"They have not advanced? Why they have not advanced?"

It was the fourth time Sandor had heard this same question, each time made by a different person.

"I do not know." The boy answered unruffled.

"The Night King must know that Jon is on his way and wants our army to go to him." The dwarf replied.

"Why?"

"Advantages of the terrain, delay the fight until dark... There are endless possibilities."

"There's nothing we can do, milady." Brienne said at the sight of Sansa's distress.

"It's right. There's nothing we can do there, so let's do something here."

In a matter of minutes, Sansa had drawn up plans for everyone, tasks as useless as patching ragged clothes, but they were complied without arguing; particularly everyone agreed that idle waiting would be far worse.

"You should come in; you'll freeze if you stay here."

"Staying here is good for me. It is the only place where I have more good than bad memories. Seat with me." Even knowing that he would regret being stuck to the shins in the snow, Sandor agreed with her request. "My father loved this place. He never said it, but I knew it, we all knew." She sighed and rested her head on his shoulder. "If I close my eyes I can see him paying his respects to the ancient gods, or Robb and Jon fighting inside the lake, Bran climbing trees, Arya facing invisible enemies and Rickon ..." Her voice trailed off for a moment. "Rickon was little more than a baby the last time I saw him here. We should never have gone to the South."

Sansa's gaze was lost, her thoughts probably in another age. With no desire to move, Sandor looked around the forest. It was strange to be there, his lack of faith made him feel like an intruder, something that had never happened in the few times he entered a septum. Perhaps the faith of the Northerners was stronger than that of the Southerners, so strong that its remained in their holy places even after their deaths.

"I hated this place." Sansa's voice caught his attention. "I thought it was scary, with its heavy silence and dark aspect. I wondered which God would prefer this to the Septus full of light and beauty that my father had built for my mother. Not to mention the carved face in the heart tree, I felt shivers just watching it." Her words affected him more than she could imagine. Sansa put her arm around his and held his hand. "I was a big fool, deluded by looks and attracted to beautiful words."

"You were a child."

"I wish I had been a cleverer child, maybe I had made better choices, I..."

"Milady!" Gilly's scream made the two of them turn at once. The girl was running the best she could on the fluffy snow. "Milady! Your brother..." She took a deep breath, trying to catch her breath. "He said that the king's army met the dead..."

When they had entered Winterfell's hall, a good number of people had gathered around Bran, whose body was flaccid in his chair and his eyes white. The fat man, Samwell, told them that the boy was trying to help the war, being more useful over there than there. Not wanting her brother to be a spectacle to anyone, Sansa asked Sandor to take him to his bedroom, and there they were since then.

"You should eat." Sandor said to Sansa, who was sitting in an armchair with her eyes fixed on her brother as he poured himself a serving of hot broth.

"I'm not hungry."

"The battle can last for hours, he may not come back anytime soon."

"Never mind, I want to be the first to welcome you when you get back."

Sandor swallowed his food in silence, her obstinacy walking side by side with her stubbornness.

"Do not make noise!" Sandor snarled as the chubby man tripped inside.

"Excuse me." He spoke quietly and looked up at Sansa, who was dozing in the armchair. "Any news?" Sandor shook his head. Sam stood beside him watching the brothers. "If you want to take Lady Sansa to her chamber, I'll take care of Bran."

Sandor stared at the fat boy with a childish face and a silly grin; he looked like an idiot, and he certainly would not last a half hour in a battle, but he was loyal as only a dog could be, and Sandor respected him for it. Without answering, he walked over to Sansa and wrapped his arms around her; she woke up at once.

"What…?"

"I'll take you to your room."

"No!" She held his arms trying to push him away, but he did not allow it.

"You're exhausted, you've slept for over an hour, you need to rest." She was not willing to listen to him. "The fat one is here, when Bran comes back, he'll let you know right away."

She peeked over his shoulder, and Sandor knew what she saw: Bran lying in bed in the same position he had placed him hours ago.

"I'm awake now."

"Sansa..."

"You can come with me to my room, Sandor, but you do not have to carry me."

He stood up and gave her space to stand up and smooth her skirts. Before leaving, she went to her brother and stroked his hand.

"I want to be the first to know when he wakes up, Sam." The fat man nodded and she left the room with her head up like the lady she was.

In a few steps, however, he saw her haughtiness wither and her pace got slow. With three strides, he was at her side.

"Seeing him like this makes me wonder if he'll be back here someday or if he'll be lost in the shape of some kind of animal. He's not the brother I remember, but he's still my brother and I do not want to lose him."

Sandor pulled her to him, the intimacy not seeming strange after the night they had passed.

"Nothing lasts forever, at some point the wait will end."

"For the good or for the bad."

It was a gloomy but true omen.

"Yes."

Minutes later, when Sansa invited him to her bed, Sandor followed with pleasure, feeling the blood heat in anticipation of what would happen. He undressed her under kisses and caresses and considered himself a lucky son of a bitch when he felt her shiver with delight as he entered in her body. It was different this time, slower and longer, permeated by long and deep kisses, and when she found the pleasure, Sandor's came next.

"I could get used to it." Sansa broke the silence several minutes later, her head resting on Sandor's chest as he stroked her back.

He could, too, but he would never tell her that.

If the wars were defeated and Sansa still wanted him in her bed, he would accompany her with pleasure, and he would always do until she got tired of him or had another husband arranged; bile rose in his throat just to imagine her being forced to other marry against her will, if a marriage took place, should be by her choice. As for him, well, he would most likely get in the first ship bound for Essos and sell his sword to whoever paid best. Or maybe he'd get a hut somewhere and start creating dogs like his grandfather did; the idea of a quiet life appealed to him, he always liked animals better than people, and he was getting tired of living with his sword in fist. He looked at the girl lying on his chest, maybe it took weeks or months, but he knew it would not take years before that and when it happened, he should know the way forward.

He lifted her delicate face and kissed her longingly in response to her comment; she interpret it as she wants. He felt soft hands run down his chest and then tighten his arms. He liked that, more than he should have. He pulled her close and hugged her; she brushed her mouth away to kiss his chin and neck. The reaction of his body was immediate, and he was already halfway to put her under him when the roar of a trumpet cut the night.

"What is it?" Sansa was scared, and it was no wonder.

"We're being attacked." Sandor jumped out of bed and went to the window.

"By whom?" She stood up too, curling herself into one of the bed skins

"There's no light..."

"Milady! Milady!" Brienne screamed as she punched on the door. Sansa hurried to open it. "The dead, they..." She choked to see Sandor naked in Sansa's room.

"Wake the others, everyone, and send them to the crypts. I'll take care of her." Sandor yelled as he dressed hastily. "Go!"

"Do what he says, Brienne." Sansa closed the door without waiting for a signal that the guardian would follow her orders and began to dress as well.

When Sandor tried to take Sansa out of the castle, she pulled him in the other direction.

"Bran... He and Sam..."

Sandor roared, but changed their way to the boy's room and found the fat man trying to put him on the chair.

"Get off!"

In a sudden movement, Sandor threw Bran over his shoulder and left the room, hoping the others would be quick enough. On the way to the crypts, others joined them: Tyrion, Gilly and the baby, and many others he did not know the names, women and children mostly. He placed Bran on the ground, propped up in one of the countless tombs and was already heading for the doors when a hand wrapped his.

"Be careful."

The gesture left him speechless, so he just nodded before leaving and saw the entrance to the crypt closed behind him.

The yard was a mess. People were running around trying to defend the walls as best they could, but hot oil did not affect the dead as much as it affected the living people, and they had few archers and fewer arrows. He went up to the castle battlements to see the situation by himself; they were surrounded. The night prevented him from seeing at a distance, but whenever a fire hazard cut across the sky in search of a target, Sandor could see in the distance the dead walking, there were so many that they did not need to be in a hurry. He looked around and saw the desperation on the archers' faces, that no matter where they fired, some bones burned. He ran down the stairs toward the forge and took everything he found that was made of dragon glass.

"What the hell are you doing here?" He asked when he saw Davos at his side.

"Same as you, apparently."

"You should be in the crypts."

"I am not a warrior, but I am not a complete useless either." He said grabbing as many daggers as he could.

"Give it to anyone who can handle it." The other just nodded as they went out to see the first skeletons cross the walls.

They were lost.

Sandor was never so sure of anything in life. The dead were cornering them in the middle of the courtyard, surrounding them as if they were sheep. Most of the old men who had set out to fight had already died. Brienne was fighting beside him, the desperation reflected in her eyes. The Kingslayer seemed not to be there, reduced to a mass of lame movements of pure instinct, even the chubby one was more concentrated than he, terrified, but conscious. As he struggled, feeling his arms tired from the effort, his mind traveled to the crypts. Even out of the fight, they were not save, it would not be long until they all succumbed and the others be discovered; Sandor's arm weakened as he pictured Sansa's eyes with a different blue tone. Shaking his head, he redoubled his efforts, could not let it happen. As he kicked and cut, a grayish gleam caught his eye. Crossing the fallen gate of the fortress, a White Walker approached.

A laugh of disbelief came from his mouth. They cannot be so fucking idiots! Brienne stared at him as if he had lost his mind, and perhaps it was true, from what he was about to say.

"See that white skeleton? We have to reach him! If he falls, the army falls!"

"All?"

"Maybe." There was no way to be sure.

Sandor saw Brienne reach the Kingslayer and almost be struck by him before Jaime recognized her. She screamed him Sandor's intentions, and he seemed to understand. Good. Better three than two. As they made their way to the Walker with difficulty, a squeal took over the courtyard, and more than half the army of the dead fell apart in a pile of bones, including Sandor's opponent.

Stunned, he looked around. The White Walker they were targeting was still standing, but across the yard Bronn had a heap of ice in front of his feet. He bowed before fighting again, and the others, still astonished, followed his example. The dead seemed even fiercer, and the remaining White Walker was dodging, fleeing like a cowardly king who leaves his army behind when sees the battle raging.

The mood of the living got a new breath now that they saw a chance to win. Sandor, Brienne, and Jaime were increasingly close to the Walker, and when the opportunity arose, Brienne was the first to attack him. However, the creator was stronger and more prepared than his creatures and deflecting his opponent's sword was not difficult at all. Sandor joined her, helping her up against the White Walker and pulling the skeletons away from her back as Jaime did. While struggling with the dead, trying to save time for Brienne, Sandor realized that they would get nothing if they continued like that, because, even though they were together, they were still struggling with different targets. Fuck!

He shouted, turning his back on the dead and attacking only the Walker. He felt their coarse weapons hitting his back and his arms, but he kept fighting, they just needed a blow to get it all over. He saw Brienne go to the ground and for a moment despair overwhelmed him. They were so close... Like a blur, Jaime flew at the Walker, and was greeted by his sword. Brienne's roar cut through the night as she rose and headed toward the iceman, who seemed to smile at her reaction. It was Sandor's chance, the distraction he needed, he brandished his sword and would have hit the Walker if he had not felt a blade staring at his back. He fell to the ground in time to see Brienne bury her sword in the Walker's stomach and it blow up into hundreds of pieces of ice. What remained of the army of the dead succumbed with him. Sandor gave a hoarse laugh, and then everything turned black.

"Sandor... Sandor..." A sweet voice called him, but he did not know from where. "Please open your eyes..." He tried, but it was so difficult. "It's over, we're safe. You need to open your eyes, Sandor, I need you here."

He tried again, his eyelids were heavy, and his eyes seemed covered with dirt, it hurts to open them, but when he did, he found a delicate face staring at him, tears flowing freely through it and in her eyes he saw something he had never seen before and that he did not understand.

"Sandor..." He heard her sigh in relief.

"Sansa..."

"Do not talk, just keep your eyes open and everything will be fine."

He would have laughed if he had not choked on a hot thick liquid; blood, his own.

"You're still a lousy liar."

"I'm not lying." She said patting his face and squeezing him against her. He smiled as he realized she was cradling him in her lap.

"But I'm dying..." He tried to lead his hand to her face, but he had no more strength.

With fresh tears, she grabbed his hand and pressed it against her cheek. Her skin was soft and warm.

"Sansa…"

"Please…"

He felt a touch on his face and a soft pressure on his mouth and then everything was gone.