Sansa's silken smallclothes were still clutched in his hand when he awoke. He rolled over underneath the furs that had been blanketed with snow, his bones creaking and joints popping during the effort, and watched the sun rise in the east through the morning haze.

He wondered if Sansa was watching it, too.

Somehow they made it. Somehow, despite the too frequent winter storms that all but froze them solid during the night and nearly buried them in snow, they made it to the Wall. The structure was more monstrous than Sandor could have fathomed; even from leagues away, the ice and stone barrier was incomprehensibly massive. Seven hundred feet tall and three hundred miles long, it didn't seem possible for such a creation to be made by man. Yet, there it was.

And no matter its splendor and size, one blow of a horn could bring it all down.

They exited the tunnel at Castle Black an hour past noon, ranging into the lands that had once been home to the wildlings, now home to naught but the Others. Jon Snow's albino beast had waited for them at Castle Black and took off through the tunnel as quick as the wind upon his master's command. If the Others were near, the beast would warn them before they traveled any farther.

Or so I bloody hope.

The Riverlands would feel as balmy as an afternoon in Dorne compared to the debilitating cold beyond the Wall.

"How the buggering hell did you wildlings survive out in this shit?" he asked Tormund Giantsbane.

The wildling embraced the feral winds like a lost lover. "The key is to keep your blood pumping, Hound. Walking's good, fighting's better, fucking's best! Har!"

Half a mile north stood a forest as long as the length of the Wall itself. He looked east and west, but it did not appear to have an end. As they plummeted into the boundless expanse, Jon referred to it as the haunted forest, evoking a long dry laugh from Sandor.

As if evading a hundred thousand Others isn't enough of a burden, we're riding through a cursed forest.

If there was ever an incarnation of hell, it would be the haunted forest beyond the Wall. The ground was hazardous, thick with fallen branches and tangled roots, an utter nightmare to ride through ahorse. But there was no avoiding it. The men had no choice but to ride at a slow, tedious pace, else risk losing their horse. There were as many trees soaring from the earth as there were flakes of snow falling from the sky - ash, cedar, ironwood, sentinels, some that were bare, broken things, and others that were as thick as if it were a summer's day; all were of the wrong sort.

"We'll find the second grove of weirwoods a few hours north of here," Jon explained, leading the way. "Bran says the horn is buried in the center. We'll need to dig it out."

Sandor chuckled to himself again, thinking of the hundreds of graves he dug on the Quiet Isle. Was it an act of atonement, or was the Elder Brother only preparing me to dig through frozen solid earth for the horn that could determine the fate of Westeros?

He had a feeling it was both.

The first grove of weirwoods was no more than a ten minute ride from the edge of the forest, but this King Joramun or whichever foolish wildling had buried the horn naturally did so in a grove much, much farther. Every yard they traveled brought more wind, and every squall that blew was more painful than the last. It was so cold that the she-wolf's smitten bastard couldn't even open his mouth to complain about how cold it was. At the very least, Sandor was grateful for that.

The trees shielded them from the worst of the snow that followed, though the storm endured minutes short of arriving at the second grove; the native godswood was an impossible sight to miss, a perfect circle of twenty massive weirwoods, each uniquely carved with blood-red faces that stared out toward the middle. The forest's name was well-earned, he decided, feeling apprehensive. It had the same ambience as the godswood in Winterfell, yet somehow was far more troubling. Sandor felt a thousand eyes scrutinising his every move, but the only ones he could see were the forty that had been carved into the pale bark, some melancholic, some sorrowful, some incensed.

The sooner they started, the sooner they'd be able to leave.

Sandor took the initiative, dismounting and tethering his horse to one of the less disconcerting heart trees and unpacking the spades that had been wrapped in a thick woolen blanket. Once the men each had a spade in hand, they approached the center of the grove and began their grueling task by first shoveling away the snow. Edd had been the first one to attempt to delve into the earth. Tormund hooted with laughter at the failure of a result. The steward might as well have taken his spade and tried to tear down the Wall with it with how solid the earth was. Jon tried next with little luck, then Tormund after him, no longer laughing when he was the one who couldn't impale the ground. Not intentionally, Gendry and Sandor lifted their spades in unison and struck the ground - the ancient earth cracked, and the dirt loosened.

Much like the years on the Quiet Isle had trained Sandor, the hours the bastard spent in the forge proved to be useful. Gendry, though an insufferable whinger, was physically apt to assist in completing the task at hand. If Sandor could train the boy to wield a sword rather than make one, he might even make a decent swordsman.

Perhaps it's a good thing the bastard came along, after all, he thought.

Once the ditch was started, the work gradually became easier. Sandor dreaded reaching the thick roots of the weirwood trees, but as they continued to dig, they discovered the bone white roots encircled the center, as if the spot were made to hide an item that could destroy life as they knew it.

He didn't have time to be fascinated by that. Sandor dug faster than the others, knowing the quicker he dug, the sooner they'd find the horn, the sooner they'd ride south, and the sooner he could return to his wife.

More time passed and his arms were numb, from exertion, from cold, from unabating determination to get to the horn. His movements became automatic, no longer needing to think, for his body remembered - dig, toss, dig, toss, over and over, grunting and heaving all the while.

Progress was being made, and Sandor did not dare consider taking a break. The horn needed to be found. He needed to return home.

As his body did its duty, excavating the ancient earth and putting on a show for the twenty carved faces watching them, his mind returned to Sansa. By now, she must know if she's with child, he thought. That made him dig harder, grunt louder, breathe quicker - it was all he knew.

"Hound!" Tormund shouted at him over the cacophony of sounds. "I haven't heard you make so much noise since your wedding night! Har!"

Sandor dug and tossed a hefty scoop of earth right into his face. That only made the wildling laugh harder.

Jon said it would take the remainder of the evening, but two hours was all that was needed. It had been Sandor's spade that struck the horn first, prompting the others to become still at once. They dug softer from there, shoveling away the earth until it appeared. The Horn of Winter was smaller than he expected it to be, three feet long, curved like a snake, bronze in color with a foreign scripture engraved on its sides. Jon had been the one to ease it out of the pit, handling it as delicately as if it were a newborn babe. But that delicateness didn't last long. The wildling tossed his spade to the ground and embraced Jon and the horn like a man embracing his wife and child. Edd and Gendry were too tired to celebrate and sat slumped against a weirwood the second they had the chance.

Two men celebrated, two men all but slept, and Sandor packed up to return to the Wall.

Jon Snow did not concur.

"Rest?!" Sandor roared. It had been a fortnight since he and the bastard last quarreled. "You want to rest here?!"

"We rode half the day. The horses need longer than two hours to rest," Jon explained, sitting against a weirwood tree whose mouth screamed in silent agony. Jon placed the horn in his lap, emptied his waterskin, and wiped the sweat from his brow. It was a funny thing to sweat in such cold weather, but they were all drenched with it. "We won't reach the Wall before dusk, even if we were to leave now," he went on. "It will only be for a few hours. If my brother was right about where to find the horn, then he's right about the Others. It will take them a week to march upon this grove."

Sandor had his doubts, as many as the number of unseen eyes watching them, but once he observed Gendry fast asleep and Tormund tossing kindling into the ditch to start a fire, he realized the battle was lost. It would be three weeks until he saw his little bird, and now an additional few hours.

They sat around the ditch once the fire started going, eating bread as solid as the earth beneath them and salt beef so frozen it threatened to crack a tooth. Sandor had no appetite to begin with, and when he tried to sleep, his mind would not rest. All he could do was stare into the burning pit and silently beg the fire lord to show him something of his wife, just a glimpse to give him the strength he needed to survive the next three weeks without her.

The merciless god showed him not a thing.

Either dusk fell earlier that day or Sandor was so fatigued that he didn't realize how quickly the hours were passing. While the others slept, he and Jon sat across from one another in silence, both gazing at the flames. Weeks ago, upon asking the bastard of Winterfell whether he could see visions in the fire like he once had, Jon stated that he never did. But gauging by the way Jon watched the flames twirl, unflinching when a cloud of embers would approach his face, Sandor knew it was a lie. He could taste it, he could smell it.

"So what now, Snow?" Sandor asked, interrupting the lingering silence. "What's the next duty of mine as Lord of Winterfell?"

He had hardly been serious, but when Jon sat up taller and took a sip from his waterskin, Sandor realized it had been a mistake to pose such a question to the honorable Jon Snow.

"When the time comes, you'll lead the northmen south to King's Landing," Jon informed him. "I don't expect it will be long before Queen Daenerys is ready to depart Dragonstone."

"Seven buggering hells." Sandor had already been made aware of the war, the 'Last War' as Jon often referred to it. The Last War...for now, Sandor thought cynically. Despite knowing the war was inevitable, the fact that it would be only another month, maybe two, before he'd have to make that journey struck a raw nerve. The toils of travelling so far would be one thing, but the absence of his wife during it would be another far more painful. "If Sansa could ride with me..."

The uttered thought drew a nod of understanding from Jon. "If Sansa is indeed with child, it would not be wise for her to travel, let alone lead an army to war. She must needs remain at Winterfell."

Sandor spat into the flames to show him what he thought of that, though he knew it was the truth. How could he risk the life of his wife and child just so he wouldn't need to be without her for a few months? He'd jump into the fire pit before he'd risk that.

"You'd be wise to use that time fostering relationships with the northern lords and men," Jon continued, after a brief moment of silence. "Lord Glover, Lord Manderly...Lord Umber."

Suddenly it felt as if wildfire was being poured into his ears. Sandor lifted his eyes from the flames and observed the bastard brooding. "What the bloody hell did you just say?"

"The new Lord of the Last Hearth. Gareth's younger brother."

The scar across his torso began to burn, as if wildfire was spilling onto it, too. "Another Umber?"

"The last son."

"And how old is this last son?"

Jon Snow gave him a long look, and then the words came pouring out. "His name is Cregan and he's of age with Sansa. The two were born only days apart. Before we departed, I sent a letter to the Crownlands informing him of his brother's death in addition to the duties and responsibilities he now has as Lord of the Last Hearth."

Duties and responsibilities, he repeated to himself, feeling fatally ill. And no doubt his first duty was to leave the Crownlands and return north.

Sandor squared his shoulders. "Is this Umber near my wife?"

"I expect by now he is."

His anger flashed. Sandor lurched to his feet and turned towards his horse.

"Clegane," Jon said, his voice sounding eerily similar to Beric Dondarrion's. "Nothing will happen to her."

Sandor did not look back. "Here I was, worried about the dwarf harassing my wife, and come to find out there's a bloody Umber in the same castle!"

"Do you think I would have informed him to return to the North if he were like his brother?"

"Let's not forget, you were the one who betrothed her to Gareth in the first place," he grumbled, his urgent hands shaking as they adjusted the saddle on his horse.

"You know why I needed to do that."

"So I could kill him for you!" Sandor snapped around, surrendering to his distress. The three sleeping men awoke at once, stirring underneath their furs. "And have me killed in the process! Admit it: you knew I was going to die in that duel. You saw it in the flames, didn't you, bastard? But you didn't know Dondarrion would bring me back." When he didn't respond, Sandor gave a laugh so rueful that even Stranger became unsettled. "Did you bring me along to find this bloody horn, or did you only hope I might die along the way? What did you say in that letter to Umber, eh? 'Come to Winterfell and fuck my sister while I make her a widow for you'?"

Jon set the horn aside and stood from the ground, resting his hand on the pale wolf's head pommel of his sword. "No, but you will watch how you speak of her."

"And here I thought we became friends," Sandor scoffed, "good-brothers. Yet you give me one more Umber to kill."

"Kill him for what?"

"For what he means to do to my wife!"

"He would never violate Sansa," he said with such conviction that Sandor almost believed it. "You once told me that you would never kill a man in cold blood again, that you would only kill when necessary."

"And I bloody well meant it. But he's an Umber." The name was acid on his tongue, as it was wildfire to his ears. "He'll do something, and when he does, he'll pay for it."

Jon Snow narrowed his eyes to a squint. "You are the younger brother of one of the worst men to ever live. Gregor Clegane was a monster, through and through. Should you be killed because you're a Clegane?"

Sandor hesitated. "That's not the same."

"It is. Cregan hated Gareth more than you hated your own brother."

"Impossible!" Sandor rasped. "Before I met Sansa, hating is all I knew! What Gregor did to me is worse than what any man has done to his brother!"

"No, nothing is worse than what Gareth..." Jon trailed off, his breath hanging in a heavy cloud in front of him. During his outburst, Sandor didn't realize that it had become colder - extremely cold. Jon looked around with urgency. "Ghost!" he called out. "Ghost, come!"

A white mist arose, blurring the twenty red faces surrounding them. Sandor reached for the hilt of his sword.

"Ghost!" Jon cried out.

Sandor looked down into the pit, watching as the fire snuffed out like a dying breath.

"L- Lord Commander," Gendry stuttered. Whether he was quivering due to fear or cold, Sandor could not say. "Should we-"

Jon held up a finger, prompting him to stay quiet. There was a queer stillness in the air, the sound of a sheet of ice splitting into two, and then the horses startled.

"Mount your horses!" He and Jon commanded in unison.

Sandor ran up to the Kingslander bastard, lifted him off the ground, and saw him onto his mount. "If you die here, I'll never hear the end of it from that little bitch!" He untethered the horse, snatched the reins and handed them to Gendry. "Ride for the Wall and don't you bloody think about stopping!"

He smacked the horse and watched him take off through the forest beside the steward. When he turned back around, he discovered Jon still afoot, handing the mounted wildling the horn. "Go, Tormund!"

Tormund Giantsbane cantered past in his native lands, hooting a war cry as he held the reins in one hand and the Horn of Winter in the other.

Jon met his bewildered gaze and stood his ground. "Leave, Clegane!"

"What in the seven buggering hells do you think you're doing?" he asked, incredulous. "Staying here to die?!"

The bastard ripped out his sword, the Valryian steel edge slicing through the unnatural mist like a knife through a veil. "Buying you and the others time."

He was either the dumbest bastard Sandor had ever met, or the most selfless; he didn't have time to decide. Sandor grabbed him by the front of his cloak and shook him violently, hoping it might bring him to his senses. "Get the fuck on your horse!"

Jon opened his mouth, but it wasn't his voice that filled the murky air. It was another sound, one of a glacier shattering into a million shards.

An instinct overcame him. Pulling Jon down along with him, Sandor dropped into the ground just as a lance went flying past inches above their heads. It pierced the sentinel behind them, a long transparent spear, glowing blue in the darkness. They looked at its source, watching as four tall gaunt beings loomed through the trees and approached the godswood. Once Sandor didn't believe in the gods, truth be told he had still doubted them all aside from the Lord of Light, but in that moment, he was sure they all existed. Everything did. Dragons, warlocks, shadows that kill kings - if the Others existed, anything could.

Their skin was as pale as the snow they seemed to hover over, walking so gently they left no prints on the ground, and their eyes burned bluer than the hottest part of a flame. Clad in reflective armor forged by what had to be magic, the white walker's each carried a crystalline sword, as transparent as the lance that nearly impaled them, and thinner than the edge of Jon's Valyrian steel.

To stare at the Others was to stare at death, to watch them was to succumb to it. He looked away and reached for the dragonglass at his hip, the weapon Jon had given each of the men before exiting the tunnel that morning. It was said to be their weakness; Sandor would learn the truth of that soon enough. "Two against four," he exhaled, ripping the dagger free as the beings approached. "I've faced worse odds."

Jon looked at him and drew in a breath. "So have I."

They rose together and stormed forward.

The Others halted, speaking to one another in a language that sounded like a pick breaking apart ice. The four beings simultaneously raised their swords and awaited the attack, immune to fear.

Sandor feared fire, not ice. If anything, ice was the thing he feared the least.

In his right hand Sandor wielded his greatsword, in his left the obsidian dagger. Meeting one of white walkers at the edge of the grove, Sandor ducked underneath the swing of its transparent blade, grimacing when he heard the jarring sound the crystalline weapon made as it sliced through the air. A second Other pressed forward and made its attack, lunging at him with an agility far surpassing any swordsman he had ever known. Sandor pulled back far enough to avoid having his entrails spill out again and swung around in a blink of an eye to position himself behind the two. Despite knowing it might mean his life, Sandor crouched down and sunk the dragonglass dagger into the back of the nearest white walker's unarmored thigh.

The Other erupted into a dust finer than snow, blowing away with the breeze.

Sandor looked up at his companion, so close he could see his own reflection in the delicate armor. The sword ripped his cloak in half, inches short of slashing the back of his ribs. He backed into one of the heart trees and looked at his hands. He was only holding his sword. Sandor looked ahead at the oncoming Other, spotting the dagger lying uselessly in the snow, and then caught a glimpse of Jon slicing his sword across one of the white walker's necks. The Valyrian steel worked as well as the dragonglass, turning the Other into powder that glittered in the moonlight.

Two against two, he thought. Even better.

For the first time, his steel met the Other's weapon, producing a high pitched sound like that of an animal crying out in pain. The force was so great, Sandor lost his footing and stumbled over to the next weirwood tree, watching as their tethered horses across the grove were becoming mad with fear.

His eyes returned to the Other, then his sword parried its attack. He'd never kill it without the dagger, but he'd never live if he didn't block the blows it dealt. It was graceful and quick, cutting and countering in ways Sandor had never seen. Jon was in his blind spot, but that didn't prevent Sandor from hearing him cry out.

Seven bloody hells!

He backed away from the Other's oncoming stab, but then tripped over a root, landing on his back with enough force to steal the breath from his lungs. Sandor reached for his sword that had fallen onto the ground, but the Other towered over him just as quickly and gripped the icy hilt with both hands as he made to impale him.

A white blur flew past, and then the Other was gone.

Sandor looked over, watching as the albino direwolf pinned the white walker to the ground and tore open its throat, spilling pale blue blood into the snow. Not knowing if that would be enough to kill it, Sandor rose from the ground and stumbled towards where he had dropped the dagger. Jon was sitting in the snow, he noticed, no longer with an opponent, but visibly in pain. Before he could attend to him, Sandor ran over to the direwolf and sunk the dragonglass into the Other's skull. More dust, more powder, more glitter.

They won, and the mist that hung in the air faded away.

Ghost looked up at him, its white muzzle soaked and dripping with blue blood, and then took two long strides towards Jon. The beast sniffed Jon's lower right leg and started to lick at it, evoking a gasp and grimace his master.

"Away," Sandor shooed off the wolf before kneeling down beside his good-brother. The snow underneath him glistened, wet and crimson. He lifted the right leg of Jon's breeches, discovering a gash to his calf that tore open his muscle. The wound would need to be stitched, but there was no time; if more of the white walkers came, it would mean their death. Sandor ripped off a strip of fabric from his already torn woolen cloak and tied it a couple inches above the cut. Jon groaned, but he was certainly no stranger nor craven when it came to pain. Afterward, daring not to spend one more minute inside the grove, Sandor lugged him up and helped him onto his horse.

"You can still ride a horse, can't you?" he asked, his voice a series of hoarse breaths.

Jon winced and nodded, as silent as his pet.

Sandor grabbed their weapons, untethered their horses, and led the way south.

The first hour was spent in silence, aside from Jon's occasional grunts of pain. Ghost had traveled with them for the first five minutes, but once their slow pace made him restless, Jon had commanded the beast to go ahead of them. Sandor vehemently wished he hadn't done that.

If it weren't for that wolf, I'd be dead.

"I'm sorry," Jon blurted out, sounding no older than a boy. Perhaps it was the pain in his leg, or perhaps it was only the pain of knowing he was wrong about what they spoke about earlier.

"Tell it true then, Snow. Did you know what would happen when I dueled Umber?"

"Yes, I knew. The morning of, I saw...I'm s-"

"Don't," Sandor interrupted. As sweet as it was to hear the bastard of Winterfell apologize, it was of a bitter sort, one that would keep him up at night with guilt if he let him go on. Jon admitted it, which was more than Sandor could say for the majority of honorable men. And after the melee with the Others, it hardly even mattered at all. "Who can blame you for not telling me?" he continued. "It wouldn't have made a difference if you did, I would have still dueled Umber. And besides, who in their right bloody mind wouldn't have done the same thing?"

Jon gave a weak laugh. Sandor looked down at his leg, but the blood no longer appeared to drip as heavily as it did an hour ago. He hoped the fatigue Jon felt was from physical exhaust rather than from losing too much blood.

"Sansa was lost to me for years," Jon said softly, "as was Arya and Bran...and Rickon...he's six years old and he's still on Skagos." His face squinched up. It took Sandor a moment to realize that he was crying. "I only want to keep them safe, as my father would have done had he..."

The sincerity in his words was heavy; Sandor could no longer deny what had been said moments before the Others attacked. "This last Umber son, he's not like his brother?"

Jon shook his head. "No, no. Cregan is a good lad and he...he'd never harm Sansa."

Sandor sighed and allowed the following silence to persist. It would be hours before they'd reach the Wall, and he was eager to spend every waking second thinking about his wife.

He was coming home.

Very late, or very early, he and Jon entered the open tunnel at Castle Black and laughed with delirium.

As soon as they entered, the wildling jumped to his feet from the nearest building and waved the horn. There was a torch lit in the sconce beside him; the bronze horn glowed like a beacon. "We did it you bastards!" Tormund cheered, until he saw Jon's current state. He ran forward like a concerned father. "Crow! What did those buggers do to you, lad?"

"Nearly snipped his leg right off," Sandor answered. "Take him inside and see to his wound. Where are the others?"

As soon as he got the words out, the steward and bastard exited the building. Thank the bloody gods, he thought, until Gendry groaned while looking out to the east. "It's already first light!"

"We need rest, as do the horses," Jon said through clenched teeth, as Tormund helped him off his horse.

Sandor loathed admitting it, but he was right. Despite knowing every hour not travelled would be another hour separated from Sansa, despite knowing there was an Umber he had yet to confirm was different from his brother, Sandor knew rest would be the difference between returning to Winterfell and not returning at all.

He swallowed the pain of distance, trusted what Jon had said about Umber, and made his decision. "We'll stay here today and leave on the morrow at first light."

Tormund uttered a "Har!", Gendry sighed with relief, Edd said something pessimistic under his breath, and Jon winced as he nodded in approval.

After closing the tunnel and caring for the horses, Sandor took one last glance towards the rising sun, wondering if Sansa was watching it, too. Three weeks and one day, little bird, he thought, before closing the door to the common hall where they would sleep the remainder of the day.

"Sandor."

He awoke with a start, gasping for breath, and opened his eyes to darkness.

"Sandor," Sansa whispered behind him, crying. "Where are you?"

He was at Castle Black, somehow he had forgotten. Sandor rolled over onto his other side and stared at the hearth, watching the lone flame flicker out.

"Sansa?" His voice was a croaky whisper.

Inside, there were steady snores. Outside, there was a roll of thunder. It happened again immediately after, and then again and again and again, each boom more faint than the last.

The shutters were still closed, and without the light from the hearth, it was black as pitch inside. If the fire burned out, it must be morning, he reasoned. It could be noon for all I know in this bloody dark. Sandor made to stand, refusing to waste another day. He groaned as he rose to his feet, suddenly aware of all the fresh aches and pains that had been gained in the melee with the Others, and staggered towards where the door would be. He tripped over someone in the process, Gendry, he realized, once he heard him begin to groggily whinge, and then threw the door wide open.

First light flooded the hall from the east, leaving him temporarily blind. He raised a hand to shield his eyes and stepped out of the hall, turning to face south. The thunder endured. Sandor glanced up at sky, the thinnest overcast he had seen in weeks, and blinked away the black spots.

While the other spots faded, two of them did not. The thunder, he realized, was not thunder at all.

Sandor stood outside the common hall, rigid with terror.

A hand grabbed his arm and used him as a crutch. Jon Snow limped beside him, gazing up at the sky, and his direwolf followed soon after, snarling.

"Two dragons," Sandor exhaled. He watched as the two great bodies flapped their leathery wings, flying south. "That's two bloody dragons."

"There should be three."

The air rang with sharp, dissonant cries. The beasts are mourning, Sandor thought.

Jon Snow looked at him with fear. "We need to leave. Now."