Will you hold the line?
When every one of them is giving up or giving in, tell me
In this house of mine?
Nothing ever comes without a consequence or cost, tell me
Will the stars align?
Will heaven step in? Will it save us from our sin? Will it?
'Cause this house of mine stands strong

~Natural, Imagine Dragons

"We camp here tonight," Brienne spoke. Arym halted; his eyes searched up, up the fast darkening horizon above which made the woods look down on them like living things. There was an edge to this darkness that made his hackles rise, and he considered stopping if not only for the boy and the endless cold pain stinging on the tip of his ears.

Behind him he heard Brienne shuffling her thick, worn-out cape and spreading it on the damp snow-filmed pine roots to tuck Rickon Stark in. One by one he observed them realizing he hasn't done so in the last nine nights they've spent travelling on foot amidst snow and wind and Bolton dogs. They looked like corpses in this maelstrom, all of them. Their faces stained with dirt and mud, cheeks and nose bridges flaming with windburn, hairs coarse and dry like animal fur. It wasn't as if he had not welcomed this life long ago as a wildling, but the difference was that as wildlings they weren't madly pursued by Death itself.

The light color of Brienne's hair looked grey now. She was still enormous like a bear, even manlier than the shivering Bolton pet Reek, and still had the eyes of a hawk which contained all five senses alloyed in one. But he smelt the exhaustion in her as much as his body ached for sleep and rest. Oft she limped and sighed, and oft he catches her leaning on a rock or a tree to recover from dizziness perhaps, closing her tired eyes and groaning. He had been trying to convince her to ease out of her armor to lessen the weight, but she would only glare in suspicion and not consent.

Reek had been obediently following, at least, and for that Arym was thankful. The broken man's watery eyes still spoke of fear and at nights he oft woke up sobbing from nightmares he endured in Ramsay's dungeons. He carried Rickon most of the time in his scraggly arms and hands missing fingers.

Rickon Stark had only spoken a few words since their mad-planned escape. He was a good boy, never complained of his ill stomach, and only cried silently in his sleep (if ever he did). He was a good child who understood the killings that had to be done, the cruelty of the world they lived in, and he was beautiful like his sister. Arym stole glances at the boy, at his red-flamed hair and freckles, and his wintery blue eyes, for it all reminded him of Sansa and the warmth of her smile. He would practically be ascetic if he said he hadn't dreamt of her since she had gone from Winterfell to be wed. He only wished to see her for the last time at least, even on her wedding day, on a white wolf pelt and a brooch of winter rose pinned on her chest. Even if he weren't the fortunate groom.

Their travel had been a cauldron of perils and danger. The night they whisked Rickon away from the dungeon, they were walking corpses. Arym thought of Osha, that hardened she-bear who had been good as a sister to him when he was a boy; who had taught him the handling of a spear towards a boar's throat. When he showed his face to her she could almost strangle him with delight between the iron bars of the dungeon. They spoke of the plan three nights in the darkness when Arym would snuck past the snoring guards and finally was able to bring forth the child with the key he easily swooped from a drunken watchman who was thankful to not have had his throat slit. When the raven came from Castle Black asking for recruits to join defending the wall, Arym sought to help bringing the men together: volunteers and prisoners in chains, and handicapped (for disposal, really). Two wagons were groomed for travel, and Osha would have wanted to guise as a man for disposal but Arym was not one to risk guards discovering Rickon Stark amongst the hammocks to Castle Black. The Lord Commander named Jon Snow, a bastard by the name, is their only salvation and thus they needed to get there before the wagons. The night the trip began, he smuggled Reek in a sack with instructions not to move until they arrive. He gave the cowering man enough air and made sure that he was on top of the pile to be salvaged from suffocation. Instead of six garrons, Arym stringed along a seventh which he reasoned with Small Jon to just be present in cases of tumult and ambush of whatever sort.

He brought laborer's garbs for Osha and Rickon to slip in, and shirked past two watchmen with phantom ease. Way out the prison they were sighted by a guard Osha pierced in the eye void of trace of grace nor silence and that is when the scheme went awry with the scream of the dying man. Out along the open they struggled to run where watchers began to pour in dozens, which Osha willed to retard in redemption to the cause of the riot. They looked in the eye as Arym held Rickon by the arm and Osha cursed him to continue moving along.

Swiftly he hid by the shadows on each wall and rafter until he reached the wagons, eased Rickon with Reek and urged the drivers to move with a heavy chest to have abandoned Osha. Past the first forest, the net of trees and crisscrossing branches, Brienne and Podrick await by the ruined light house as he had instructed them. And smoothly he halted the wagons for rest, snuck the sacks out secretly as the men feasted on coarse bread, and gave the signal for Brienne to cause the ruckus that would frighten the men off. Three fiery arrows from nowhere and the wagons were lifted right off with the anticipation of an ambush. It was the messy fracas that chased the men off their feet and have not minded that two sacks, a guard, and a garron, were left behind to travel on their own.

And it wasn't easy.

Winterfell was loud with cries of where Rickon Stark had been and in a jiff every crevice of the forest had been raving with soldiers and dogs, and snow. The wagon that left them were inspected as Arym had known, and they wandered lost between the claws of death and the path to Castle Black. This is what he would have wanted from Osha's presence. She would have led them to cleaner routes for she was nocturnal as the owls hooting from above them. Four days the garron that had been Rickon's seat had served them. But when it fell and died of hunger and cold, they were compelled to cut it for fresh meat. They kept some of the tough strips on the snow, enough to slow its decay, and continued to feed from it until they heard each other's grunts from upset bellies. They could not battle with a party of searchers for fear they would be discovered with more, and for that Arym was humble enough to recognize. Oft they would be sniffed by the dogs and sweat would linger on their brows for heartbeats while hiding behind crags or felled trees, or anything to hide with. They were discovered once, and fleeing had never been more deadly by the second.

Four souls in the jaws of seven hells, Arym counted, and silently wished he would have to count more until they reach the gates of Castle Black. Every night the wind would sing a requiem for them to add to their fear and sorrow, and hunger at most. Rickon was beginning to feel and smell feverish even when he wouldn't say he was. The name of his half brother on Castle Black was enough motivation to keep his two feeble legs moving ahead.

When the coals of the tiny fire they built began to die down, Arym watched it with horror. He still wanted to wake before the daylight. He needed to do this. They must not stop, they've been this far. A few thousand more blinks and the gates of Castle Black will loom before them. Every night away from Winterfell turned colder and stranger, Arym had felt as though something were watching them, something cold and implacable.

Hours from when they lied in the dark he heard something stir and he looked on with quiet alarm. In the shadows he saw her move and the buckles of her boots tinged. He watched on, puzzled at what the she-bear was exploiting at this dead hour. He stirred to near her, seeing her tighten the straps of leather across her broad flattened chest.

"What are you doing?" he whispered. She slowed to acknowledge his noticing of her and saw him between her scraggly bangs. She pulled on a glove, her pinky finger exposed through the torn leather, and the other, and for that Arym was incensed. Something was going to stray off the plan.

"What are you doing?" he asked again, careful not to let the ravens above them squawk away their location.

"I swore an oath," Brienne could hardly look on Arym's eyes, tightening her belt strap. Oathkeeper hung stiffly from her hips, its lion's hilt reflecting the dance of the weak cinders looking hungry for blood. "I need to go back for Lady Sansa."

"What?" The night seemed to crash on Arym and his face crumpled. The wind was crisper and felt like knives on his cheeks. This was nonsensical and destructive. Now is not the time to be making plans alone. Brienne was still acting deaf.

"And you suppose you could do it alone?"

"When I swore the oath, I swore the oath alone," Brienne looked at him square in the eye, and Arym's jaw tightened. She peered at Podrick curled beside Rickon, now and then shivering and mumbling indecipherable names. "I entrust this party to you, yours is to bring the boy to Castle Black and wait for Lady Sansa...and I, if lucky enough to be."

"Bolton men infest the trail, they're probably a few miles away from us, they're probably here," Arym sighed, fist tightening as Brienne bent to pick up a worn-out saddle cushion. She kept fussing around as if he wasn't even there.

"Do not do this. At least not yet." Arym stole a glance at Rickon, "Brienne we have to stay together. When we take Rickon to the Lord Commander, he would surely bring with us an addition of men to redeem Sansa."

"The Night's Watch take no part in the dealings of the Realm. The more we delay, the less chances of saving Lady Sansa there is,"

Arym's face hardened, "I care for Lady Sansa too, as much as you do, but how is her brother any different? If she were here she would want us first to save her brother—an heir to Winterfell—from Boltons clutches."

"As we speak, only the gods know what that Ramsay Bolton is doing to her right now!" Brienne was slightly red.

"Aye but she'll live."

Brienne stared at him as if he had suddenly grown two heads. Arym went on, "She is the Boltons' most prized possession; they will not kill her. But look at the boy, Brienne, he needs us more than she does right now. She is sleeping in a bed while Rickon sleeps in snow. She is guarded in a room and we are hunted. Sansa is strong and she could endure a little more but I promise to join you in taking her back. We only need to bring Rickon to his brother before anything else. Right. Now."

As they silenced to listen only to each other's labored sighs, Arym felt it too; he felt nothing but to ride hell-bent to save Sansa from a life chosen for her, but that was not a feeling to risk sharing with Brienne at the moment.

When at last the cinders died down and only the frozen ticks of branches filled the silence between them, Arym felt his victory with reason. Brienne looked away, chapped lips shivering in the dark coldness, and finally she loosened sword belt to ease her waist sitting down and waiting for the damp daylight.

Thus when the blackness turned dark grey they began to move. An hour. Two hours past. And Arym could behold the top of the wall peeking through the cedar branches. His heart thumped and felt an explicit gladness he strangely welcomed. He could not remember the last time he felt happy, and when he did only the face of Sansa filled his mind. He looked back in glee, and hinted the similar excitement that landed on Brienne's eyes no matter how stiff her smile became. They made it. His heartbeats grew louder and his boots made deeper galoshes print on the dry snow.

Until Reek let out a cry as he thumped on his buttocks on the snow, and Rickon sprawled alongside him. Brienne quickly pulled the child up with a grunt before another arrow would pin on them and wash scarlet against white snow. Reek ran on startled, waving his hands in shock, past Arym who aimed an arrow from where the strike came.

Then there it cracked, the sound of hooves pounding on the ground came thundering. Five Bolton men flashed angrily from the fog, their swords and spears ready to claw on their eyes, and there was no better idea than to run.

"GO GO GO!"

Arym released another arrow as Brienne clutched Rickon past him, screaming Podrick's name as the boy clumsily held on the sack of whatever was left of what they've called food during the last few days. The arrow went on one assailant between the eyes, dropping his sword and crashing against a trunk. The horse went neighing astray and disappeared in an instant like a ghost.

He gathered what remained of his arrows, his fingers counted three, and quickly drew two to aim at each who were barely a river's width away from him. He calculated, and despite the cold, he felt a small drop of sweat from his brow as both arrows flew from the bowstring. He stepped back to leap more distance between them, not minding the two men fell bull's eye on the throat, screaming alongside their horses.

But he felt it. Among the crashes he caught the sound of the bow's notch snapping between flesh and bone and with that his mind went in riot. No.

It couldn't be. A different kind of coldness began to sop around the veins of his left ribcage. And there was the familiar taste of pain on his flesh.

Up ahead and between the slits of his vision he saw the measly black running movements of his travelling acquaintances moving quickly to the gates. He went on, but he did not know he was still moving on for his feet went stiff as if every joint and bone had been frozen. He could hear his breaths deepening. He could feel his chest tightening and could taste warm metal rising up his throat. Slowly he perceived the slowing of his breaths blocked by thick red fluid. He coughed, almost choking.

Arym fell to his knees in immediate exhaustion. Dots of light snow began to float around him and he could hear the pounding of his heart as if it magically appeared between his ears. The arrow had pierced him flesh and bones and the profuse bleeding spoke of an organ that might have hung between.

Beneath his bedazzled concentration he heard Brienne's distant and desperate cry of his name. He looked back at her, hands clutching on the deep wound slimed by blood. He saw Brienne's attempt to run to him, her knees wallowing difficultly against deep snow.

But ahead of him the galloping of more men echoed a dangerous lingering in the woods. Closer and closer and Arym knew Brienne had to make a choice, and so did he. Brienne slowed as he raised his hand – darkened in his own blood – and gave her a quick shove to send her away. Brienne protested, given by the heavier thumps of her boots to save him, but finally stopped at the appearance of a couple of Bolton soldiers aiming at him.

Arym saw them too. Ugly shadows of Bolton puppets riding in a seemingly slowed movement unsheathing their greatswords and flinging them in thin air. But he didn't know how his fingers were able to pull the last arrow from his weapon. And before his mind went into the black – a culmination of hunger, exhaustion and whiff of Death nearby – he felt the feathers of his arrow as it flew. He never knew if it pinned down an enemy, least scratch them, nor if his body was still in one piece; all he felt was silk, all he tasted summerwine, and all he saw a vivid figure of Sansa Stark.

A/N: Welcome 2019 and the worst hiatus of all times. So here I am apologetic and guilty of trafficking your eagerness to read on. In between the long vacation of this fic, I got married and am now a mom of a beautiful 1 year old baby boy. To be honest I have been reading the reviews still since last year, and have actually decided to discontinue as Ramsay has been killed off the show and he seems to be history now the GOT is waiting its final episode next week. I deem it insignificant to have to continue this as no one would be rooting out for this ship anymore anyway. But here I am receiving requests and reviews from just this year and with that I thank you. I thank you for still being able to wait on even after 2 years of temporary death. Together with my declaration to finally go through this (as I am still on around half of the storyline with *spoiler alert* Jon and Jane still on the list of characters not yet introduced), I may have to inform you, dear readers, that as much as I want to maintain, perhaps, the writing I had two years ago, I may not be able to justify the next few installments with the same quality as I am having difficulty regaining the spirit I had before. I'm sorry and please do bear with me still. Also, I may forget some details that hung and needed clarification and continuation, if I do, kindly remind me through the reviews and/or messages.

Hoping for your understanding, readers. (insert emoji). Still, I am very, very thankful. You inspire me.