrapped around its prone body, and she had her dagger hilt-deep in its eye socket, having tackled it to the ground. Blood was on her clothes and her face, and she whipped her hair back as she looked up.

“What the fuck did you think you were doing?” Sandor yelled at her, still holding his weapons, heart pounding from exertion. His chest rose and fell heavily.

Arya sprang to her feet, also still holding her little sword and dagger, fixing him with a withering glare.

“I’m not the one to blame here!” she declared, shouting much louder than necessary. “You let ten wights walk past you and then you ask me what I’m doing?”

Sandor stepped aggressively towards her, overwhelmed with a heady mixture of admiration and bitterness.

“You could have been killed, she-wolf!” he snarled.

“And so could anyone else! I just saved the people you were meant to be watching over!” A fleck of saliva flew from her lip, and dark blood was running down her cheek. “Stop acting as if I’m still a child that needs protecting!”

“You need fucking protected from yourself!” he snapped. “You and your cunt death god.”

“Shut up!” She was furious, her face alight with the exhilaration of the fight. “You don’t see me criticising you every time you put yourself in danger!”

“That’s completely bloody different!” he spat. Without you, I have no-one.

“No, it isn’t!” Arya’s face was twisted in anger, unrestrained, long repressed. “Do you think I don’t care when you’re cut or stabbed or knocked down? Do you think I didn’t feel just as sick as you did when I had to watch you go on patrol?”

Somehow, they had become very close while they yelled, yet their voices were still just as loud. The smell of blood and the thrill of battle still pulsed in Sandor’s veins. He could see every dark hair pasted across her forehead, every freckle on her nose.

“Don’t give me that shite!” he glared, feeling bitter poison rise in his chest. It shocked him how easily that memory took control again. “You left me on that fucking hill in the Vale to die, and you never looked back, not even once!”

Arya screamed at him, knuckles white around the hilts of her weapons. “I couldn’t look back at you, you bastard!”

“Why fucking not?” he demanded.

“Because…”

And then, faster than he could think to react, Arya threw her blades onto the ground and leapt up at him. Her hands grasped at the furs over his shoulders, and her knees dug into his sides as she roughly pressed her lips against his. Sandor was stunned, but instinctually, the hilts of his weapons fell from his grip and he grasped her body tighter to his. Her feet were off the ground, and his weapons clattered together before falling still on the snow. There was a pounding cacophony in his head, and his blood continued to race as if he was still fighting.

Arya pulled her face back from his, but he held her up still, shutting his eyes and feeling her breath on his mouth. She had been sloppy with her aim, and he had been too stunned to react much, but that hardly mattered. The taste of her lips lingered, and he could not recall the last time he had been kissed like that by a woman, if in fact he ever had experienced anything exactly like that. Just when I think you can’t bloody surprise me, she-wolf.

“I did care, you selfish idiot,” she whispered, and Sandor could find no words.

Why had she done that? Regardless of whether it had meant anything, he breathed her in, smelling blood on her face, and clutched firmly at her clothing. It was as if the rest of the world had melted away into a bland void, and they were alone in the wilderness, without any other person or place to worry about.

That was when they heard the roar.

It cut through the night, deep and chilling and harsh.

She dropped from his arms and seized her weapons again, facing the shadows with immediate deadly focus. Sandor grabbed his sword and hefted his dragonglass axe. There was a tremble in the ground itself, and a hush in the trees and undergrowth.

“The fuck was that?” he growled, before looking over his shoulder. Arya’s dropped torch was still burning, but the flames were dying on the snow. He sheathed his sword and picked it up so they were not completely plunged into darkness. There was no sign of the rest of the group, or of Lance Manderly.

“We can’t lead it to the others,” Arya said firmly.

“Wolf girl, that’s no dead man out there,” he listened to the tremors in the ground, and felt them in the soles of his feet. Whatever it was, it was definitely coming their way, and it was heavy enough to shake the forest floor. “We have to run after them.”

Arya looked at him, wild and determined. Was there any way to make her listen? Sandor would have happily struck the back of her head like he did years ago, only to protect her. He was starting to think that he should have known better back then, and stopped the girl from becoming such an important curse in his life. Perhaps letting her walk into the Twins and get herself killed would have been easier. Perhaps then he would be free of the pain she caused him. You’ll be the death of me, wolf girl.

“We have to lure it away from the others,” she insisted.

Sandor swallowed his bitterness and closed his eyes, thinking about the many possible purposes the gods may have spared him for. There was no point in trying to decipher the meaning in his own hellish excuse for a life. So, instead of trying, he just shook his head at this spitfire of a girl in front of him, and grinned.

“I must be fucking mad,” he said, stepping beside her and holding his axe up. The rumbling deep roar of the creature swelled in the darkness, while it continued thumping and crashing through the trees.

“I must be mad too,” Arya smiled up at him. “I’ve just had the strangest fucking dream about Winterfell being burnt down and all of us hiding in a cave.”

Sandor twisted the torch in his hand and faced the enormous shape moving towards them. Blue eyes stared down at them, fifteen feet above his head height.

“Do you remember where the heart is, she -wolf?” he heard himself say over the sound of the giant wight’s low growling.

“I never forgot,” Arya breathed.

In that honest moment, their eyes met briefly, and Sandor realised that he was unafraid to die with her. It would be knowing that he was not there when she died which would destroy him. If he had a flask of wine and clean armour, it would have been the ideal death. Perhaps they’ll sing a song about us, a mangy cur and a wild wolf princess. Perhaps not. That did not matter, to either of them.

The giant crashed into the clearing with a low roar, sending splinters of tree bark flying towards them. Its clothing was a mess of ragged strips of fur, and its feet were bloodied stumps, yet it was still walking. Its head was crooked, and it had a dislocated jaw hanging onto the rest of its face by strings of rotten flesh. Sandor ducked under its massive swinging fist, and together with Arya, scrambled back, ready to run and lead the monstrous creature away from the bank of the river.

And then the giant stopped moving.

The two warriors stood with defensive stances, ready to dodge or dive into the undergrowth. But the giant was suddenly frozen in place, and its arms hung limply by its sides. Sandor looked from its motionless form to Arya, and they exchanged a look of utter confusion.

“What’s the big fucker doing?” he hissed.

“Maybe its broken,” Arya raised an eyebrow, glaring at the giant.

“You’ve never been funny,” Sandor sneered, expecting the huge fists to suddenly lunge towards them.

She lightly kicked his armoured shin. “Funnier than you.”

And then, emerging from the undergrowth about ten feet to their left, they caught sight of the blue glow of another pair of undead eyes. However, this pair was far smaller and closer to the ground. A little icy-skinned naked infant was crawling through the snow towards the feet of the wight giant, not making a sound. Its progress was extremely slow, but it seemed entirely unbothered by the cold or the fact it was uncovered. Sandor and Arya just stood there, staring in complete disbelief.

“It…” The wolf girl struggled to produce words. “It’s…controlling the giant.”

“Is that…?” Sandor blinked a few times. “Seven fucking hells, your sister never killed it, did she?”

“No,” Arya confirmed.

It made sense now. Sansa’s sudden change of heart and Arya’s refusal to speak about the topic ever since should have made what happened obvious. The wildlings would have abandoned them and gone on by themselves if they had known the creepy little thing was still with them.

“You went along with this,” he muttered, still staring as the infant crawled onwards.

“Sansa’s my sister. I can’t disagree with everything she decides.”

After what might have been a silent minute, or a silent hour, Arya finally started to inch towards the wight giant and the baby Walker. The latter turned its eyes to regard her without obvious emotion or interest, while the former was entirely inactive, standing mutely with the wind ruffling its clothing.

“Leave them both,” Sandor hissed. “Let that baby thing keep its new bloody pet here, and let’s just go now.” His hand was tense and aching around the handle of his axe.

“I think it just saved us,” Arya muttered, thoughtful now rather than shocked. “Besides, we can’t leave this thing out here,” she gestured at the giant.

Sandor watched with revulsion as she walked over and picked up the icy baby in her hands before holding it at arm’s length in front of her. It wriggled its strange white legs and arms, and he shuddered. I have never fucking needed a drink more than I do now…

Arya looked the tiny Walker in the eye, glaring.

“I need you to make this big thing fall over,” she said slowly, pointing at the giant and pronouncing ever word carefully. “Can you do that?”

“It’s not going to…” Sandor began, but as he did, the giant began to tip forward. Arya sidestepped to avoid being squashed by a huge arm, and Sandor pressed his back to a tree.

The head of the giant came down just a few feet from his boots, and crunched onto the snowy ground. Glancing at Arya, who was still holding the baby at the full extent of her arm length, he shrugged.

“Looks like that just got much easier,” he commented, before bringing his dragonglass axe down hard on the giant wight’s thick, exposed neck.

Chapter Text

There was something manic in the way Gendry was muttering darkly to himself, repeating the same indistinct phrase over and over.

What have…where are…? Whatever he was saying, it was impossible to make out.

Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, already tense and frustrated with how this night was turning out, ignored him. The young blacksmith had a whole bag of issues, that was sure, but it was not for him to care or pay attention to them. Doing so would have no benefit. He was standing, sword in one hand and torch in the other, watching the dark edges of the forest. The roar they had just heard had silenced the fearful mutterings and exclamations of the group, but only temporarily.

“Who is missing?” Jaime Lannister asked over the sound of rushing water, scanning the illuminated faces on the riverbank. “Who is not here?”

Bronn’s former commander was still trying to restore some order to the situation, but the Lannister only carried so much authority, and what he did have would crumble if it seemed to many of them that the best option was to run. Bronn, for one, was contemplating just that. He had some horse meat stashed in his own pack, there was a river for water, and he assumed that he would make it by himself. It would have been a flawless plan without the loss of Sansa Stark, who he intended to eventually seduce.

“Sam!” Gilly cried immediately, paler than Bronn had ever seen the woman. “Sam didn’t come with us!

Gendry, standing next to Bronn with both hands clutching his war-hammer, began muttering a little faster, eyes closed. He looked physically ill.

“Manderly and Clegane were on patrol,” Stix pointed out.

“Arya lured the wights away,” Brienne of Tarth added quietly, as if anyone had forgotten.

Bronn did a quick head count, gritting his teeth with frustration. Twelve, including the Stark boy, and only seven of us are decent fighters. They needed to be getting over the river fast, before more wights followed their chaotic, panicked noise. Additionally, whatever made that roar would soon be finished murdering the others, and the group would find itself trapped between gushing icy water and something very large indeed.

“Snow, pull Lord Brandon’s sled,” Ser Jaime was shouting. “We need to find somewhere easier to cross than here. With that, the group began to move off. Lady Sansa rose from clutching at her unconscious brother’s face, and frantically glanced around.

“What about my sister?” she exclaimed, wringing her gloved hands together. “We can’t just leave!”

“And Sam,” Gilly was tearful now. “Why has no-one seen Sam?” She was staring at Gendry with deep confusion, and the blacksmith kept muttering to himself to the extent that Bronn was certain he was losing his mind, or praying like a deranged septon.

Meg was holding Little Sam’s hand and trying to comfort him by ruffling his blond mop of hair. Brienne was supporting her Lady Sansa by the arm, while Jasper grouchily wrapped the ropes of Brandon Stark’s sled around his shoulders. We should leave him, Bronn thought caustically, not seeing the purpose in dragging a cripple along who was already dead to most eyes.

“We shall stay on the bank on the other side,” Ser Jaime was telling Sansa. “If anyone is still alive, they’ll be able to see us there. Wights don’t do so well in water. They won’t follow us across.”

At the words “still alive”, Bronn noticed the older Stark girl’s face turn a paler shade of white. It was amusing, how much the she-wolves clearly disagreed over every point, yet they did care about each other. Bronn thought of his own siblings, and realised he did not know where they were, or who they were with. In fact, he did not care. Probably dead, and good riddance to them.

They started stumbling along the riverbank, ten grown adults, a child and a cripple on a sled. Fresh snow was like slippery powder underfoot, and wildling Stix went ahead, testing the bank with a spear to make sure it would not give way. Their eyes flicked between the forest and its threatening shadows, and the water, seeking a crossing point of some kind. That deep roar they had heard did not come again, which was both reassuring and disconcerting. Bronn wondered if Arya Stark was dead. The girl frequently seemed impossible to kill, having apparently survived for years during the war by herself, but experience had taught Bronn that the mightiest and hardiest of warriors could be brought down in moments by a single minor mistake. If she’s dead, Clegane will likely fall on his own sword.

His boots were filling with melted snow, and his feet were numb. His fingers felt frozen around the hilt of his sword. Once, he had seen that actually happen a man, and the skin had peeled from his fingers when he tried to pull the hand free. Direct contact between metal and skin was never a good idea during the winter this far north. Bronn longed for a warm southern sun, or at least a hot meal to warm himself, or a decent bed and a woman to join him there. Keeping his long-term plans in mind, he positioned himself in the group near the rear, where Sansa was trudging along with Brienne. The big woman fighter shot him a protective look which challenged him to try anything, and Bronn just winked back.

There was a sharp noise from the forest then behind them, and any continued mutterings in the group ceased. Ser Jaime, second from the front of the group, motioned for quiet. Little Sam’s whimpering was silenced by his mother.

Bursting from the shadows, kicking up snow and half-sliding down to the riverbank, was Arya Stark, followed closely by Sandor Clegane. Bronn heard a small exclamation of relief from Sansa, who clutched Brienne’s armoured arm with momentary brightness in her eyes. However, this was not the time for any tearful reunion.

“We need to get across now!” the younger Stark girl shouted in warning. “Manderly is dead! There’s still more of them out there!”

While the group cursed and worried, Bronn curiously watched the two stragglers re-join the group. Arya went at once to her sister and Brienne, and the three women exchanged some silent form of a private language. Clegane, on the other hand, was moving very awkwardly, and his face was strangely twisted in discomfort. He was holding his cloak around himself uncomfortably, as if he was hiding something. Both of them had blood on their faces, smudged in places, and Bronn wondered with a crude internal chuckle if Clegane had attempted to engage the girl in any post-battle merriment, and if he was now just hiding a hard-on. Personally, he understood the desire for a woman after a battle, and pitied the obvious attraction the big, half-burnt warrior had for the Stark girl.

That’s an itch the poor bastard will never get scratched.

“There’s rocks up ahead!” Stix shouted, and the group started off towards the place he was pointing.

It was difficult to see in the dark, but with four torches held nearby, they could see a potential crossing point. The river was rushing over and around several large jagged stones which churned up the icy water, the nearest of which was several feet from the bank. Lumps of ice were carried past. Bronn cursed to himself, but realised there was probably nowhere better for miles.

“That water’s deep,” Jasper commented, stating the obvious. “And bloody cold.”

“It’s that or getting hacked to pieces by fucking wights,” Bronn snapped.

“What about Bran?” Sansa asked, her voice betraying the anxiety which usually remained hidden under layers of polite decorum. There was snow on her eyelashes. “Someone needs to take him from the sled and carry him across. Clegane, would you…”

“No!”

Arya’s sudden exclamation was unexpected, and Bronn noted a strange, unexplained glance between her and the man who used to be the Hound.

“My leg isn’t good enough,” he grunted unconvincingly, and Bronn could easily tell that was a lie. What in seven hells are they hiding? Arya was staring meaningfully at her sister, then she looked at Clegane, and then at Brandon’s sled.

“I’ll carry him,” Brienne offered, also seemingly confused by this exchange. Other members of the group were equally puzzled, but most of them were too occupied with the imminent danger of the icy water to pay more attention. The wildlings were the exception, both of them glaring at the Starks with suspicion.

There were sounds of movement coming from the forest then, perhaps distant or perhaps not. Snow fell gently, deceptive in its pale appearance.

“We have to cross here,” Ser Jaime said after moments of silence.

“Wait, there must be a better…” Meg started to complain, but was silenced.

“Go, or stay and get killed!” Inett glowered around herself, and immediately lowered herself into the water with a splash. The way she winced gave away her regret at braving the cold all at once, and Stix scrambled to join her, torch in hand.

Bronn waited, watching as Gilly followed the wildlings, getting her son to sit on her surprisingly strong shoulders. The three of them held onto each other for stability, gasping as the water reached their waists by the time they reached the first rocky stopping point. Progress was slow, and it looked as if they were struggling to keep their feet stable on the riverbed. The White Knife was nowhere near as wide as it was at its mouth, but it was still thirty feet here from bank to bank, and the current was fast over the rocks, which looked extremely slippery.

Ser Jaime was lingering as well, playing the part of the strategic leader, and glancing with clear concern at his lady love as she freed Brandon Stark from his sled and lifted the cripple onto her back. Arya was the next to step into the water, followed by Meg, who whimpered and started whispering prayers to at least five of the seven gods. Clegane let loose a stream of profanity when he slipped off the bank, still holding his cloak at an odd angle. Jasper followed Meg, trying to make a joke about the icy water reaching his balls, but no-one found it particularly funny. There was a splash as one of the wildlings tripped on something between rocks, but fortunately did not end up carried away by the current.

Bronn, seeing that only six of them remained on the bank, stepped forward himself and doused his torch. The coldness instantly turned his feet to painful stumps, but he pretended not to feel how the water was tugging at his legs like the hands of White Walkers. He shuffled to gain purchase in the muddy riverbed, and reached up a hand.

“My lady,” he winked at Sansa Stark, who hesitated before putting her delicate hand in his.

Bronn concentrated hard on not losing balance as she very slowly lowered her feet into the water. Her skirts were bunched upwards on the surface of the water, and then absorbed the water and started to drag in the direction of the current. She clenched her jaw and shakily breathed out a plume of icy mist before reluctantly clutching his arm for support. Bronn could not help but smirk slightly. She’ll need me by her side, soon enough she’ll see that. He edged forward, placing each foot carefully as the water rushed past. When the first rock came within reach, he gripped an edge as firmly as possible, and slowly helped Sansa also reach far enough to grip the jagged surface. The current pushed them both against that surface.

On the bank, now that Gendry was in the water, the Maid of Tarth and Lord Lannister himself were unhelpfully bickering about who should go first.

“You’re still injured, Jaime,” she was insisting. “Go first.”

“The wights will injure both of us and much worse if you don’t get in now,” he retorted. “Hurry up, Brienne, we don’t have all night.”

“You have a torch. Go first so I can see easier.”

“Stubborn goat of a woman,” Ser Jaime grumbled. “Don’t argue! If you go first, I can catch Bran if you drop him.”

Rolling his eyes, Bronn reached for the next rock, feeling the current drag his boot sideways. The thought of the water closing over his head was not a pleasant one, so he banished it from his mind. Focus. One step at a time. Sansa’s hand was a tight vice on his arm. Blood or the sound of the water rushed in his ears. Glancing behind, he could see no movement in the shadows between trees. On the opposite side, the wildlings had reached the other side of the river, and were hoisting Gilly and her son onto the snowy bank. He kept moving, kept trying to breathe slowly, feeling the icy air enter and leave his freezing lungs. He imagined his organs turning to ice, his skin crackling like frost. Keep moving, one step…another step…

Finally, after what felt like an age, he reached the bank and grasped Jasper Snow’s outstretched hand. Up and standing on solid ground, he reached down and pulled a bedraggled Sansa up into his arms. She shivered, her teeth chattered, and he chanced the opportunity to kiss her frozen forehead. A second later, she shoved him away and walked over to embrace her sister. Both Arya and Jasper glared disapprovingly at Bronn, but he just smirked before shaking out his limbs and realising that he needed to get warm fast.

“Firewood!” he said, a suggestion and an order of sorts. “Everyone help.”

The wildlings had, of course, already thought of that. They were spreading out their furs in layers and ripping off wet clothing shamelessly, while throwing sticks and kindling into a pile. Gilly was with them, rubbing her son’s little hands. There were only two torches now lit, but it was easy to tell that tears were streaking down her cheeks. Tarly’s definitely dead, Bronn thought. Damn, that’s our healer gone. He hoped that Gilly knew some of her husband’s trade. Arya was jogging on the spot and somehow managing to pull her boots off simultaneously. Sansa was saying something intensely to Clegane, who looked particularly uncomfortable. After a while, they both went to attend to her brother’s (still motionless) body.

It took several hours perhaps before everyone was warm enough and settled enough in the dim light of feeble campfires to attempt conversation. Bronn had been watching Stix and Inett wrap each other in dry furs and rub each other’s mostly naked limbs to warm up. Their clothing was drying out next to their own fire, and they were lying together. He had caught sight of the woman’s breasts several times, not that he had not done so before. She had no shame, that one, like most wildlings.

Meanwhile, the others in the group were not as extreme in their methods of warming up. Fires were flickering weakly, and the shadows danced around their camp. They were huddled closely to share body heat, shivering and clutching at a fading hope for sleep. Several times, they had caught sight of glowing blue eyes on the other side of the river, but the wights never attempted to cross. They were safe, or as safe as they could be with potentially worse dangers waiting on this side of the river. The Stark sisters were sitting closely, side by side under the same furs. They had laid Bran’s body next to them, and were debating how to properly force food down his throat. Gendry was there nearby, rocking back and forward slightly, muttering about an accident of some kind. Jasper had an arm wrapped around Meg’s shoulders. Clegane was a large mound of grumpy furs, somewhat like an ugly bear.

Bronn preferred to keep on his feet to warm up, and paced up and down the bank in the near blackness. Bored of that, however, he trudged into the trees, listening keenly for any danger. Snow was still falling sparsely, flake by flake. He heard boughs creaking under the weight of it, and frequently walked into hanging icicles.

Because he strayed out of sight of the rest of the camp, he heard Brienne of Tarth stumbling away from the group. She was carrying a torch, so he saw her kneel down in the snow and retch up the contents of her stomach. Disgusted by the sight, he was about to head back to the camp, when he saw her righteous Lannister approaching her through the trees. Noticing that his presence in the darkness was going unnoticed, Bronn lingered, a shameless voyeur.

“Brienne?” Ser Jaime was hesitating to approach further.

She had been pushing snow over her own vomit, and scrambled to her feet, clearly having not heard him. She wiped her mouth miserably with the back of her hand. Her armour was discarded, and she was wearing furs which were now slightly stained.

“Don’t look at me,” she said tiredly. “Go back to the others, Jaime.”

He reached to touch her arm, but Brienne stepped away.

“Are you ill?” he asked, concerned. “Did you eat something rotten?”

“No,” she said quickly, and stumbled over her words. “I mean yes. Yes, I ate a bad…plant. I’ve been feeling sick ever since.”

It was amusing just how terrible at lying the warrior woman was. Her cheeks were an ashen, pallid shade. Bronn wondered how long this particular lover’s quarrel had been continuing, and how he had failed to notice a development so entertaining. Gods knew, he had few enough distractions to amuse himself with, and this was a golden opportunity for entertainment.

The Kingslayer was frowning at his taller lover. “Why aren’t you telling the truth?” he asked, and Bronn could tell he was trying to hold back repressed anger.

“This isn’t the time,” she protested, avoiding his gaze. “I need to be alone, Jaime.”

There was a moment of silence, during which Bronn took a drink from his flask as quietly as he could. Then the Lannister grabbed her hand forcefully and made the big woman meet his gaze.

“Brienne, tell me what’s wrong,” he insisted.

“I will. Not now,” she replied, mustering some strength of conviction.

“Why not?” There was a note of impatience in his tone now, one which grew as he spoke. “What could be so fucking terrible that you can’t tell me now? My mind is spinning right now, not knowing what you’re hiding from me! Is it something your bloody precious Sansa’s making you hide?”

“No!” Brienne ripped her hand from his, and folded her muscled arms across her chest defensively.

“Then what?” Ser Jaime demanded. “You know I can’t stand this secrecy.”

“Jaime,” she pleaded. “I love you. Don’t make me say this.”

He turned away from her, and leaned his head against his gloved hand and covered stump. “What in seven hells is happening? I thought this would be different,” he groaned. “I thought we were different.”

“How can you say that?” Brienne’s hands fell by her sides in shock. “Jaime…”

And then, suddenly, she seemed to reach an unspoken breaking point, and started walking fast towards the camp. Bronn watched her disappear into the shadowy trees, leaving her torch sticking out of the snowy ground. For a moment, the Lannister looked as if he might have stopped her from leaving, but then he leaned his grey-gold head against a tree trunk and pressed a fist to its icy bark.

Holding back laughter, Bronn strolled towards him. On closer inspection, he could see that his former commander was breathing heavily, clearly more upset than he would usually ever let someone see.

“Is that the wedding off, then?” he said, hoping to startle the golden knight. If he had, however, Ser Jaime did not move to show it.

“Did you just listen to everything?” he laughed acidly.

“More or less,” Bronn smirked, making sure he stepped around the place Brienne had covered the soiled snow. “I would have thought you’d be pleased, though.”

“And why would that be?”

The former sellsword grinned at the other man’s back.

“You couldn’t possibly want to marry her, could you?” he laughed. “Fuck her, maybe. I’d be curious to know what that’s like too. But to spend your life with a woman that bloody…”

In retrospect, he should have noticed the warning signs. All the same, the knight’s fist swung around so fast that it connected with Bronn’s jaw while he was still speaking. He lunged backwards, and bit his own tongue from the impact. The metallic flavour of blood filled his mouth. Gods, I hate Lannisters…

Before the Kingslayer could step back, Bronn kicked and caught him on the kneecap with the toe of his boot. Jaime hissed from pain and stumbled, and Bronn, jaw smarting from being punched, shoved him hard. They grappled then, arms locked, feet skidding on the snow. Jaime surprised him by flinging his head forward and headbutting, but the momentum gave Bronn the opportunity to toss him sideways. Something bitter and animalistic was released at the taste of his own blood.

Fuck all of them.

Too long had Jaime bloody Lannister been dragging him along with no reward, getting between him and his goals. Even recently, knowing his intentions with Sansa Stark, the bloody-minded knight came between them. And of course, he did none of it out of the supposed goodness of his reformed heart – like all Lannisters, Jaime just wanted to see him returned to the filth and squalor from which he was born.

With hunger and ice and anger fuelling his actions, Bronn drew his knife.

Chapter Text

His head rang from the impact with Bronn’s skull, and he fell against the ground when the former cutthroat flung him sideways. He caught himself as well as anyone could have with only one hand, but instinct caused him to avoid putting weight directly on his stump, and his right elbow sank into the snow. Jaime grunted from the tug of pain from his wounded chest, and twisted around to defend himself.

Rage was rushing in his body, but he was still shocked at the sight of the knife in Bronn’s hand, glinting by the light of the torch Brienne had left sticking out of the ground. Jaime’s eyes widened, and the instinctual fury cooled.

Bronn was standing over him with the blade, and spat up a glob of blood which landed an inch from Jaime’s hand.

“If you think I’m going to fucking cower and beg forgiveness for saying that,” he snarled, “you’re dead wrong, milord.”

“You had no right to insult her,” Jaime glared. The anger was retreating fast now as he watched his opponent, gauging the intensity of his threats.

Twirling the knife, Bronn sneered nastily. “I can say whatever I like. There are no rules out here, not anymore. It reminds me of the way things were for me back before I met your brother. No arse-licking knights to worry me then.”

Jaime could sense the bitterness the sellsword was acting on, and hear the frustration in his voice. Would Bronn actually kill him? The possibility had never seemed likely before, but hunger and isolation were turning all of them into the worst form of themselves. Even realising that, Jaime knew an almost equal desire to seize the upper hand. Perhaps when he was younger, that would have been possible. Now, he would have to settle with making a weaker point of trying to be a better man. Tyrion would have smirked, seeing his older, reckless brother forced to stop and think for once.

“My brother gave you more power than you deserved,” Jaime pointed out grimly. “And I gave you my trust because of him.”

Bronn held the knife mere inches from Jaime’s face, resentment dripping from his gaunt expression. He wiped blood from his lip and glared down.

“That was your mistake, Lannister, not mine.”

And then he lunged forward, grabbing Jaime’s collar with one hand and placing his blade near his throat with the other. Jaime seized his wrist fast, stunned by how far this was going just so the cutthroat could prove some point to himself. In his mind, Jaime felt the prickle of fear on the back of his neck and relived remote horror, recalling the terror looking down his right arm and seeing that his hand was separated from his wrist by bloodstained metal.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he hissed, and his breath was icy mist which spilled from his lips. “If you kill me, it will do nothing for you.”

“I don’t know,” Bronn grinned very unpleasantly, his teeth stained and crooked. “I might enjoy watching you die.”

It would have been a relief to have that threat refuted, but Jaime would never have conclusive proof that the former sellsword was just threatening him to make a point, because there was a commotion behind him. Bronn looked up as Lady Sansa, flanked by Brienne and Jasper Snow, stumbled into view. They locked eyes, and after a tense moment, Jaime felt the rogue knight’s arm relax.

“But maybe I’ll just wait until next time,” he sneered, and got up before striding away, meeting none of the stunned eyes following him. Presumably, he was heading back to the riverbank where the others were sitting in the dark.

Jaime struggled to find his feet again, leaning against a tree and brushing himself down. His knuckles stung, his knee ached and there were bruises on most of his limbs. The chill of the White Knife river remained in his bones, a deep coldness which undoubtedly fuelled that outburst. Is this where it ends? When we turn on each other like this? His eyes sought Brienne’s, but she glanced away immediately, avoiding even eye contact with him.

“Are you injured, ser?” Sansa asked politely, looking exhausted but still attempting to be a lady in all situations. The blue of her eyes and the shadows beneath were highlighted by the torchlight.

“No,” Jaime lied, and reached to pick up the torch. Jasper Snow got there first, and picking it up, cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“I’ll take the next watch,” he muttered.

“Thank you, Snow,” Sansa said quietly.

Brienne was lingering for a moment, flushed with either the cold or embarrassment. Then she turned awkwardly, and walked quickly away with her head down and her shoulders tense under matted furs. Jaime was the one feeling as if he could start throwing up, possibly more frustrated with the stubborn woman than he ever had been before. Why is she so closed off to me? Does she finally realise that she’s better off without me? Disliking how reliant he felt on her, Jaime refused to acknowledge the fact that she was ignoring him.

Misery had settled over him like the grasping branches of icy trees. He walked back to the makeshift camp a step behind Sansa Stark, placing his boots over the imprints which her feet made. Like a child, he focused so intently on the mechanical precision of placing each step on top of hers, that he nearly bumped into her when she stopped.

“Forgive me,” she said curtly, “But was that fight because of me?”

It was vain of her, he thought through a haze of resentment, to assume that any conflict would revolve around herself. It reminded him unpleasantly of Cersei, but he tried to ignore that as well as everything else.

“On his part, perhaps,” Jaime admitted. “On mine, no.”

“I see,” Sansa nodded, and hesitated. The glow of the campfires was visible now between the trees, glittering between the branches. Jaime watched over the Stark girl’s shoulder as Brienne’s silhouette moved further away.

“Was there something else?” he asked.

Sansa pushed a few strands of red hair behind one ear. “I was thinking about alliances,” she admitted. “And what we might have to do to make this war turn in our favour, and to end the Night.” The Lady of Winterfell glanced away. “I’ve noticed that you and Brienne have been going through a difficult phase.”

Unwilling to read into her words, Jaime tried to keep a straight face.

“We’ll recover,” he commented. “Gods know we’ve been through worse.”

He felt bruised and battered, internally as well as superficially, and wondered where any of their resilience came from. When hope was a distant concept, honour a fanciful notion for younger fools, and love as much a curse as a blessing, where did endurance come from? He no longer knew what to believe or think. Perhaps it was simply better to not think about such things.

“I wish you luck in the future,” Sansa told him, frowning slightly as if she had rethought something she been considering saying. Suspecting that he knew what she had been thinking, Jaime just nodded, and they walked back to the camp without another word.

Gilly, with matted hair and a dead expression, was sitting closely to Gendry. The young blacksmith was no better; both of them had a wretched look of despair. Jaime quickly scanned the group, thinking that they should have been staying closer together, always being at risk of surprise attacks. The wildlings were nowhere to be seen, Bronn was off sulking somewhere, Jasper had taken first watch, and the remaining members of the group were wrapped up in furs, shivering. Little Sam was, oddly, not with his mother, but wrapped in Meg’s arms, whimpering incessantly. His stepfather’s gone, poor child.

“Where are Stix and Inett?” he asked. Gilly slowly raised her head, and the numb sorrow in her eyes chilled Jaime even more than he was already chilled by icy water and fear.

“They left to find a better crossing point over the river,” she explained in a monotone voice. “They said they would try to find Sam for me.”

Seven hells. Can they never ask first?

If it was not the killing of a horse, it was sleeping away from the rest of the camp, or heading off on dangerous minor quests by themselves. If the two of them were not such expert warriors, Jaime would have begun to resent their presence by now. As it was, even a few days from White Harbour, they needed everyone to work together.

“Did they say when they would return?”

“Dawn, probably,” she said softly. “Unless they find something before that.”

Gilly glanced at Gendry pointedly, and he looked away before putting his dark head into his hands. Not caring enough to pry into whatever it was they had been discussing, Jaime found a neutral spot to lie down, and took a drink of cold water. They were all animals, he found himself thinking, beneath their plans and dreams and manners. There were feral, nasty sides to every person in this group, and they needed to get back to something resembling civilisation before their worse instincts took control and they ripped each other to shreds.

In his dreams, he was in Winterfell, sitting at a table with fresh wine stains, talking to Tyrion over the rim of his little brother’s goblet, confessing that he was in love. And Tyrion laughed, saying he had suspected it all along. Somehow, the bitterness that had grown between them was set aside, as if it had never been. Jaime was smiling in a way he had not smiled in a long time.

That part of the dream was a memory, one of the last he had of his brother. I believe you’re alive. I have to believe that. The memory changed, and turned to ash.

Winterfell was burning, and Jaime was running through flames and soot, back to the same rooms, back to the same places. He wanted to leave, and he wanted to stay, if only to know the truth. The ground was melting under his feet, and the walls started crumbling if he stared too long at them. He could hear wing-beats, and dragon roars, and did not know which one it was.

“Jaime…”

He turned this way and that, seeking the truth, needing it. His hair was on fire, his skin was wrinkling and turning black, but he needed to know. He ran into the great hall, seeing that the windows were blown inwards. Stone was ripped apart and gouged like it was soft chalk.

“Jaime, wake up.”

Hanging in the middle of the hall was a small corpse. Another man might have seen it as a child’s, but Jaime knew better. He recognised the scar across its nose and the shining silver pin in the shape of a hand on its breast. Any screams or tears were clogged in his burnt throat, and Jaime heard the dragon roar again. The Stranger was waiting behind him, to wrap bony fingers around his neck and choke the life from his body.

“Jaime, you need to wake up.”

He turned, and saw that the Stranger was not standing there, but his sister.

“You’ll never be rid of me,” Cersei smirked. “You’ve always been mine.”

He looked down to see blood pouring from the stump that was once his right hand, and the green flames of wildfire licked his feet.

Jaime jolted awake, cold sweat on his forehead, sticking his clothes to his skin.

Above him, shaking his shoulder, was Brienne, looking at him with concern. There was a brilliance in the blueness of her eyes which took him by surprise, as if he was seeing that brilliance for the first time. For a moment, he had forgotten that she was hiding something from him, and that there was any pain left in loving her. For a moment, he imagined that their fantasy had become reality, and that they were married and happy. Instead, here we are. Had he been asleep for two hours? Three? It was not enough, anyway.

He rubbed his eyes. “What is it?” he mumbled.

“The wildlings are coming back,” Brienne told him, and glanced away from him. She was wearing her armour again, and had her sword at her side. Oathkeeper. I gave her that sword.

“Brienne,” he said softly, sitting up. The camp was awake, and the pale haze of dawn had settled around the group as it staggered up. Voices were raised near the bank, and Jasper Snow was pointing northwards upriver. “I apologise for what I said last night,” Jaime told his wife-to-be. “It kills me to be like this.”

She looked at him with a terrible, guarded expression.

“It kills me as well,” she told him, and stood from crouching next to him. Jaime wondered if that reaction counted as forgiveness or not. Brienne had never been so difficult to read.

He got to his feet in time for the wildlings to come striding back along the bank of the river from the north. There was a hush as they approached, and Gilly walked slowly, dazedly, out to meet them. Stix and Inett, standing side by side, stopped dead about ten feet away, looking at the group with steady, grim faces.

“There is a fallen tree upriver,” Stix said neutrally. “We crossed using that.”

“Nothing followed you back, I hope,” Jaime commented, still irritated that the two of them had gone without permission. Lack of cohesion in the group was the reason they were falling apart. He was tying his belt, scabbard swinging against his leg. The silence extended as they all waited for what the wildlings were clearly about to say.

“Gilly,” Inett finally said, bluntly. “You are the daughter of that fucker Craster, and your unnatural spawn is also your brother, but you are of the Free Folk, so we went back for your man. He is dead. We made sure he would not come back.”

Gilly hung her head, and made a jerking movement which could have indicated resigned acceptance. Little Sam whimpered in Meg’s arms, and his mother responded after a moment, moving towards him. However, it appeared that the wildlings were not done, and the tension in the air only intensified while the child whined. Inett’s eyes were glinting beneath her mane of black hair, and Stix was glowering next to her. Ghost, with damp fur, was pacing around near the Stark girls, looking threatening and uneasy. In all honesty, Jaime could not think how or where the big beast had managed to safely cross the river.

Bronn, who must have returned while Jaime slept, cleared his throat.

“Now that we’re all back, let’s get a bloody move on, shall we?” he suggested coarsely. “White Harbour’s not going to get any closer if we sit on our arses and freeze?”

“Not so fast,” Stix grunted.

“Is there something the matter?” Lady Sansa asked, standing next to her sister.

“There is,” Inett snapped. “We didn’t just find Tarly’s corpse out there.”

“The fuck did you find, then?” That was Clegane, still sitting in a large pile of mangy furs, grumpy as ever.

“A giant. A dead one. One which should have killed you.” Stix looked directly at Arya Stark, who returned his glare.

Jaime recalled the roaring sounds as they looked for a crossing place. He remembered the rumbling tremors in the ground. Had the Stark girl and former Hound taken out one of those monsters alone? It seemed unlikely without a generous share of luck, and luck was something the Starks sorely lacked. Members of the group glanced at each other, confused and startled by this development.

“Did you kill it?” Inett asked, with an edge in her voice.

Arya Stark folded her arms and stuck out her chin, stepping forward with a challenge in her eyes.

“Yes,” she claimed. Jaime noticed that Clegane was struggling to set aside some of his furs to get up, picking up on the tension.

“That giant was missing its head, but the neck was chopped up from the back, not the front. There were no other wounds.” Stix was deadly serious, and the woman by his side was bristling with disbelief.

“I climbed onto its back, then,” Arya said, and Jaime could see that the wildlings did not believe her. Without realising it, his hand had crept to his sword hilt, and he glanced around to see that many members of the group had their fingers resting on weapons. He tried to meet Brienne’s gaze, but she was staring solidly at the exchange, which only worsened.

“How could you have climbed onto the giant’s back without it pulling you off?” Inett demanded fiercely.

Arya leaned on one leg, the picture of arrogance. “You don’t know the things I’m capable of,” she told them. “I can remain unseen if I want.”

“That doesn’t explain the wounds,” Stix snapped. “Even if you had climbed onto its shoulders, you could not have hacked at its flesh in the same way. Such wounds could only have been made by an axe.” He glanced at Clegane, and the axe he was about to pull out of his belt.

“It tripped,” the scarred warrior said in a growl. “Why don’t you back the fuck off before someone loses an eye?”

“Are you threatening us, dog?”

“If you keep snapping at the she-wolf, you’d better fucking believe it.”

“The she-wolf is telling lies!” Inett snarled, and in a rush, drew her engraved hatchets.

Shit.

Jaime drew his sword, a split second after nearly everyone else did. Arya was twirling her skinny sword and dagger, ready to defend herself. Stix’s machete reflected the light, and despite being outnumbered, the wildlings seemed prepared to do battle with anyone present. Inett in particular was primed for a fight, having dropped into a defensive stance.

“Everyone, please remain calm,” Sansa protested weakly. She was clearly exhausted, and it carried across in her voice. “We can talk through this,” she insisted.

“Enough talk, Lady Stark!” Stix said gravely. “There is something going on here, and until we know what, we refuse to go anywhere with you and your kin!”

“Will you turn on your allies when the enemy surrounds you?” Jaime shouted at them, and several of the others joined in. Arya accused them of being turn-cloaks, Jasper Snow made a tasteless joke about the dead giant, and Ghost started to growl, loping over to the Starks. Gilly was staring at Bran’s sled with reddened eyes, glancing at Sansa.

Jaime walked over to the Lady of Winterfell while the bickering continued on the brink of violence.

“What is going on?” he hissed, and she did not answer for a moment. She and Gilly kept glancing at Bran’s sled, and Jaime began to have an inkling of the truth.

“What’s in your brother’s sled?” he demanded.

“Sansa!” Arya yelled over. “Just tell them! This can’t get any worse!”

The group fell silent, hearing this.

Lady Sansa’s pretty face was made of stone, yet after a few moments she nodded, and walked over to her brother’s sled. Jaime watched, as horrified and fascinated as everyone else, as she peeled back some of the material fastening her brother’s legs to the frame, and revealed the icy little creature beneath. The wildlings swore a thousand oaths as she lifted the tiny White Walker up and held it in her arms. It surveyed them all with a tilt of its white head, icy blue eyes swivelling.

“You’ve had that thing with us all along!” Inett spat onto the snow.

“That thing saved our lives!” Arya stood between them and her sister, quickly joined by a protective Clegane.

“I could not afford to destroy our best chance of winning this war,” Sansa explained, apologies either pasted onto her face or coming genuinely from her heart.

Meanwhile, Jaime was gripped with the hope that this was what Brienne had been so stringently hiding from him. Yet, when he turned to look at her, she appeared as shocked as everyone else. Then what are you hiding, my love?

Stix and Inett were shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, equally as terrified of the Walker as they were angry at the Starks. Most of the group was just stunned or uncertain.

“We followed your brother, Lady Stark,” Stix glared angrily. “Not because we swore any of your southern oaths to him, but because we believed that he told us no lies, and would lead us as Mance Raydar did. King Jon was a true warrior. His sisters are not worthy of his memory.”

Arya was deathly cool. “You had better take that back, Stix,” she said venomously. “Or I’ll shove it down your throat for you.” Ghost snarled next to her, white fur standing on end.

“I’m not afraid of you, little girl, or your pet,” Inett snarled. “Say that to my man again and I’ll gut you like…”

“Inett! Stix!” Sansa begged them. “Please, do not be so rash! Look at this child. It means none of us any harm. It was probably a human child not so long ago.”

“We’ve had to kill wight children before,” Jasper muttered, looking rattled. Gilly was holding her son, silent in grief. It seemed to Jaime that Brienne was going to support the Starks no matter what, but he was too disgusted by this risky deception to say anything himself.

“You told us lies, both of you!” Inett growled. “I will no longer follow deceitful wolves!”

“Our loyalty to King Jon is no longer yours,” Stix glared.

“You’ll go to your deaths if you leave,” Bronn said, throwing his voice into the mix.

“We will not stay with that here.” Inett spat, and turned to Gilly then, addressing her directly. “You are from the real north, as we are,” she pointed out. “Will you come with us?”

Jaime watched the poor woman as she considered the offer. The usual optimism of her young face was dimmed, and there was a numb emptiness in her eyes. However, after consideration, she shook her head. Several locks of dark brown hair fell over her face.

“Sam would have stayed,” Gilly said, and lowered her gaze, rocking her son gently.

The wildlings accepted her answer, and eyed the supplies.

“Give us some of the food and let us leave,” Stix said levelly, “and we shall hold no grudge.” Inett looked sharply at him, but silently agreed with him after a moment.

So they had little choice, in the end. Aside from killing two people who had saved their lives many times, they had no alternative. Supplies were given out, and the wildlings were allowed to depart alone. The group was silent and divided as they watched the couple walk away.

Twelve. Twelve of us left.

It would be a total of thirteen counting the strange little creature holding onto Sansa Stark’s cloak. Jaime tried to look at the thing as little as possible, disturbed by the sense of knowledge from those blue infant eyes. He thought of White Harbour, and hoped more than ever before that the place was the bastion of human life they so desperately needed. He looked up into the sky, feeling a flake of snow melt on his cheek. The sky was white and grey, roiling and changing like the shifting nature of loyalty. Would there ever come a time when he could rely on something in his failure of a life?

Jaime met Brienne’s gaze across the camp. Can I rely on this? Will I ever be sure?

Chapter Text

All the things I’ve learnt…and none of them matter out here.

Sansa kept moving one foot slightly ahead of the other, listening to the bite of the wind in her ears, and the sliding rustle of her skirt against the packed snow. Nothing she could have said would have changed the decision of Stix and Inett, regardless of charm or deception or persuasion. Not in these circumstances, without a castle and a large household guard at her back. What is a Queen without a kingdom? Nothing, really.

The importance of being surrounded with land and protection had never been more obvious to her. It had been Robb’s mistake, not to return when the Greyjoy ships began raiding the Northern shore, and Sansa wondered if he would still be living if he had known when to back down. Old histories and situations continued to annoy her. Perhaps, she thought, she would have done exactly the same, if she had been born in her older brother’s place. Or, perhaps not. None of that mattered. They were dead, and she was freezing. Her body felt brittle, like thin ice, and her breath was as cold as the baby clinging to her cloak.

The infant’s eyes were closed for once, but Sansa was certain that she was not asleep. It was difficult to decide whether she felt safer holding the baby out in the open, or if its presence only made her more anxious. They were following the riverbank, on the left again after discovering a good crossing point in the form of a rickety old bridge. That was a day ago, now, and White Harbour still seemed like a lifetime away. Bran was fading, she knew, and despite Gilly’s best efforts, she did not have the expertise which her husband had used to keep him alive through the last difficult months. Sansa wanted to pray, or beg, or find some magical power to force her brother to open his eyes again, and tell them what was going on in whatever strange place his mind had flown. Fading, always fading…He looked more like a corpse now than some of the wights often did. Sometimes she imagined that he stopped breathing altogether, but then his gasping, shallow breaths would start up again, rasping against a dry throat.

Blue eyes lurked either in her imagination or reality. Ser Jaime would often speculate that they were being followed, but perhaps that was just a fearful guess. The twelve of them trudged on, exhausted and weary of existence. Sansa hoped that the river would swell and wash over them, drowning the cold and the hunger away. At night the wolves would howl far away, with more voices than she had thought there were in Nymeria’s pack. Ghost would reply to his pack-sister and once, even Arya, delirious with tiredness, lifted her head back and yowled in response. Lunacy, is that what they call it? Sansa found herself drifting away on the tides of her own misery, wondering how all the lessons she had been forced to learn had come to nothing. This enemy could not be manipulated, negotiated with or evaded forever. It was the cold which had seeped into her bones, and the mist which left her lips.

“I fancy a nice, juicy leg of mutton,” Jasper Snow was saying somewhere behind her, talking to Meg. “Or a dripping steak. And a flagon of ale all to myself.”

The former washerwoman sighed. “I wish I could taste my mother’s stew again,” she said sadly. “She could have put any scraps into a pot and make it taste like something fit for a king. And she could always make us feel special, me and my sisters. Until we realised that was a lie, exactly like when she used to tell us it was chicken or rabbit in the stew. None of us were special, but that stew was.”

The sky was dark, and the sun was barely visible through thick layers of cloud. Snow packed itself around all of their boots. Sansa watched the edge of her skirt as she walked, no longer feeling the ache in her legs. Mundane conversation went directly over her head.

“Meg, you’re the kindest person I know,” Jasper was saying, emphatically. “If anyone’s special, you damn are.”

Meg was quiet for a moment, and Sansa resisted the urge to look over her shoulder. “You’re pretty special yourself, Snow,” the peasant woman finally responded.

“Don’t I know it,” Jasper chuckled.

Sansa felt the baby move in her arms, and shifted the icy weight onto her hip. She wondered if the child had ever had a name, or parents who loved her. Shall I give her a name? Those cold, ice-blue, alien eyes looked up at her with curiosity. Sansa considered naming the baby Arya, but knew that her sister would never forgive what she would perceive as a grave insult. In fact, it would probably disgust everyone in the group for the creature to even possess a name. Names suggested familiarity, and familiarity could not be forgiven when it came to their enemy. Our enemy is the coldest night, and the darkness it brings.

Lifting red-rimmed eyes and adjusting the straps of her cloak at her neck, Sansa watched the others. At the head of the group was Ser Jaime, tiredly leading them onwards, ignoring the pain he must have been experiencing, both from wounds and the apparent rift between himself and his fiancée. Clegane, grouchy and irritable as always, was pulling Bran’s sled near the front of the group, while Gilly followed with her son, a picture of emotionless grief. Arya and Brienne were walking side by side ahead of the sled, not communicating very much, either with each other or anyone else. Bronn was a few steps ahead of Sansa, but for once he seemed entirely withdrawn into himself. He had not even attempted to hum a tune since that altercation with his former Lannister commander. Next to him, but not uttering a word either, was Gendry. Sansa was uncertain if it was simply the bleak conditions which had made the young blacksmith so unlike his usual passionate self, or if there was more behind the change. Ghost brought up the rear of the group, sometimes wandering off to find something to eat, and likely having more luck than his human compatriots.

Even walking directly ahead of Jasper and Meg, Sansa was surprised that she had heard them conversing. The river had widened considerably in the last two days, and the water was a deep, booming rush of sound, carrying huge chunks of ice downstream. They were nearing the mouth of the river, yet White Harbour still seemed very far away. Civilisation and culture were distant concepts, too distant to hope for. Besides, the harbour could have been destroyed, for all they knew, and the port was possibly swarming with listless, abandoned wights.

The baby tugged a strand of Sansa’s hair, and she gently removed it from the infant’s grip, feeling the slightest flicker of warmth in her chest. Are you our hope, little one? No-one else can see your potential. I can.

Feeling a hint of something resembling life, Sansa walked a little faster and touched Gendry’s elbow. He started, and even reached for his hammer, but recovered quickly. Sansa could not have blamed him for fear. None of them knew anything else, these days, and managing to hold one’s senses together at all was an achievement.

“Are you okay?” she asked, trying to sound convincing.

“No,” Gendry mumbled. Sansa noted the twitching of one eyelid, and the slightly manic look in his eyes. It reminded her, unsettlingly, of Ser Harry. She glanced at Bronn, and met his gaze briefly, but the sellsword looked away after looking at the Walker baby.

“We’ll get to Essos, Gendry,” she said, wondering if her voice was in any way genuine. “We’ll find my people, and when we do, this war might still be won.”

He met her gaze, with some of his former intensity. There was more bravery in him than there had ever been in Ser Harry, Sansa thought. Gendry would survive, and keep walking the path before him. After all this misery, so would she. I have to.

“I have been such an idiot,” the young man continued, looking ahead again as they trudged onwards. “I let myself think everything would turn out like I had hoped. I thought I would become a lord, take my father’s place, be honourable…that’s all gone now.”

Sansa blinked. It had never occurred to her that Gendry nursed such high ambitions for himself. Yes, he was Robert Baratheon’s son, but not by name. Such things seemed as if they still mattered, yet when all the rules of the world had been altered so much, Sansa wondered if the circumstances of his birth would cease to have any consequences. Perhaps Gendry would rule and lead men into battles like his father someday. She found herself wondering what age he was. Twenty? Twenty-two? Not very much older than she was, anyway, and she had ambitions just as strong.

“Perhaps it is foolish to think such things,” Sansa commented sadly. “I used to have many dreams of becoming queen, which I later called stupid. But I am a queen now, just one without a kingdom, and without a king.” She examined him out of the corner of her eye. “Did you intend to rule with my sister by your side?” she asked quietly.

His only response was a curt nod.

“And now?” she prompted him.

“Now I know I am a fool,” he shrugged. The edge of anger in his tone appeared, to Sansa, to be progress of a kind.

“We both are,” she told him with sympathy. “But that doesn’t mean we give up.”

Thinking of possibilities was making her mind less sluggish, bringing energy to her brittle body. She had been doing that every few days recently, inventing many pretty pictures of possible futures. Feeling Gendry staring at her for a moment, she wondered if her beauty was as weakened as she felt. Despite that, it was intoxicating just to imagine herself elsewhere, in control, safe, or simply warm.

The baby distracted her by wriggling. Sansa struggled with numb fingers to adjust its makeshift clothing, and it clutched her fingers in a way so shockingly human that she had to make an effort not to smile. The effort occupied her attention so much that, if not for Gendry’s hand on her shoulder, she might have walked head-first into Bronn.

Up ahead, Ser Jaime was motioning for everyone to be quiet.

They had stopped dead, and ears pricked up to catch any sound over the rushing torrent of the White Knife river. Something shrill carried through the trees, then a clashing noise. A battle? The warriors of the group drew their weapons. Sansa craned her neck and caught the eyes of Brienne and then Arya. Sister, be careful.

“What’s happening?” Jasper hissed as quietly as he could, while still letting his voice carry over the rush of the river.

“Sounds like a fight,” Bronn snapped.

“Wights?”

“Wights don’t fight wights,” Clegane snapped, having dropped the rope attached to Bran’s sled. Sansa crept forward and put the baby down next to her brother’s prone body.

A loud shout carried over the crashing water, and everyone’s eyes widened.

“There are people over there,” Ser Jaime said, even allowing the corner of his lips to twitch upwards. “Living people.”

“They could be from White Harbour!” Arya said, grinning.

“Or they could be dead in a few fucking minutes,” Clegane pointed out, and swung his sword in an arc.

“Right,” Ser Jaime gestured quickly, his movements becoming staccato with anticipation. “Snow, Clegane, you come with…”

“Let them kill each other, whoever they are!” Bronn hissed. “We don’t know they’ll be happy to see us.”

“We’re close to White Harbour,” Sansa pointed out. “Aren’t we? These people might have food, supplies, or they could escort us safely to…”

“Escort?” Bronn laughed harshly. “Likely White Harbour’s run by nothing but thieves and pirates, now, if it even has living people left. They’ll escort you all right, but not as a queen, milady.”

“Look, we can’t just stand here and let the…” Ser Jaime had begun to speak again, injecting an extra layer of command into his tone. However, while they had been debating, the sounds of battle had ended, and now, between the trees, they noticed movement. To begin with, the movements appeared shambling and chaotic, and the group tensed, anticipating an attack by wights. However, the shapes moved closer, and were suddenly recognisable as horses wading through the snow.

“Hide that,” Arya hissed, and Sansa quickly covered the baby with Bran’s furs. It kicked briefly in protest, but fell still when she covered its face.

“Snow,” Bronn snapped. “You do the talking.”

“What?” Jasper started. “Why in seven hells would I…?”

“It makes sense,” Ser Jaime nodded, shockingly agreeing with the former cutthroat.

“Yes, Sansa exclaimed, realising what they meant. “You sound lowborn, Snow, it would make us seem more like poor refugees. If they’re thieves…”

Jasper’s eyes widened, mostly because everyone in the group was now staring at him. “I don’t know, milady.”

“Do it or we all get mugged,” Bronn snapped.

Sansa looked at the horses approaching, and then glanced behind the group. Ghost was nowhere to be seen, but that did not set her anxiety aside for a moment. Just the presence of Bran would probably give them away. Others were making efforts to hide their identities, either covering faces or concealing weapons under clothing. Their faces were covered in dirt, and their clothing was probably ragged enough that they appeared unworthy of the effort of thieving from. However, the fact that they had survived so long would point towards high levels of training, and any examination of weapons or armour would reveal them to be people who, at least, had generous and rich friends at some stage of life.

“Who goes there?”

The voice was a gravelly, slightly breathless one, from the rider leading the approaching group. He was bald, with a thick black beard and narrow, dark eyes which examined all of them with deep suspicion. Sansa examined the horses and other riders, and realised that the animals were thin, with prominent ribcages, but not very sickly. The riders, all five of them clearly armed soldiers wearing northern armour, were in a similar condition of gaunt health. Their supply bags were full, and Sansa noted the bloodstained banner of a merman carrying a trident which hung from the reins of one horse. House Manderly still has its ghosts here, then. After so long wondering if she would ever see her own people again, Sansa was surprised to feel so apprehensive and uncertain.

Ser Jaime glanced back, keeping his head down. They all shifted slightly aside, but Jasper was hesitating.

The lead rider glared at the group. “Has the frostbite taken your tongues?” he demanded. “Speak, strangers, or we’ll burn you with the wights over there.”

He thumbed towards the trees, where smoke was beginning to creep into the already murky sky.

“They don’t look like buggering wights, ser,” one man said. Only his eyes were visible through wrapped furs.

Jasper was nudged forward. “Seven blessings, sers!” he finally managed to say. “You folk in White Harbour worship the seven, do you not?”

“Some of us, aye,” the lead rider finally said. “Who are you?”

“Northerners like yourselves,” Jasper replied, with just a hint of charm. “Looking to board a boat to Essos, like anyone else in these parts, I’d warrant.”

The lead rider was quiet, and the others glanced at each other, frowning.

“How is it you’ve survived this long?” he asked eventually. “Very few refugees come to the port now.”

“How about you take us there, friend, and I’ll tell you the story along the way.”

Sansa cringed internally, but kept her head down and her hood up, attempting to appear like a commoner. It was one thing to watch smallfolk, and another to pretend to be one of them, however. Arya always seemed to manage that just fine, but Sansa had never managed to completely remove the idea that she was somehow, through blood, better than them. Not anymore, maybe, but soon…

The lead rider continued to glower at Jasper, whose smile was slipping. The others in the group were coiled springs, hands hovering near weapons. Another rider sighed.

“Ser, since when have we turned away decent workers?” he pointed out. “They have heartbeats, so one has to assume they’re not conspiring with the enemy.”

“Shut it, Scales,” the leader snapped, but turned back to them with a look of irritated resignation. “Follow us,” he snapped. “We’ll take you to Ser Marlon. He’ll tell us what to do with you.”

Chapter Text

We’ll take you to Ser Marlon. He’ll tell us what to do with you.

Brienne kept her head down and her mouth shut, hoping that these strangers would simply look past her and not notice the fact that she was a woman. Even now, in these dark times when wildlings were as much Northerners as anyone else, female warriors were probably still considered an oddity in Westeros. Brienne suspected that her appearance, combined with the cripple on a sled and the fine nature of her clothing, would give Lady Sansa’s identity away eventually. It was impossible to tell how these people would react to the news. Perhaps the North had long given its Queen up for dead, along with its fallen King. Perhaps White Harbour was reduced to nothing, along with everything else which once was taken for granted.

We’re about to find out, anyway.

They had been walking for about an hour, flanked by the riders on horseback. Thankfully, they had not been searched yet, and none of the riders had demanded to know their identities or the reason they had survived so long. Certainly, nobody was eager to volunteer a suggestion. At the head of the ragged procession, Jasper Snow had been nervously regaling the sullen leader of the warriors with a tale of summer days gone by, to no positive response. Brienne could hear her own pulse, throbbing in her ears. The warriors had a rough, recently bloodied appearance, but their weapons and clothing were of good quality. Had they stolen them? Taken them from corpses? Or were they given fine things by this Ser Marlon they spoke of? Brienne was not familiar enough with Northern nobles to keep track of names, and could not recall hearing of him before.

Just ahead of her, Sansa was whispering to Arya, the two of them leaning closely together with hunched shoulders. They don’t realise how proud their mother would be of them, she thought, and felt a truth begin to press on her heart. They don’t need me, either of them. It was not the time to be thinking such things, not with the present danger. Yet Brienne could not help but sense the spark of hope arising in the group, just at the sight of new people, and that hope released both old and new anxieties, until now having been kept in check by the bleakness of their situation. It had been so long since they saw any faces but their own. Five months? Is that how long it’s been? They had been existing in a strange world which seemed more dead than alive, until now. And life had come across them again, emerging from the cold.

Up ahead, the river bent towards what Brienne imagined was south, and then, as they continued to trudge along the bank over a snowy hill, she took a moment to blink and accept the unreality of the sight before her.

Have we truly made it?

Smoke rose from the port city of White Harbour, no longer white by any means. The sea was a mass of grey, licking at the harbour of a once vibrant place which was now half-eviscerated and dismal. Even at a distance, they could make out an outer sea wall almost a mile long, with tall towers standing over the grey depths. The mouth of the White Knife River was wide but empty of boats except for some skeletal wreckage still floating there. The city had an old, sparse godswood, and on a raised hill in the centre of what appeared to be a makeshift barricade, was the main keep, the old Manderly castle. After the initial exhilaration of actually laying eyes on something resembling civilisation, Brienne felt a surge of dread, noticing that half the city was blackened and flattened, apparently burnt up to the edge of the barricade, which looked as if it was constructed from the ruins of other buildings. She searched for Jaime’s eyes, remembering their conversations about finding a septon there. He was staring ahead, not glancing in her direction and she wondered if he even cared that they were alive. Had she driven him away at last?

“Welcome to the last living refuge of the North,” announced the rider named Scales, with a wry expression, likely picking up on the group’s collective surprise.

“Refugees,” the lead rider snapped in a gruff tone. “You may count yourselves fortunate. The ship is due back any day now, to take stragglers across the Narrow Sea. Until then, you will all be expected to pull your weight doing work in the city. Ser Marlon and Lady Wynafryd meet all the refugees when they arrive. Mind your manners, don’t argue back, and no-one will get hurt. Do not forget that we are still at war. Got that into your frozen brains?”

Some members of the group nodded, while most of them were still stunned at the mere sight of the city. Brienne felt uneasy at the tone of the rider, but he did not push his point any further, and they kept moving towards the city. The closer they got, the more obvious the destruction was. Houses were reduced to clustered rocks piled together, often charred and covered in ice. But there were also signs of life, with smoke curling upwards behind the barricade and the low thrum of voices and activity somewhere out of sight. Trees stumps and evidence of former trenches littered the ground outside the edges of the city, drenched with snow. It was easy to guess that many battles had taken place here, and the defending forces had been pushed further and further back. A rotten scent of burnt flesh pervaded the air as they walked onwards.

“I can’t believe we’re actually here.”

Jaime’s quiet, dark voice made her glance sideways. She met his eyes, and was disturbed by how uncertain she felt around him. The truth would have to come out, and if they were safe here, she would no longer have any excuse to hesitate. Not that I had any good reason before…

Flakes of snow licked her numb face as they reached the barricade and the riders shouted upwards. At the top of the wall of bricks and piled rubble, ragged sentries appeared with gaunt faces, and the riders yelled up for a makeshift gateway to open. Groans and scraping resounded in the quiet, and Brienne met several pairs of eyes, as disorientated as they were relieved. Is this truly safety? Or have we fallen from the cooking pot straight into the fire?

As if in a dream, they stumbled through the barricade, and were met with man-made stone-paved streets and the ghostly remains of human homes. Slush and snow covered the ground. Curious eyes met theirs; other people, in all likelihood other refugees, were standing listlessly, leaning against walls and clutching possessions closely in their thin arms. A dog barked somewhere, and strained voices carried through the streets.

Led by the riders, their group walked those final steps together through the unfamiliar surroundings. Five months had passed since Winterfell burned and they were stuck together in the Cavern, and it was beyond belief that they were finally making their final journey together. Brienne thought of all that could still go wrong, and wondered if Gilly, or Meg, or Jasper would disappear at the first chance they got to blend into the crowd. Bran could still breathe his last any day, Ghost was left outside still, and some members of the group were hanging onto their final threads of sanity. She wondered if Stix and Inett had made it to the city, and looked out for their faces among the ragged figures standing around.

Sansa hung back for a second, and leaned closely to her sworn protector.

“Brienne, when we meet this Ser Marlon, I intend to reveal who I am.”

“Are you sure, my lady?” Brienne hissed, glancing towards the backs of the riders ahead. “For all we know, this Marlon is no true knight.”

“Lady Wynafryd is the granddaughter of Wyman Manderly,” Sansa explained with an uncertain nod. “And I think I have heard tell of a cousin Marlon before. I think the Manderlys still rule here.”

Leaning close to them, clearly having overheard, Jaime cut in quietly.

“Ruling poorly,” he muttered, looking directly at a pair of painfully thin children sitting at the corner of a building, staring up with hopeless eyes.

A broad white stone road led up the central hill of the port city, bringing the group right to the gates of the New Castle, known as the seat of House Manderly. The castle was encrusted with ice, glistening in the dying sunlight of the day. Only a couple of lights were visible on the walls or through shutters, and only one guard appeared at the raised portcullis to watch the riders pass through, followed by the twelve travel-weary individuals who looked around themselves with dishevelled disbelief. The riders dismounted, and gestured that the travellers to follow them.

Brienne blinked and felt a rush of warmth as they stepped into a hall with benches and a flickering hearth. A child stopped scrubbing the floor, and leapt to his feet at a word from the lead rider before racing off to fetch the “lord and lady”. The walls, floor and ceiling were made of wooden planks notched cunningly together and decorated with all the creatures of the sea, and Brienne took a moment to admire the handiwork. Perhaps some things will remain despite all the darkness…

“Merman’s Court,” Jasper commented, craning his neck to look around. “That’s what they call it, or so I think.”

“You’re right for once, Snow,” Bronn replied gruffly.

Clegane dropped Bran’s sled, and cracked his knuckles. Meg was shaking the snow from her skirts. Sansa wrung her gloved hands. Arya appeared to be analysing the five warriors who had led them into the hall, and were now waiting for some unspoken symbol. Gendry was just breathing into the palms of his hands, eyes closed in a shaken sort of way. Brienne, not knowing what to do with herself, just rested her hands on her sword belt and met Jaime’s eyes, trying to convey the storm of emotion behind her façade of calm. I’m sorry how bad it’s been getting recently…

There was movement at the end of the hall, and the sound of armoured boots on stone. Soldiers with the Manderly crest on their tunics appeared in the round doorway at the opposite end of the hall, and the original five drew back. Side by side, an elderly knight and a young lady dressed in furs walked into the hall behind the soldiers. The girl was sandy-haired and pink-cheeked, with intelligent, sorrowful eyes, while the knight had a stern expression and deep lines creasing his brow.

“Welcome to White Harbour, strangers,” the man Brienne assumed was Ser Marlon said, his voice a droning speech he must have given many times before. “You have obviously had a tiresome journey through the Coldest Night, but you are welcome here as long as you work for the rations we have to spare and obey our laws while you wait for…”

“Marlon!” the lady by his side abruptly exclaimed, wide-eyed, her mouth hanging open with shock. The elderly knight started visibly.

“Gods be good…what is it, Wynafryd?” he demanded. However, Lady Sansa was already stepping forward, and lowering her hood. That glorious but dimmed red hair spilled free, and the Queen of the North inclined her head to the young woman who had recognised her almost at once.

“Lady Wynafryd Manderly,” Sansa said graciously. “We met once, I believe, years ago. You were but a child.”

“Oh, my lady!” Wynafryd gasped, and tore herself from Ser Marlon’s side to rush forward to clasp Sansa’s outstretched hands. “Oh, our hopes restored!” she gaped. “The North remembers, my lady, the North always remembers! We have always…always…Marlon, Marlon, don’t you see? Our Queen! Sansa Stark is alive and standing here breathing before us!”

Brienne edged somewhat forward, aware of the looks of alarm and sudden realisation spreading between the warriors around them. Ser Marlon blinked, and gaped for a moment, scanning the group. Arya was also edging closer to her sister, and several sets of eyes were drawn to the prone body of the boy on the sled. The evidence, once suggested, must have been overwhelming.

Direwolf emblems were revealed, fine weapons displayed, and memories of the great days of peace under the rule of Lord Eddard exchanged, and Ser Marlon declared the Starks to indeed be alive. Brienne felt a rush of pride as the Stark sisters stood next to each other. Sansa began to introduce other members of their group. The riders who had led them to the city were apologising profusely, and Wynafryd kept enthusing loudly about having known that the Queen was alive all along.

Jaime hung back, and Brienne looked expectantly at him, seeing some kind of shame or frustration in his gaze.

“I’ll not complicate this, perhaps,” he whispered.

She blinked. “You’re as much responsible for our survival as anyone,” she insisted.

“Nothing will ever clean my name for these people,” Jaime said plainly.

Your name will be my name soon. Brienne opened her mouth to say something else, but the words stuck in her throat. A wan smile was all she felt able to offer him for the moment.

“Ser,” Sansa said, over the fair head of the exuberant Wynafryd. “Introductions are of course in order, but we have been travelling for weeks, and are all exhausted and hungry.”

Ser Marlon opened his mouth to speak, but Wynafryd cut in first with overflowing enthusiasm.

“We don’t have much,” the girl admitted. “This Night is dark and terrible, and everyone here has to work for every scrap now. But we have some supplies left over, and you will all have warm rooms in the castle tonight! Oh, to think that you are right here, in our hall! It’s a sign that peace could still come again.”

“My young lady is correct,” Ser Marlon said, fondly glancing at the excitable girl. “But everyone will know now that our Queen has returned, and her siblings with her. Hope will be restored, your grace, by your presence.”

Perhaps hope was worth waiting for. Just for a moment, warmth started to grow once again where everything had been frozen and devoid of life.

Lukewarm water ran between her fingers and she watched, fascinated, as the dirt washed away from her skin. Her knuckles became pink like the cheeks of a wailing infant, and her nails emerged from beds of grime. Brienne felt lighter than she remembered, but perhaps that was simply the fact that she had not fully removed her armour for many days. Now, with a fresh shirt and a bucket of water, she felt reborn and ten years younger than she had the night before.

In the same castle room as herself, Arya and Sansa were sitting at a table gnawing at the meagre but delicious meal prepared for them. After ensuring that Bran was well provided for, and that the Walker baby was carefully kept out of sight, they had retreated from stunned or excited faces to the blissful refuge of stone walls and the glowing flicker of a hearth. Brienne had caught Jaime’s eye before escaping from the crowd, and he had been talking to Ser Marlon, perhaps confessing his identity. She hoped that they treated him fairly well for the sake of Lady Sansa, and wished that the Queen of the North had mentioned the golden knight to the Manderlys.

Taking a brush, Brienne winced and tugged the thick matts of her straw-coloured hair, which was long enough now to lie on her broad shoulders.

“What now?” Arya sighed, her voice breaking slightly from disuse.

After the three of them had bolted the door behind themselves with a platter of food, fresh clothing and warm water, words were unnecessary. The prospect of shedding the pain of their arduous journey was something which did not require expression, and they had simply gone about their business silently until now.

Sansa had lifted the Walker baby onto one of the beds, washed her face, and tied her hair up, before changing into a crisp black dress. Her pale feet were blistered but at last they were still, wrapped comfortably in woollen socks.

“Now,” she said softly, as much in a stunned stupor as Brienne felt. “We figure out what the Manderlys want, and cross the Narrow Sea to reunite with our people.”

Arya was wearing only a shirt and underclothes, with her feet lifted onto the table while she ate. Her hair hung over her grey eyes, and the lean muscles in her legs tensed as she leaned forward to grab another slice of bread.

“Want some?” the younger Stark girl asked, and Brienne shook her head gratefully.

“I’ll get something in a moment,” she said. If she was entirely honest, the smell of food still made her nauseous, and she did not want a fuss made over another bout of sickness.

“Right at this moment, however, I just want to sleep,” Sansa sighed, leaning back into a crooked but elegantly engraved wooden chair. “I’ve never been so tired of anything as I was of that journey.”

Arya laughed through a mouthful of food. “Anything?” she grinned. “What about Joffrey? What about the Boltons?”

Sansa’s lip twitched. “Maybe some things have been worse, then,” she admitted.

“Do you trust these people, my lady?” Brienne asked after a moment, frowning. “There’s a strange feeling about this place. I don’t like it.”

“Marlon’s mercenaries are a shifty-looking bunch as well,” Arya commented, raising an eyebrow. “And the girl, Wynafryd…do you think he’s actually with her? He’s the cousin of her dead grandfather, right?”

“Don’t even suggest such a thing, Arya,” Sansa rolled her eyes. “They’re the only family they have left to each other, and they’ve been good to us.”

“For now.”

“I don’t think we should get carried away,” Brienne pointed out.

“Agreed.”

Her scalp throbbing from the effort, Brienne set down the hairbrush, smoothed her hair, and rose to her feet, still disturbed by the unreality of this sanctuary. She walked to the table and lifted a chunk of cheese before nibbling the corner. Sansa gave her a measured, scrutinising look, so the taller woman turned her attention to the Walker baby instead, holding out a finger for the little creature to clasp. It stared upwards and its cold grip caused Brienne to shiver.

“Speaking of things which are still unknown,” Lady Sansa started saying, leaning forward with a rustle of fresh fabric. “Arya.”

“What?” Her sister narrowed her eyes and stopped mid-chew.

“What in seven hells is going on with you and the Hound?”

Brienne blinked, and tried to pretend that she was not also intrigued by that strange development. It made sense that now, in comparative safety, that some form of truth would finally emerge.

“No-one’s called him that for a long time,” Arya muttered.

“Whatever he calls himself now,” Sansa pressed, “I know there’s something between the two of you.”

With mental defences as indestructible as always, Arya just shrugged. “Nothing that wasn’t there before.”

“Liar.”

“What makes you think I hate him any less than usual?”

Sansa scoffed. “You’ve been ridiculous lately! Don’t think I can’t see the two of you whispering together and staring like fools.”

“I don’t have to listen to this,” the younger Stark girl exclaimed, and fluidly rose from her chair, grabbing a pair of trousers and boots.

“Where are you going, Arya?” Brienne frowned.

“Not far,” came the blunt answer, and within a few moments, Arya flew out of the room with impressive speed, still fastening her sword-belt, carrying a cloak over her arm. The door creaked on its hinges.

“I wouldn’t worry about your sister, my lady,” Brienne said, walking over to close the door. “She needs no help protecting herself.” A cold gust of castle air caused her to reach for a cloak as well. Bear fur tickled her jaw as she fastened a silver clasp.

“Forgive me for saying this,” Lady Sansa said after a moment of hesitation, getting up and scooping the Walker baby into her arms. “But I noticed that you and Ser Jaime were going through difficulties.”

Brienne felt a blush colouring her cheeks, and she clasped her hands awkwardly.

“Those difficulties are over,” she said, but a voice in her mind instantly questioned that. How can they be over when he still doesn’t know?

“Glad to hear it,” Sansa nodded. “If you don’t mind me asking,” she continued mildly. “What caused them to begin with? As if there were not plenty of reasons far too obvious to mention,” she chuckled darkly.

Perhaps it was the taste of food in her mouth, or the comparative warmth of the castle, but Brienne did not hesitate anymore. The words just left her mouth, as if they had never been stuck in her throat to begin with. The sensation of un-sticking was a heady rush of adrenaline.

“I’m carrying his child,” she explained.

Strangely, Brienne felt out of herself while Sansa stared in shock. Her mind was heavy, reeling with the events of the day, and released from the truth that was finally admitted and declared aloud without shame. Being relieved, purely and simply, to be out of the wilds, not having to constantly feel obligated to defend herself from unseen threats, removed the confusion in her head, and Brienne experienced a sensation of floating above her own mind. Honour demanded that she tell the truth, and admit the consequences of her decisions,

Courage meant the strength to stand by those consequences. Her thoughts centred on that, and she found herself smiling for the first time in what felt like an eternity of isolation in the cold of a terrible storm.

“I have something to do, my lady,” she said calmly. “I’ll be back soon.”

She turned, unbolted the door, and walked into the hallway.

Chapter Text

They called this place the Seal Rock, but Arya could see no seals on its grey-green surface. There were only the remains of an ancient fort, and guards with torches looking out over the choppy water. Snow was falling again, thick, heavy flakes landing on her hair, catching on the fur of her cloak. She was sitting in the shadows in a deserted part of the harbour, watching for a glimpse of the moon through dark clouds. A child was humming a tune a short distance from her chosen spot, and there was a smell of something cooking on the wind, almost swallowed by the cold.

Needle was in her hands, as it often was at times like this. The smoothness of its blade had always been a source of both pride and comfort to her over the years, a reminder of where she came from, and who she was at her core. Stark, wolf, Northerner…She could remember Jon’s smiling face and the way his eyes sparkled when he presented her with that gift.

Stick ‘em with the pointy end.

Even with a heart hardened so many times by so much grief, Arya still felt the injustice of his death weighing heavily on her chest. She had not seen or held her brother for years, and then, when she finally could again, he was snatched away forever after only a month. His memory, so linked with memories of home, was tarnished and destroyed. Needle had become a reminder of grief rather than a token of strength, and the enduring connection between brother and sister. Jon died for the dragon queen, and Jon…Arya felt the sting of bitter tears entering her eyes, and tried to shake them away. Not until now had she realised the extent of the bitterness creeping down into her heart.

Jon betrayed me, but most of all he betrayed himself.

She watched the turbulent water through the falling snow, and wondered suddenly if ghosts existed, and if Jon was watching her. She was tempted to admit aloud that she resented him for giving up his life, and for forcing her and Sansa to scramble together some new life of survival in this cold night. Arya returned Needle to its scabbard, and clenched her fists while the grief washed over her like the sea. Saying goodbye to the ghosts of her family was impossible, not without vengeance, and the only way of doing that was to destroy the Night’s King and every wight still roaming the land.

Coldness settled in her soul, and Arya got up, folding her arms and turning her face upwards towards the sky. Snow fell onto her pale face.

“I hate you for leaving me, brother,” she whispered to the darkness. “But I know that I have to stay alive to avenge you.” Love caused his death, but a sister’s love would also bring revenge.

If his ghost answered, she did not hear it. The Many-Faced God did not, perhaps, want to allow the dead to communicate with the living. His ways were mysterious, as Arya knew too well, and His balance was never clear. Only death can pay for life. There was a second, but there would be no third life for Jon Snow.

A slither of moonlight appeared through the clouds. Arya recalled a similar moon while she had crept through the Twins, a creature of the night, a princess of death, alive in her gory quest to bring winter to the Freys.

I know who I am.

The Night’s King would soon know another storm, she promised herself, and it would be the storm of his own destruction. If it took fifty years, she would reach him eventually, and end the Night for good. With that in mind, she took a breath, and let it out, and at last knew some kind of peace. Goodbye, Jon. I guess we’ll have to do this without you, then…

A clatter caused her to start slightly, and whip around to see the source of the noise. Two men appeared not far away from where she stood, rolling a barrel of something towards a darkened area of the harbour. She narrowed her eyes, thinking about the Manderlys and their apparent regulations regarding food. So many of the refugees here appeared to be starving, even dying. Her attuned senses primed, Arya slowly walked after the men, catching small snippets of conversation.

“…new supply…hidden for so long?”

“Maybe the…while the raid continued.”

She wished she still had some of the faces she had either stolen from the House of Black and White or taken from corpses, but all of them were lost when Winterfell burned. As it was, she knew her own abilities, and managed to remain utterly silent while following them. Down a dark alley, taking a sharp right turn, they rolled the barrel, which was coated with ice, into a large, crumbling warehouse. Arya glanced around herself, fearing some kind of trap or danger, but could see or hear no other person. Only the splash and dull roar of the sea filled her ears.

Creeping slowly up to the doorway, she listened as the men argued about lighting a torch.

“That’ll give us away to the refs,” one of them grunted.

“But we can’t bloody see,” the other complained in a wheezing tone. Something clattered onto the ground, illustrating this man’s point.

“Seven hells! Fine, but put it out after. The refs aren’t meant to know about this.”

Arya took a breath and drew Needle, feeling the rush of anticipation enter her blood again. The blade glinted in the moonlight, and then the silver glow was gone, swallowed once more by clouds. She smiled slightly to herself, glad to be acting alone for once, not thinking about the judgements or protection of anyone else.

The men bickered some more, and then, in a flash of sparks, a torch was lit.

Arya spun to her feet and entered the doorway, sword poised. The two men were visibly startled at first, and she had the opportunity to look around the warehouse. Against every wall, piled high to the ceiling, were barrels and crates and boxes of varying sizes. Dust covered some, and ice coated others, while some looked as if they had been freshly opened. She could see a bag labelled “flour”.

The men, both of them wide-shouldered and bearded, took a closer look at the sudden intruder, and their startled expressions turned to scorn.

“Look here,” the one holding the torch laughed. “A little mouse with a sword.”

“Run along, little mouse,” the other joined in, with a squeaky voice. “Hope you’re not lost in the bad part of town.”

Arya entirely ignored their comments.

“What do the two of you think you’re doing?” she asked. “Is this food? I thought everyone here worked for rations.”

“Aye, girl, the refs do,” the first man spat. “Us that’re loyal to…”

“Don’t tell her that, Des!” the second one snapped. “She could tell people.”

“Refs,” Arya echoed suspiciously, stepping somewhat closer. “That means refugees, right? You’re hiding all this stuff away from the refugees so a few of you can have all the food you want? Is Ser Marlon in on this plot?”

The two of them glanced at each other and simultaneously drew weapons.

“Forget what you saw, mouse,” the second one glared. “Or we’ll have to remove your eyes.”

Arya laughed out loud at the irony of such a threat. “I’m afraid that wouldn’t help you at all,” she told them.

They stepped towards her, and she held her ground, subtly glancing around herself, spying a steel bucket, some rope, and an unstable crate of fruit within easy reach.

“I’m warning you, mouse,” the first one snarled. “I’m not afraid of hurting a little girl.”

Twirling Needle expertly, Arya smiled.

“You should be afraid of hurting little girls,” she explained as they edged closer with menacing glares. “Because sooner or later, little girls grow up. And sometimes, when a little girl is hurt very badly, she learns how to hurt people back.”

There was a tense silence then, one full of anticipation for the younger Stark girl. The accused food smugglers were standing just a few feet away, eyeing her with unease.

And then, predictably, the one without the torch charged first. Arya had picked up on his aggression, and it was always rewarding to have her instincts proven accurate once again. Lunging back away from the swing of his hatchet, she slashed at his outstretched forearm and felt satisfying contact. He cried out and clutched the bleeding arm, dropping the hatchet, while his friend aimed a swipe of the sword at her head. Ducking underneath the clumsy swing, she rolled past their legs and grabbed the steel bucket full of water. Before they could lunge again, she threw its contents at the torch.

With a hiss, the torchlight died, and shadow swallowed the warehouse. Arya shut her eyes. Sensing breath and confusion and footsteps, she pictured the surroundings in a moment. Even the smell and taste of the air became heightened in the dark, including the sickly odour of blood. It had been a while since she had to use this very specific skill, but it came back to her quickly.

They fell easily then, tripping over themselves as much as they tripped over her. One of them did not have a chance to say a word, while the other cursed and called her all kinds of vile names before Arya quickly slit his throat and felt the gush of hot blood run over her fingers.

Standing up, she walked calmly outside, cleaned her hands with snow, and went back inside to relight the torch. Finding that it was too wet to relight, she simply investigated the warehouse in the dark, feeling surfaces and sniffing the contents of crates and barrels. The heat of battle coursed in her body. Sansa would be furious, of course, to discover that her sister had killed someone on the first night in a strange place, but Arya was already planning disposal of the corpses.

Investigating the crates, she smelled wine, and immediately her mind went to Sandor. They had made a pact at some stage to have a drink together, she recalled.

I know there’s something between the two of you…

Arya cursed Sansa and her smug assumptions. It was worse, of course, that she was correct. Remembering the taste of his lips before the wight giant appeared, Arya smirked to herself. His stunned expression had been worth the effort. At least she still managed to truly surprise him after all the time they had known each other. The memory was one of racing pulses and impulsiveness, although how much of it had been due to bloodlust was uncertain. Picking up a bottle, she stepped outside again to examine it in the dim light of a shrouded moon.

Seeing the blood under her nails, and realising how easy murder had become, Arya thought about her own future. What was the meaning of a life of revenge? No matter how hard she tried to accept the horrors of her life, she had to also accept that normality was stolen from her a long time ago. This was where she belonged: constantly involved in the fight, in the battle, with blood on her hands and fire in her heart. What Gendry wanted – peace and prosperity in a new home – was, unfortunately, something she could no longer have without betraying the self she had become.

I know who I am. I am a servant of the Many-Faced god, and the Walkers have stolen what is His.

It made her pause and think then, when she pictured a future involving anyone else. Sandor never seemed to leave those visions, although his presence was always hazy. In the relative peace of this port city, she had a chance to finally consider a future outside of mere survival, and no matter how hard she tried, that drunk, foul-mouthed idiot never left her mind. He was a curse and her ultimate reflection, a reminder of what she could still become, and a promise of something more. Years ago, she took his harshness into her soul, and because of that he would always remain a part of her, along with all the others.

Mother, Father, Robb, Jon, Bran, Syrio, Jaqen…

Arya shook her head. All this consideration was giving her a sore head, and there were things to do. Those two new bodies needed destroying, there were secrets still to uncover here in White Harbour, and she was curious to discover what lay ahead in her journey. Most of all. she had to protect Sansa and Bran, and then, once they were safe with people they trusted, she could decide her own fate. Whether or not that fate would involve a certain scarred warrior, she still did not know.

Chapter Text

When he told this Ser Marlon who he was, the knight’s stern, elderly face had seemed to shift between ten different responses before settling on something resembling neutrality.

“Very well,” he had said. “Such things matter not in these dark times. Every living person is on the same side in this war.”

Jaime wondered if he had more to say, or if he knew anything about Tyrion. That dream from several nights ago had been so vivid, yet he forced it from his mind and told himself that there was no chance it had been true. He could still be alive…It was possible that the Manderlys knew more than they had so far revealed. Sitting on the edge of a bed, in a small but fairly warm room, Jaime kneaded his temples and winced. A maester had come by an hour ago and administered to his wounds, saying that Gilly sent him after the Stark boy was cared for. Whether the chain around the healer’s thin neck had been real or not, Jaime could not have cared. There was food in his belly now, new clothes on his back, and his wounds were clean. If only the other worries would simply fade like the horrors of their journey were already beginning to.

Loud knocking on the door made him start. Grabbing a dragonglass knife from his discarded pack, Jaime walked over and pulled back the latch.

Brienne was standing there, pink-cheeked, with her fair hair brushed straight and a new shirt draped over herself. There was an awkwardness in her expression, but he could thank the gods that she was not avoiding him anymore.

“Ser Jaime.” Her voice was serious, formal.

“Brienne.”

Right at that moment, he had no patience for their usual ironic use of formal titles. There was something which had driven a wedge between them, and he needed it removed at once.

“So this is where they put you,” she said, glancing over his shoulders.

Stating the obvious, he observed in his head, and stood back to let her pass. She stepped into the room and within a moment folded and unfolded her arms. He watched her closely, and set down the knife.

“I remember another time you knocked on my door,” Jaime could not help but point out. “You look just as uncomfortable as you did then.”

“I have to tell you something,” she blurted.

Finally. If she was about to tell him that her heart had changed and that she would never marry him, at least the torment of not knowing would end. These secrets reminded him far too much of his life up until now, a life he wanted to renew through Brienne, who was so much of the warrior he wanted to be as a child. The frustration of trying to change an already spent life and failing at every turn was beginning to drive him mad. It made him feel old.

“I can’t pretend I’m surprised,” Jaime told her with a wry shrug, containing his impatience for a moment. “What is it, then?”

She hesitated, meeting his gaze with those big, blue eyes which were welling with emotion. Was she embarrassed? Guilty? He nearly imagined she was faking it for an instant, and hated that he even thought it. This is Brienne. She would never…But she had had this a secret, and his trust was shaken.

She glanced at the bed. “Sit down,” she suggested.

“Stubborn mule,” he muttered, looking at her with irritation. “Why can you not just…?”

“I will sit down then, even if you won’t,” Brienne snapped, and sat quickly.

Jaime watched her, seeing the nervous fidgeting and lack of eye contact as strangely reminiscent of what a bride was meant to act like on her wedding night. Neither of us have ever had one of those, he thought, and wondered if they ever would. So many lies and broken promises littered his past. What was one more?

Slowly, carefully, feeling the distance between them, he sat next to her. “What is it?” he asked, ready for the blow.

“This isn’t an easy thing to say,” she breathed.

Her voice was as soft as leaves blowing in a courtyard in Casterly Rock. Jaime closed his eyes and saw himself sitting alone, devastated at the news that Cersei would be going away without him, not realising how good the separation could have been if the pain had been endured. What could I have been?

“Get it over with,” he told Brienne. “A wound is better delivered quickly, and I can’t be fatally injured by…”

“I’m pregnant.”

She said it, and he stopped moving. His eyes were fixed on her fingers, nervously tugging at the edge of her shirt.

“And before you say anything,” Brienne continued, while he was frozen. “We really should have expected this, because there was no way that Tarly had enough ingredients to keep making moon tea, and, honestly, it’s my fault I didn’t say something sooner, and I understand if you’re angry, and…”

And he was standing opposite Cersei in her chambers, watching her lips form the words that they had done before. I’m pregnant. He heard his own moronic thoughts, thoughts of healing and redemption and second chances which were only second sins and curses. While he stared ahead in cold reality, his mind travelled back to listening to Joffrey’s demanding shrieks, to watching a toddling Myrcella enchant ladies-in-waiting with her sweet babbling, to picking up Tommen and whirling the boy around until he laughed. He remembered Cersei’s genuine smile, and how quickly it vanished when anything did not go her way. The cracks in the paradise he wanted became wider, broke apart the beautiful pictures, and blood was all that remained.

A child?

He already had three children, some part of him said. None of them called him their father however, and none of them knew the truth until it was too late to matter. This, he thought then, attempting to regain a sense of reality, was his last chance. This life, with Brienne, was his only remaining chance, and all at once, that fact hit him with the force of a runaway cart.

“Also,” she was still talking, “if you still want to marry me, then I hope it’s not because of…of this, because people look at me strangely anyway, and…”

Wrapping his fingers into her hair, he pulled her mouth to his and silenced her words. Desperately, he wrapped his other arm around her and felt the distance retreat between them. After a moment of surprise, she responded to his touch and grasped handfuls of his clothing. She smelt familiar and warm, and Jaime’s chest filled with sickening relief.

“I would want to marry you if I could have anyone else in this world,” he managed to gasp, pulling back.

“You’re you,” she chuckled. “You probably could have anyone else…”

“Shut up, Brienne.”

He pushed her back down onto the furs on the bed and kissed her again, feeling her strong arms wrap around his body. The now familiar taste of her mouth on his tongue was a sweet pleasure, one he never wanted to do without again. There was no infraction, no sin in their love, not like before. Cersei had deceived him, tricked him, lured him away from the path he should have always adhered to, and poisoned his soul. You are my last chance, he thought desperately, slipping his hand under her shirt to feel the warmth of her skin. Brienne, carrying his child; not very long ago, it would have seemed like a sick joke, or a ridiculous fantasy. But now, seeing with clearer eyes, Jaime knew the truth. He should have trusted Brienne’s secrecy, and given his trust completely. He never could have trusted his sister’s secrets, and without her poison, the past could not repeat itself anymore.

You can stop haunting me, sweet sister.

There was no need to banish her. Cersei was gone. Brienne had chased her ghost away with the beauty of her heart. Kissing and running hands over skin, they fumbled at the ties of their shirts and the buckles of their trousers. Jaime tasted the salt of tears, but was unsure if they were hers or his. The wound in the centre of his chest was throbbing uncomfortably, but he did not care. No bruise or scrape acquired over the last few months mattered. If the Manderlys’ castle had began to crumble and fall around them, he might have ignored it.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” he asked, tasting her pale neck.

“It wasn’t the right time,” Brienne mumbled in reply, her rough hands questing down his back.

Jaime found her lips again, and relished the honesty of staring into the sapphire intensity of her gaze. “And now is a good time?” he laughed. “You make no sense, woman.”

She became more serious for a moment, but their caresses became no less demanding. He pressed up against her, drunk on the feeling of her muscled legs tangling with his own. The sight of her naked skin was intoxicating, something he had been sorely missing.

“I don’t know what am I now,” Brienne admitted sadly, distantly. “Everyone laughs at the thought of a lady knight, let alone a lady knight with a baby.”

“Get someone else to look after the baby, then,” Jaime suggested in a breathless voice, one-handedly struggling with his trousers.

“I was raised by a septa,” she muttered darkly. “Nasty hag. I wouldn’t do that to a child.”

“Fine,” he shook his head blearily. “No septa. You’ve spent most of your life not caring about what other people want you to be, Brienne,” he said. “Why change now?”

She kept running her hands over his bare skin with her usual affection, and he thanked the gods that she was still with him, even if all of this talk was delaying satisfaction for the pulsing desire rushing in his body. There was far less frenzy in their love-making than there ever had been between him and Cersei, but there was more tenderness, and that was something he cherished. There was irony there, that he felt more himself now than he ever had been with his twin.

“I can’t find any common ground between being who I am and being a mother or a wife,” Brienne complained. “What if having me for a mother ruins the life of my child?”

“And me for a father?” Jaime chuckled. He managed to shrug off his trousers and tossed them onto the floor. “Poor thing is doomed, I’m afraid. Perhaps we should leave him at an orphanage and run off. Might be for the best.”

“How can you joke about this?” Brienne asked, and when he tried to climb over her, she stopped him briefly with firm hands splayed against his chest.

“It’s as viable an option as any other,” he said with an arched eyebrow, hovering with his nose just an inch from hers. Their breath mingled like the beating of their hearts. “Over in Essos there are probably plenty of fairly reputable places we can dump him off. Or her.”

Brienne rolled her eyes at his poor attempt at humour, and smiled a glowing smile which added warmth to the whole room. “If it’s a girl,” she nodded seriously, as much to herself as to him. “I want to name her Catelyn.” She drew his hips downwards, biting her bottom lip.

“Good name,” Jaime agreed, and sighed with pleasure as their bodies fitted together.

“She was a good woman,” Brienne mumbled, and her fingers dug into his back.

“I owe her quite a lot actually,” he thought aloud, before becoming lost in another world of indulgence they constructed like a fortress around themselves, protecting each other from freezing during the storm with a fire of their own making.

They whispered for hours between bouts of unrestrained passion, planning to find a septon, planning to marry, planning to join their lives properly at last, and follow whatever honour or love demanded.

Chapter Text

There must have been many empty rooms in this draughty castle, otherwise Sandor was certain they would not have bothered to find one for him. The room in question probably served as soldier’s quarters once, with a rickety bed and a small dusty table. It may as well have been a king’s chambers for all he cared. Even the chance to peel off the bandages on his leg was a blessing.

As if I wasn’t limping enough without this…

The wound had closed over and mostly healed, thankfully. Sickness during their long trudge through the snow definitely would have ended the journey for him, but there was no reason to get complacent now. Something about the way the old Manderly knight talked about work and laws had sounded off, and their group was, for the first time in months, split up. Sandor had muttered something uncivil to Gendry and Jasper Snow in the hallway, and as much as he was relieved to be away from the presence of people in general, he felt uneasy. The morning would allow them to regroup, he thought to himself, still feeling as if they were in the wilds. Or maybe now we’ll go our separate ways?

He had just finished a bowl of stew which was served to several of them an hour ago, and was attempting to take a razor to his beard. A tankard of ale sat on his table, a very tempting relief after such a long period of enforced sobriety. Sandor was just about to pour his first cup when there was a knock on his door. Muttering curses, he got up, grabbed an axe, and pulled back the latch.

“I said I’d share a drink with you before we died,” Arya Stark said at once.

Sandor blinked down at her impish expression, firstly because he had no idea how she figured out which door was his, and secondly, because he had not expected to see her until the morning. It had seemed as if she was determined to remain closely alongside her family, yet here she was, and there was a ruffled aura about her, as if she had recently been in a fight.

“There’s blood on your face, she-wolf,” he informed her, impressed that she had managed to get into trouble so fast. “And as I said back in the Cavern, I drink alone.”

Casually, she wiped her cheek and smeared the smudge of crimson on her pale skin, before peering past him into the room.

“Is that wine?” she asked.

“No.”

“Then I have better,” she smirked, and folded her arms.

Sandor narrowed his eyes at the wolf girl. Not too long ago, they had been ready to die alongside each other. Not too long ago, she had leapt up and kissed him in the aftermath of a battle. There was no easy way of figuring out what she was thinking, and he tried not to think too hard about it. Thinking too much about anything in his life had never helped him in the slightest.

“What do you really fucking want?” he glowered.

“I found something,” Arya sighed with exasperation. “Come with me.”

It was not only the prospect of wine which meant there was very little chance of him saying no to her.

There was a change in the Stark girl, he noticed while they were sneaking through the streets of White Harbour, dodging anyone who looked remotely like a well-paid solider. Thin people were lying listlessly on the streets, staring ahead as if blinded by their own miserable existences, resembling wights more than they did the living. Perhaps some of these poor idiots had lost everything but their own heartbeats. Sandor had seen the same look before on many faces during war and times of hardship, and it no longer saddened or even interested him.

Slush and snow squelched or crunched underfoot as they made their way to the harbour. They barely exchanged a word, but he still noticed the change in her attitude. There was a freeness in the way she walked, and a familiar, mischievous glint in her eyes. He started to wonder if the girl was leading him into a trap, and if she planned to slowly remove his fingers one by one when they arrived at their destination.

Following her around the corner in a darkened part of the harbour, he saw the open doors to an abandoned warehouse, and golden light flickering on the cobbled street. He stopped dead, because hanging over the entrance were a pair of bloody hands, swinging in the breeze by a piece of twine. The nails were encrusted with snow. Arya’s hair was molten bronze when she stepped into the doorway and looked over her shoulder.

“What the fuck is this?” he asked, having no patience for her games.

“Do you want the wine or not?” she asked, rolling eyes.

“Did you do that, wolf girl?” Sandor pointed at the dismembered hands. They looked like they had come from two different men.

“Might have,” she shrugged, before strolling into the warehouse.

He hesitated, then just chuckled with wry amusement as he followed her. Crazy little murderess. Boxes, crates and barrels covered nearly every wall, piled on top of each other. Two lanterns were lit, sitting on the ground and dancing. Arya started talking about how the soldiers were hoarding the best of the food in White Harbour, and led him to a barrel which smelled enticingly like wine. Sandor glanced around, and noticed the bloodstains on the ground. She had caught him looking, and smirked with that glint of dark mischief in her eyes.

“Are you going to tell your sister about this?” he asked, grunting as he lifted the barrel down.

“I’ll wait until the morning,” she shrugged. “Maybe she can use the information to blackmail Ser Marlon if she needs to or something. I don’t care, really. Everyone here is trying to leave this place anyway.”

“Someone’s going to come back here and find this,” Sandor gestured towards the bloodstains.

“How about we go somewhere else then?” she suggested.

Struggling between the desire to get away from more potential threats and the need to finally, blissfully, have a drink, Sandor bit his lip and growled to himself for a moment. Arya, apparently unconcerned about the danger, dragged out a crate to sit on. He shook his head with resignation.

“Fuck it, fine. We stay here.”

He pulled an axe out of his belt and hacked at the ice around the top of the cask, until they could prise off the lid with knives. Deep red liquid sloshed a little over the side and its thick aroma filled the air.

“Dornish red,” he said, sniffing. “And it hasn’t gone bad, either.”

“You look happier than I’ve seen you in a long time,” she grinned.

“You want a reward of some kind?” he sneered, and dipped his fingers into the wine before tasting.

“No,” Arya said neutrally, her eyes drifting briefly to his mouth as he slurped. “A deal is a deal. Here, I found some goblets under a pile of frozen pork over there.”

He blinked and allowed himself a smile. “Frozen pork, eh?”

After that, they did not mention the possibility of other guards returning to the store, and Sandor gave in to whatever trial or game Arya was attempting to put him through by inviting him there. If she had put a knife to his throat then, he would not have cared, or been surprised. He pulled up a crate next to hers and started drinking. The wine warmed his throat and filled his belly with heat. His thoughts swam in a delirium of relief and pleasure, and every time the wolf girl laughed, it resounded like the clashing of shields. They broke into many boxes and crates, finding frozen meats and fruits, grains, breads, cheeses and nuts. They ate their fill, and drank their fill, and started speaking in a rush, talking about death and life and the darker parts of their hearts, all of it a blanket of unrelenting wants and needs.

Arya swallowed some blackberries and her lips were dyed purple from wine and juice. She smeared some of the berries onto his face before he could stop her, and he grabbed her by the front of her shirt. Her nails dug into the backs of his hands, but by that point the wine had made him numb to pain.

“What you going to do?” she slurred, baring teeth. “Going to hit me? Strangle me?”

“Might be I’d like to, she-wolf,” Sandor growled, and released her. She sat heavily on her crate, and chuckled darkly before drinking some more of the wine.

“You’ve always been hateful,” Arya said, tapping her goblet thoughtfully. “Such an arse about everything. Were you that hateful as a child? Probably, given your family…”

Sandor tried not to, but he found himself in a memory, standing in a familiar room, having heard that his father was dead. He was still, looking around his own chambers, knowing that he had to leave the keep now that Gregor was in charge, but struggling to acknowledge that there was no-one left in his excuse for a life who cared anymore. Why even try? Why even…? And yet he still snapped out of the stillness, and ran to gather his things together quickly.

“Well?” She was waiting for an answer, swaying slightly even sitting. Sandor swirled the wine in his goblet and tipped it down his throat.

“Killed my first man at thirteen,” he muttered. “The only power I ever knew was watching the life leave a person’s eyes, watching their hope die. Hate was the only thing keeping me alive.”

“You’ve told me that before.” She popped another berry into her mouth and chewed, kicking her feet up onto the rim of the wine barrel.

“But you never fucking understand,” Sandor snapped at her. “Not as much as you think. I never knew what belonging somewhere felt like. You did, wolf girl. You had your pack, before they were slaughtered, and I had nothing, ever.”

“You were lucky,” Arya spat, and dropped her goblet with a clatter. “You had nothing to lose, so you never lost it. I lost everything…everything that made me…everything that was part of my childhood. All I got left are…are Bran and Sansa, and Bran’s just gone inside, and Sansa…” She trailed off and laughed drunkenly, hysterically, without tears. She took her feet down from the barrel and slid onto the ground, pushing the crate backwards with a sharp scrape.

Blearily, Sandor put down his goblet and reached over to ruffle her dark hair, feeling the softness beneath his fingers. She tilted her head to look up at him with a dazed expression, and he ran his thumb over her cheek.

“Do you love me?” Arya mumbled with a smirk. “Say it.”

“I love you, she-wolf.” He bit his lip.

She appeared to examine him for a moment, considering through a drunken haze, and then lurched upwards, lifting herself into his lap, her legs on his legs, and her hands around his neck. Sandor held her intense gaze, and slipped his hands under her cloak. That shirt was thin, and the warmth of her lithe body was intoxicating.

“Arya.” He said her name softly, deeply. Her breath was warmth on his mouth.

“Sandor,” she grinned, and abruptly pressed her forehead against his.

He closed his eyes, wondering if this was a dream. If that was the case, then soon enough there would be fire, or blood, or something to break the precious moment, so he needed to hold onto it. Tilting his head, Sandor brought their lips together, and tightened his grip on her, pulling her closer. Arya made a growling sound and seized handfuls of his hair, so tightly that it hurt despite the wine. It was a rush of excitement just to know that she wanted him at least partially the way he wanted her, even if she would only show it if she was drunk either on battle or alcohol. Her mouth was smooth and tasted sweet, like those damned berries.

And then, recoiling, she started shaking her head and laughing.

“I’m not going to fuck you,” she muttered.

“Why not?” Sandor snarled, and sighed against her neck.

“Too drunk,” Arya pointed out. “If I ever do fuck you,” the girl grinned shamelessly, “I want my eyes to be wide open. I want to remember it.”

Honestly, it was a victory that she would even consider the possibility. Sandor tried to protest, but no amount of empty threats would change her stubborn mind. Besides, there was always the danger that she would not remember what happened, or hate him for it afterwards, and he was unwilling to take the risk.

They talked some more, sitting closely together, but about mundane things, and the night seemed a little brighter, not that he would ever admit it. Perhaps he was getting old, but somehow the idea of just being safe with someone else was becoming more and more attractive.

Chapter Text

Icy air blew in through the gaps between the shutters, and Sansa watched as the baby Walker pressed her face to the drafts, apparently preferring the cold outside to the heat of the hearth, which the Queen of the North sat next to. The infant was standing on one of the beds, and it seemed as if she was taller, somehow, or perhaps standing straighter.

Sansa clutched furs around her shoulders and wondered what her companions were doing. Arya had stormed off, of course, leaving her sister little idea where she went, and Brienne, despite saying she would be “back soon”, had vanished as well, after revealing her shocking secret. Being alone was unnerving in an unfamiliar place, with people who set her teeth on edge. She had become used to the protective presence of Brienne, or the security of knowing that Arya was standing nearby to fly at enemies in a sudden flurry of violence. Suddenly having this warm room to herself was both blissfully peaceful and worrying. She feared having a stranger burst into this sanctuary to discover the frozen child at the window. Yet the silence continued, and she found, much to her surprise, that she was still safe. Wights did not leap from the shadows, and all she heard was the crackle of the fire.

Sansa ran a comb through her hair, rubbed her sore, blistered feet, and washed her face for the third time, finding it impossible to remove the feeling of being covered in road grime. She knew she should have made the most of the warm beds and safety of the castle walls, but sleep would have been impossible with her restless anxiety. Will things ever be as they were? Will this winter ever end?

The baby surprised her by rolling off the bed, picking herself up after a bumpy landing, and running over to tug Sansa’s skirt. It never opened its lips, but the older Stark girl heard the high-pitched voice clearly in her mind.

Sa-sa…

She blinked, and stared down at the serious, strange expression of the little creature.

“What?” she breathed.

Sa-sa. And the baby tugged her skirt again, never breaking that intense, chilling eye contact. Sansa leaned down and picked her up slowly, amazed. She stared into those glittering blue eyes with a spark of hope in her chest.

“What is your name?” she asked the child seriously. “Did they turn you into one of them? Did you have human parents? How…” She swallowed her excitement. “What do the Walkers want? How do we stop them?”

The baby cocked its head to the side and reached an icy little hand to press to Sansa’s cheek. Sa-sa.

“Is that all you can say?” Sansa sighed.

Yes.

Then, startling her out of this strange, nearly mystical experience, there was a sharp knock on the door. Sansa leapt up and carried the Walker baby to one of the beds, before concealing her quickly under furs. She straightened her hair, took a deep breath, and unlatched the door. Standing there, or rather swaying there, was Arya. Her hair was tousled, her clothes were dishevelled, and she had an absent, smiling expression, as if she was elsewhere in her mind.

“Where did you go?” Sansa demanded at once, and sniffed suspiciously, catching the reek of wine off her. “Are you drunk, Arya?”

“Maybe,” her sister mumbled. “Might be, might be…let me into the room, would you?”

Sansa stepped aside and glared at Arya as she stumbled across the room. She looked down, and noticed a dark stain on the edge of her sister’s cloak. Is that blood?

“How did you get so drunk?” she asked sternly, unnerved by the thought that Arya might have managed to get into a fight so quickly in this dying city.

“We…barrels…lots of food…tell you about it in the morning…”

“You said ‘we’,” Sansa glared. “Who were you with?”

Arya flopped backwards onto one of the beds, and grinned. Sansa noted a suspicious red mark on her jaw, and felt her stomach flip with disgust. She was with Clegane.

“Where’s Brienne?” the younger Stark girl slurred.

“I don’t know,” Sansa admitted, and lifted the Walker baby out of the bedding to hold her cold little body closely.

“You act like its your baby,” Arya intoned, and then, before Sansa could even formulate a reply, she flopped her head back and started to snore.

I need air.

With waves of frustration washing over her, Sansa grabbed the key from the table, set the baby down gently, and put on boots before leaving the room. She locked Arya and the infant safely inside, and strolled down the hallway, lost in thoughts of possible victory and being reunited with the people who saw her as their Queen. But there was always the fear of defeat, always the fear of failing her ghosts, and never restoring what had been lost. Mother, Father, Petyr…I will try… The chill castle air filled her lungs, and reminded her that Winterfell was nothing but a pile of rubble now. Rebuilding the kingdom would take a lifetime in all probability, and she would always be alone if Arya went on a quest of her own, never to return, and Bran never returned to his crippled body. The future was shadowy and unknown as always.

She let her feet carry her through the quiet castle, and Sansa found herself standing near a wooden doorframe engraved with images of monstrous fish. The doors were flung open, leading onto a balcony, and standing there, staring out at the snowy gloom, was Gendry Waters. For a moment, Sansa stood unnoticed behind him, thinking how cold he must be in just his shirt and trousers. He had his arms folded, standing frozen in place. Is any of us asleep tonight?

“Gendry,” she said softly, and he started.

“Milady,” he muttered, and wiped his face. Was he crying?

“What happened, Gendry?” Sansa asked, frowning. “What happened to change you so much?” She stepped outside onto the balcony to join him, and reached to slip her fingers into his rough blacksmith’s hand without much consideration.

“Nothing to worry about,” he shook his head, but did not try to remove his hand from her grasp.

She noticed that his skin was clammy, and his eyes were bloodshot. Something had terrified him, and she was sure it was not just the wights. Gendry was stronger than that; this was a fear which went deeper than the obvious ones. This was a fear too horrific for him to even speak aloud, and Sansa understood that. Keeping this to himself was his own choice.

“You’ve been braver than anyone ever asked you to be,” she told him seriously, holding his hand between both of hers. “Whatever you are faced with, I’m sure you’ll overcome it. Don’t lose faith.”

Gendry stared at her, and blinked once. Sansa admired the blue of his eyes, the fullness of his lips, and the line of his jaw. It struck her in that moment how long it had been since she had any interest in matters of the heart. Now Brienne was carrying the child of a Lannister, Arya was clearly entangled in some kind of strange affair with the Hound, and Sansa could not help but recognise the unlikelihood of the situation. The Queen of Winterfell had no pursuers, except for a former sellsword with crude manners, yet her closest companions did. Her experiences with romance were hardly ideal, but Sansa was willing to try again. She was willing to try to rebuild a life, and rebuild a kingdom while she was at it.

Gendry laughed. “I can’t believe you’re here, telling me this, while your sister hasn’t even noticed there is anything wrong.” His expression became darker. “I lost her.”

Sansa squeezed his hand. “You want to reclaim what your father and his brothers lost, don’t you?” she said gently.

The snow fell around them, soft and flurrying. For a second or two, she wondered if her beauty had been dimmed by all of their travelling and grief, or if she still had the vibrant glow which had captivated so many young lords and knights at court in King’s Landing.

“I may not be a Baratheon by name,” he admitted, and she saw the darkness retreating slightly from his face. “But I am their last descendant. One day I hope to claim what could have been mine by right.”

“I respect that,” Sansa nodded. “I want to claim my birth-right as well, and rebuild what has been lost during this winter. One day we might get what we want. Maybe…” She lowered her gaze and smiled to herself. “We could get what we want together,” she suggested.

Raising her eyes again, Sansa watched as Gendry frowned and stared, apparently stunned by the implications of her words.

“What are you saying, milady?” he asked.

“Gendry Baratheon,” she smiled, hope ignited as a fire in her heart. “I pledge you my support as Queen of the North in all of your efforts, once the power of my kingdom is restored. We will take back what was taken from our families, and rebuild what was broken.” She leaned closer, until their noses nearly brushed. “All I ask is your hand in marriage, and the support of your name in return.”

His other hand covered hers, and he breathed out a shaking breath.

“But I’m a bastard,” Gendry whispered, and she felt his breath on her face. “How could you…”

“I’m a queen, aren’t I?” she grinned. “If I say you’re a Baratheon, then you are one, just as much as I am, and always will be, a Stark. Our families were destined to be joined, don’t you think?”

He hesitated still, but never moved away from her. Their breath was icy mist, and it mixed in swirling clouds around them.

“What about love?” he asked.

“Few of us are ever so lucky,” Sansa sighed. “I know you loved my sister, but she will never be a wife to anyone by choice.”

“Do you think we could ever love each other?”

She smiled, and swiftly leaned forward to kiss his lips. She had intended to just make a point of argument with the touch, but Gendry tilted his head and prolonged the contact for a few seconds, moving his mouth lightly on hers. Skin tingling with new possibilities, Sansa drew back and met his gaze. They were both smiling.

“I think so,” she admitted, and meant it.

The young blacksmith nodded, and she could have sworn that whatever fear or memory had been plaguing him was gone now from his mind.

“I accept then, milady,” he said, grinning.

“Call me Sansa.”

“I accept then, Sansa.”

And then her new fiancé clasped her hands tighter, and she was about to say something else, when there was a shuffling sound inside. Turning and dropping each other’s hands, they both locked eyes with the young lady who was emerging into the pale moonlight.

“Oh!” Wynafryd exclaimed. The girl was holding a large woollen cloak around herself tightly, as if someone was likely to snatch it from her. Wisps of sandy hair spilled from her hood, and large, sad eyes glittered in the gloom. “Apologies, your grace!” she said to Sansa. “This is my spot, you see, my thinking balcony. I come here to think about…things.”

“In that case, you are not in the wrong, and there is no need to apologise,” Sansa told her graciously. “This is your home, and we are your guests.”

“Oh, but you are the Queen!” Wynafryd said, blushing and glancing at Gendry. “I have no right to…also, this is not really my home. Ser…Marlon is…”

Her stumbling words broke off into a sudden sob, and Sansa blinked with surprise as Wynafryd rushed forwards and wrapped skinny arms around her waist with desperation. Gendry met Sansa’s eyes with equal confusion as the girl cried against the furs of her cloak.

“Please, you have to help me,” Wynafryd lamented. “I know you’ll understand, your grace. I only want to save my people.”

“But you are the lady of the castle,” Sansa told her softly, tentatively patting her back. “Why do you need our help, sweet girl?”

Wynafryd stepped back and wiped her eyes with a violent movement.

“It’s Marlon,” she said sadly, but firmly. “Marlon has gone mad. I need your help to stop him before it’s too late.”

Chapter Text

The dawn was just breaking when Arya crept into the great hall of the Manderlys’ Castle. The wooden planks on the walls, floor and ceiling were illuminated by hesitant sunlight, and she immediately caught sight of the three individuals gathered at the end of a long table. A single candle sat between Sansa, Gendry and Wynafryd Manderly. The young lady was pouring something warm and steaming into goblets, and they raised their heads to watch as Arya approached.

“Would you like some nettle tea, Lady Arya?” Wynafryd asked politely. “I always love some tea in the morning. Helps me to think about the day, you see.”

“Will it cure a hangover?”

Arya was kneading her forehead, struggling to focus on the scene before her. Gendry was avoiding the younger Stark girl’s bloodshot gaze, examining his fingernails with great intensity. Sansa was serious, glaring at her sister, while Wynafryd appeared to be fussing over them with enthusiasm.

“Are you sobered up then?” the Queen of the North asked tersely.

“More or less.”

Arya slumped onto the bench next to Sansa and opposite Gendry. Wynafryd glided over to the side of the hall, procured another goblet, and poured tea for the younger Stark girl before sitting next to Gendry. After slurping the top of the steaming liquid, Arya lifted her gaze and glanced between the three of them.

“What happened?” she asked. “You look like you’re plotting an assassination.”

Wynafryd started, and spilt some tea. Gendry and Sansa looked at each other closely, and nodded to each other after a moment. Why are they so close all of a sudden? What’s going on?

“My cousin, Marlon,” Wynafryd said quietly, glancing around the hall, “has not been himself lately. The death of my grandfather and the rest of my family changed us both, but not in a good way with him. He’s suspicious, defensive, always fearful.” She turned her doe eyes downwards and sighed deeply. “He wants me to marry him to solidify his claim on White Harbour, and although he’s been good to me, I can’t agree with what he’s been doing to the people here.”

“You mean the food?” Arya prompted her after a moment.

Wynafryd blinked with surprise, and glanced at Sansa and Gendry.

“How do you know about the food, Arry?” Gendry asked.

“Never mind,” she shook her head. “You clearly know anyway.”

Wynafryd took another gulp of tea and sighed again. “It’s not just about the food, although that would be bad enough. He punishes anyone who doesn’t work to build the barricades, even the sick and the old. He lets his mercenaries do whatever they like with no consequences, and…” She hesitated, swallowing more tea. “When the wights attack, they just kill anyone within the walls they dislike, and I heard that they raped a girl of thirteen last time. Marlon did nothing.”

There was a deep sorrow in her expression, one which both Stark sisters recognised. It was the pain of losing a family, of losing any sense of belonging and identity. They knew what it was to fight alone, and to fight without hope. Arya and Sansa looked at each other, and back at this stranger who had become a great deal more familiar within the space of a day.

“You have to stand up to him,” Sansa told her. “If he wants to marry you, then you must have the power to convince him to be less harsh on the people.”

Wynafryd shook her head. “He scares me sometimes. Once, during an attack, he locked us both in his chambers and…told me that we should burn ourselves before the Walkers reached us. I convinced him not to do it, but…”

She trailed off, reliving something behind her eyes that was apparently too personal or too unpleasant to speak of.

“You should kill him,” Arya said darkly.

A single tear crept down Wynafryd’s cheek. “I really do want to protect my people,” she sighed. “But there’s still a chance that Marlon will return to the way he used to be, isn’t there? I loved him like a father once…”

Gendry placed a hand gently onto the girl’s arm. “Sometimes there are things that can never be fixed,” he said. “Sometimes no matter how many times you try to hammer something into shape again, it remains crooked and dented. Maybe Ser Marlon will never be the man he once was.”

Wynafryd nodded, but there was still uncertainty written on her sorrowful face. Arya wondered what age she was. Fifteen? I had lost everything at that age as well… Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Sansa clasping Gendry’s idle hand on the table, and realised with a jolt that something had changed between them. They couldn’t be…could they? She never had a chance to ask, however, because suddenly the table shook with the sound of a blaring horn.

Gendry leapt up as if stung.

“What was that?” he demanded suddenly. “Wights? Are we under attack?”

Wynafryd gathered her skirts and dashed to the windows in a flurry of sandy hair and rustling fabric.

“No!” She turned back to them with a beaming smile. “You’ve brought hope back to our people, your grace, and hope has come to you in return. The ship has arrived!”

But shall we be able to board? Regardless, Arya and Sansa rose together and took a moment to wrap each other in a tight embrace, while Gendry steadied himself against the table and Wynafryd visibly trembled with excitement. Arya hoped for the chance to know that her sister and brother were finally safe. Was this the deliverance they had been hoping for?

Not very far away, two warriors were emerging from the Sept of the Snows. It was a large, domed building surrounded by tall statues of the Seven, and full of refugees seeking a sanctuary from the cold and the ravenous behaviour of soldiers and other demented travellers. They would have a story to tell that day, of the strange couple who had walked in from the streets with the intention of being married at once.

Jaime and Brienne were hooded and cloaked, but their fingers were entwined tightly, just as they had been as the septon wrapped their hands in ribbons and united them as husband and wife. They whispered together about a hazy future, about the love that had taken them this far, and the promise of new life. Brienne hardly knew what to believe or think about who she was anymore, but could not deny herself this moment of happiness amidst all the turmoil of the last few years. A marriage oath was as powerful as any other, and it felt good to finally make this oath after so many years of unacknowledged love. Jaime allowed himself the foolishness of once again believing in a beautiful dream, knowing that it was his final chance, and his best chance, for satisfaction in life.

The things we do for love.

They heard the horns blowing when they descended the stone steps from the sept, and noticed people rushing in the direction of the harbour.

“What do you suppose that means, wife?” Jaime wondered aloud.

Brienne squinted towards the horizon. A mile-long, thirty-foot wall, with towers every hundred yards, separated the city harbour in two, and she could see someone sending a signal out to sea from the top of the wall.

“Did the Manderlys say something about a ship arriving soon?” she said, and exchanged a look of eagerness with Jaime.

Essos. Will we find safety there?

They walked with other weary travellers towards the harbour, catching sight of the ship as they neared the shore. All their hopes went eastwards where, hopefully, the Walkers had not yet managed to spread their storm of death.

The rising sun was casting golden shapes onto the waves, and the dark clouds appeared to have lifted briefly. Black sails tugged in the wind as the ship, a hulking war vessel, neared the harbour. Tired, hungry voices from the pier clamoured desperately over the sloshing of water and the activity of the men on deck. Dipping a quill in an empty inkwell to write a letter, one short former lord then reached for his flagon of wine. There was a raven on his shoulder, a large one, with wings flecked with white feathers.

“Milord,” said a boy. “We’ve arrived.”

“I might be somewhat less than average height, and rather unpleasant to generally look at, Desmond,” Tyrion Lannister snapped good-naturedly, “but I am not yet blind.”

“Yes, milord.”

“Fetch me more ink,” he ordered the boy then. “This is empty.”

The sailors were running about with ropes and netting of various kinds, but Tyrion ignored the activity. While waiting for the new inkwell, he reached up and ruffled the feathers of the raven on his shoulder.

“I suppose you’ll be off soon enough on your search,” he said to the bird. “You’ve been a most wonderful travel companion, I must admit. The lack of inane commentary has been particularly pleasant. I’ll miss you, friend.”

The bird made a small squawking sound, and tugged at the hair of his companion, who clambered off his writing stool and clutched his furs around himself.

“It’s even colder than I remember,” he commented dully, and walked casually to the prow of the ship, regardless of the activity around him and below on the harbour.

There were as many refugees in White Harbour as he remembered from the last voyage, and all of them just as desperate and ghostly as before. Occasionally, however, he imagined seeing a face he remembered, now gaunt and grieving on the shore, waiting for deliverance. It amused Tyrion to concoct stories for every face, connecting them all in a complex tapestry of tragedies all born in the coldest of all nights. Sometimes he even saw Cersei, nastily smirking between strangers, or Jaime, clad in golden armour. Sometimes it almost seemed as if they were staring back up at him.

This time, his imagination seemed to collide with reality for a moment.

This time, his eyes locked with a face down on the harbour, and Tyrion found himself staring wide-eyed down at his own brother. Jaime was there, in strange clothing, side by side with Brienne of Tarth, as real and solid as the ice and the rising sun.

“You were dead…” Tyrion whispered.

Meanwhile, as he stared, the raven on his shoulder took to the sky. It caught the chill morning air under its wings and climbed through the air to soar towards the Manderlys’ castle. There was a shuttered window there, behind which there was a place the bird knew it needed to be. Rapping with a sharp beak against the shutters, the raven grew desperate with a sixth sense of certainty. And, eventually, a woman came over and opened the shutters.

Gilly fell backwards as the raven flapped violently into the room, and she watched with astonishment as it landed on top of Brandon Stark’s unconscious body. She scrambled to her feet, certain that the bird was starving, and that it intended to tear at the boy’s defenceless face or pluck out an eyeball.

However, just before she reached the bird, it leapt out of her reach and jumped calmly back to the window to once again take to the skies. She stood by Brandon’s bedside, confused and alarmed, wondering what manner of strange behaviour she had just witnessed. Is it possible even the birds are starting to turn mad?

She looked down to make sure the Stark boy was uninjured, and her heart nearly stopped with shock.

“Don’t be alarmed, Gilly,” Brandon wheezed painfully, clutching at his disused throat. His eyes were open, and the irises had turned from their former colour to a shade of white as pale as milk. “I’ve just found myself again.”