SANSA

Littlefinger had bought her time, but there were still several wights in the guards hall and she had nowhere to hide, so she had to abandon her shelter. Her only escape route from the guards hall was by crawling into the fireplace and kicking out at the stone wall backing that had been weakened by disuse and several bodies falling into it throughout the course of the night. She had to use her good leg, as the one the wight had grabbed was bleeding and hurt when she used it for blunt force, slowing her progress. The sounds of battle were growing quiet outside and as much as she hoped for the opposite, she knew it wasn't because the defenders were overcoming the dead. When she had made a hole big enough that she thought she might be able to squeeze through, she could hear the wights coming and threw herself headfirst through the mess of stone, brick, and mortar.

It would have been simple for Arya to manage, but Sansa was more well endowed than her sister, taller, and broader through the shoulders and hips, so she had to squirm and wriggle her way through with much kicking and even had to suck in her gut, holding her breath as she squeezed out the other side. As soon as she had cleared the hole, she piled snow and loose bricks back up in front of it to conceal the obvious exit from the wights inside the hall.

Back pressed to the wall, still shaken and uncertain of what she was supposed to do or even felt capable of doing now, she made herself as small as possible as she watched stray wights passing through the courtyard in search of any survivors. Not one took notice of Sansa, for she had pulled half of a body onto her legs to camouflage herself but as more time passed with fewer and fewer wights cutting across the bloody ground, she knew she had to move.

She had just decided to tuck her legs in to stand up when she saw a lone figure stalking through the courtyard with its icy blue eyes surveying the endless heaps of bodies. Though she had not seen one before, she knew this to be one of the White Walkers, the lieutenants of the Night King. Bran had described them to her in how they walked with deliberate footfalls and how their eyes were alert and what's more, fully aware. They had purpose other than just to mindlessly kill and Sansa was terrified of a dead body that could think for itself with not only intelligence, but vengeance.

The hollowed face looked as if the air had been sucked out through the cheeks, giving it a dry, cracked appearance. It spoke of age, of a time before even Sansa's ancestors walked the earth. The shuddering breath it drew but did not need sounded like the coldest of winter winds, biting and unforgiving. There was no mercy behind its eyes, only the promise of complete decimation of the human race and all things living.

The Walker lifted its hand to the left and all the bodies of the defenders alongside the guards hall began to stir, including the one across Sansa's lap which she immediately released as she made her own body go limp and collapsed sideways. She shifted her cloak up to cover most of her face and squinted her eyes so she could still somewhat see what was going on in front of her but also so that no wight would look down and see a pair of open blue eyes that did not match their own.

Her heart was trying to escape her chest, sounding like thunder in her ears as it beat double the cadence it normally set, to make up for a lifetime of beats that it likely would not be able to make. She feared that the body sitting up beside her would be able to hear it and clutched her dragonglass dagger to her chest under her cloak, her only weapon, a useless bit of stone.

Once all of the bodies of what had hours, minutes, seconds ago been her living allies had stood up, they moved as one toward the godswood. Some three hundred sets of footfalls packed the snow down until it was a slippery, bloody, frozen surface beneath them. When they had all passed, Sansa could not believe she was still breathing, as she had held her breath this entire time and she had thought that at any moment she would be discovered.

Now it was imperative to get up. She could do nothing here but die and her greatest fear besides dying was to die alone. She could continue to lay down and feign death, as she doubted that the wights would be searching for a recently-dead-looking body on the ground, but if she opened her eyes or lifted her body or moved at all at the wrong moment, she risked being killed on the spot by any passing wight. If she could find a bow and arrows, she could perhaps pick out a spot to shoot from like Alys Karstark had, but she would have to locate her weapons, settle on a spot, and get there all without being detected by any of the dead which seemed impossible. Wherever the survivors were, they would be battling more corpses that were gradually pushing them toward the outer walls, backing them into corners, ambushing them, slaughtering them.

With he dagger still in hand and her legs wobbling from not using them for what had to have been some twenty minutes, she took four steps to start running when she saw movement out of the corner of her eye and despite knowing in her heart what it was, she still pulled up short to watch. It had emerged from the broken down previously barricaded door of the guards hall, its footsteps uncertain as it rediscovered how its body worked. It moved unnaturally, aimlessly, which it had never done while it had lived. As it staggered closer, she could see that its innards were spilling out behind it, unaffected by its loss of critical organs. The archer's garb was shredded in several places where it had been torn apart. There were gouges along its face, its neck, its arms, and its stomach where multiple hands had grabbed it and fingernails had ripped it open. Underneath the blood, there were still heavy bruising marks on the underside of its eyes to indicate a broken nose. It had cold, vacant, damning blue eyes like the rest of them, but everything else was Petyr Baelish.

It's not him; you have to kill it.

But not even half an hour ago, it had been him. It had been Littlefinger with what little bit of a heart he possessed still beating. It had known that Sansa was such an integral part of his life. It had been a human who recognized Sansa and knew that she had meant something, however artificial, to him. Now, he was it and it recalled nothing.

Here at last was the true irony of Sansa and Petyr Baelish's relationship. He had made bold claims that he loved her, that he would die for her, and tonight, he had. He had thrown himself in front of death so that it would take him before her and now his corpse had come to kill her as if it was aware that its living counterpart had died for her. It would punish her for living while it had met this fate, to exist in this cursed form for eternity.

Sansa knew it would do no good to try and reason with the carcass, but every part of her wanted to try all the same. It was moving closer and she did nothing. Its teeth began gnashing as it picked up speed and she did nothing. It let out a terrible, guttural noise that no human could make, and she did nothing.

She needed to act to save her own life, but more than that, she needed to do something to take back what Littlefinger had stolen from her. He had given his life for hers but he had done it willingly and some demented part of her still wanted him to suffer for what he had done to her. He had died in a most gruesome way but he had done so for her, not for himself. She still wanted to punish him, even if he would not be there to experience it. The body in front of her was still his and she alone could put it down, kill it, end it to her liking as she was in complete control of what happened to the corpse of her former mentor.

But it still looked so much like him, too much like him, and Sansa had never killed anyone before, even though she had had a mind to push Joffrey off of the walkway at such a young age. She liked to think she was as capable of ending a life as Arya, as Jon and Sandor, but she wasn't. She was too gentle, even now.

" SANSA! "

The dragonglass dagger was in her hand but her grip was loose. The wight's face closed in on her. If its eyes had been closed, she might have believed it was Littlefinger leaning in to attempt to kiss her. She brought the dagger up into the wight's chin, seeing the dragonglass in its open, snarling mouth glint off the firelight. The icy blue eyes went out like wind blowing out a candle, replaced once again with the dark blue that had been Petyr Baelish's. The eyes stared at her without seeing, but they were his, and Sansa liked to think that in that split second, he had been alive. She caught him as his body crumpled and lowered him to the ground but far from this being a tender moment, she listened to more wights ripping into survivors throughout the castle, her people wailing in agony, and as the din grew to an unbearable decibel, she stabbed Littlefinger's body in the chest.

She continued plunging the dagger into the already open chest, screaming at this man who had done such horrible things to her, unable to fulfill her bloodlust. The skin and flesh along the chest area was little more than mincemeat by the time a hand caught her wrist and forcibly made her stop. Then an arm was around her, a gentle voice telling her to let go of Littlefinger's body. It was several more minutes before she realized that Theon had come for her on his wounded leg. He must have seen her, but surely heard her when she had caused such a ruckus to draw the wights away from him and Sandor and after he had escaped, had doubled back to come and find her. What it must have cost him to come limping after her with his leg bleeding so freely, slowing him down, possibly killing him.

"He's dead now. It's over," said Theon and Sansa did not comprehend to whom he was referring for a moment until she became aware of the dagger still in her hand. She saw the corpse of what had once been Petyr Baelish underneath her, saw her hand stained with his blood, saw his wide open eyes that would not stir with movement ever again.

He's dead now. It's over.

Only Theon would know to say those exact words to Sansa. If not for Littlefinger, Sansa would never have spoken a friendly word to Theon again. He would have continued to serve Ramsay and even now, the dead might have overrun Winterfell if Ramsay had refused to ally himself with the living out of spite. Littlefinger had been the catalyst for so much pain, suffering, and death. His few final good deeds did not outweigh his evil ones, but he had reunited Sansa with Theon and in that sense, Theon was the only one who knew how she felt just now.

Theon had been a victim of Ramsay's cruelty and Sansa had shared her hatred for Littlefinger with Theon in the aftermath of their escape. Theon knew that Sansa would never have been touched by Ramsay if not for Littlefinger. She had never spoken it aloud, but she had wished death on Littlefinger before and knew Theon could see it in her eyes. He also knew that she was fully capable of killing him herself if she had the chance and now, she essentially had and could not comprehend how she should react to that fact.

It was because of her that Littlefinger had died and it was thanks to her that his body was put down. He was no more. All that existed of him was in her memory and the memory of those who had been unfortunate enough to know him. But the pain would remain, for however long they remained in this world.

He's dead now. It's over.

Petyr Baelish's story was over, as was Sansa's part in it, and she did not need to concern herself with feeling sorrow or confusion or anything at all in light of his death. He could not hurt her or help her anymore.

"Are you here with me, Sansa?" Theon asked her with a gentle caress against her cheek as he tilted her head up to look him in the eye. The words would not yet come, but she nodded slowly and deliberately to let him know that she was not yet broken, that she could still fight. "Then stand with me. Together, on the count of three…one, two, three."

She stood up, letting Littlefinger's body roll off of her legs and finding herself supporting half of Theon's weight as he leaned on her. Knowing that they were not about to walk anywhere without her doing most of the work, Sansa tried to pick out a spot that they might be able to hide or that she at least would be able to hide Theon when a body fell from the open window frame one level above them, followed quickly by a frantic curse and then another, much larger body.

She would have recognized his voice anywhere and following on the heels of such a traumatic event as Littlefinger's reanimation, she could not hold back the sob of relief at the sight of Sandor sitting up with a fine coating of debris on him. He had squished the body of a wight underneath him when he fell, but it was still moving and he impatiently stabbed it with his dagger before catching sight of Sansa.

They did not even have time to exchange words when no fewer than ten wights poured out of the frame. Sansa did not think, but released Theon's hold around her shoulder and drew his dragonglass sword to exchange it for her dagger.

"Don't you fucking dare!" Sandor roared at her as she ran to stand and fight beside him, but it was too late to change her mind or heed his words. He cut down the first, lobbed the head off a second, and Sansa took the third. The sword felt uneven and heavy in her hands, but she was of a height with Theon and if he could wield it, so could she. Her blade struck the wight's once, then she had the good sense to lean back as it swiped at her face, and on the down strike, she shoved the blade point up into its gut.

Theon hobbled over to assist and kept two wights occupied as Sansa took another and Sandor confronted the rest. Sansa sliced her sword down diagonally across the wight's body where it crumbled before her and just had time to watch both Sandor and Theon finish off their opponents before Sandor kicked furiously at one of the corpses and then grabbed her by her face and shook her. His hands were large enough that he could completely engulf one side of her head and still have room to hold his dagger.

"I told you to stay!" he thundered at her. "Why the hells would you come up here?"

"The crypts are overrun," said Sansa, not frightened of his anger, but of what she thought she was about to hear from him. "Littlefinger, he came to arm us and helped me fight my way out. We went to the godswood, but–"

Sandor gave her a shove in the shoulder to get her moving. "Get back in there then and this time, stay with your brother, d'you hear me? Go on!"

"He's not there," said Sansa desperately. "Bran was alone when we found him and he rode out onto the moors to draw the Night King out. He said to tell you, that you would know what to do. He said he didn't know where Arya was."

"She's inside somewhere," said Sandor, though Sansa could not be sure that she believed him just now. He was angry enough that he might lie to her to get her to do as he told her. "Lost her just a few moments ago, but she'll be alright." He sounded less than convinced, but the fact that he was looking up at the rows of windows above as if expecting Arya to pop out at any moment washed away Sansa's doubts.

"You were with her?" she asked him.

"After I put that one down and told him to stay," Sandor jerked his head at Theon, "and he decided to be stupid and not listen to me either. Found my way inside and came across your sister, but the dead were right on her. I thought I'd drawn them all off when I got 'em all to chase me, but she may still have some followin' her around. You'll never find her if you go lookin' now, so just find some place to wait out the battle."

"I can't. I hid in the crypts, in the guards hall, and here in the courtyard and the dead always came for me. There's nowhere to hide and I won't when I can still fight. I have to."

"You can only fight and win on luck so many times, Sansa," said Theon. "We need to find some place high and hidden. If we can gather enough arrows and two bows, we can still help, but if either of us tries to use a sword in open combat, we'll only get ourselves or the other killed before we manage to do any good."

A dragon screech rent across the empty courtyard, but it was an echo, coming to them from the moor. A few lone, distant shouts followed in its wake. Something was happening out there, out where Bran had gone to buy them time, and he had told Sansa to tell anyone who might be able to help of where he had gone.

She could not help and neither could Theon, but Sandor could and now that he knew that Bran was out there alone, whatever Bran had foreseen was about to happen would happen because Sandor was choosing to go where Sansa could not follow.

Sandor grabbed her face again but this time with a gentle touch that almost trembled with fear for her and for whatever he was about to do. He kissed her, fiercely, protectively, and with finality. "Wherever you're plannin' on getting to, get there and stay, woman."

She could say no. She could refuse to listen to reason and just do as she wanted, to stay with him until the bitter end and not follow the expectations set before her as the lady of this castle, the possible last heir to Winterfell. She could stay with this man she loved, even if it meant witnessing his death and going to meet hers. After hours upon hours of not knowing where her family or friends were and now having to choose between two of them, she could not do it. She could not part with either of them.

But she suspected that Bran had seen this exact moment as well and her indecision about the choice she had to make. To stay with Sandor or to allow him to go on without her. Bran had seen her choose both ways and seen the outcome both ways. He had told her to tell anyone who could help because that was the only way she could help. She was not needed out on the moors; Sandor was. Her service to the battle in its entirety was over.

And so she let him go, letting his hands fall away from her face as he raced out the east gate which was no longer admitting any of the dead, for they were all already inside the walls. Tearing her eyes away from the gate, Sansa set about to looking for arrows and intact bows as Theon did the same to the best of his ability. They would need every last arrow they could find to make a difference and Sansa just prayed that the Broken Tower was still intact.

/ /

JORAH

He was only alive thanks to his ability to pose as a corpse. When the dead had begun rising anew in swarms of his recently fallen allies, he had dropped to the ground and let them all pass, stepping and tripping over him as they went until he was certain that he was alone. And when he stood up to an empty courtyard, he had seen the albino wolf standing at the gate as if beckoning him out. He trusted in Ghost's instincts more than anything else this night and so he had followed the white fur out onto the moor where the landscape had changed so significantly in that new mounds appeared to have grown, only it was the piles upon piles of bodies strewn across the snow.

Some mounds were on fire and some bodies were stumbling about, slowly going up in flame. Ghost had disappeared as quickly as he had apparated, leaving Jorah standing alone amidst the rubble of the fallen east gate. Casting a glance skyward, Jorah saw that Drogon was circling overhead. Where Rhaegal and Jon Snow were was anyone's guess but the black dragon had evidently seen the Night King raising the dead and had swooped in to make several passes and destroy as many reanimated cadavers as he could. He could not fly too close too often, though, for even as burning bodies fell by the dozens, there were still White Walkers patrolling the moors in search of something.

He could not say how many remained, if any had been killed, for he had become distracted in protecting Lyanna when he first saw them and then had lost sight of them entirely following her death. They were the next biggest threat after the Night King now that the dead dragon seemed to no longer be a participant in the battle. They could and had been killed by only by Valyrian steel and as one of the few remaining fighters who wielded such a blade, it was Jorah's duty to kill them.

They would sense him coming no matter what he did and so there was no way to stealthily approach either of them to gain some sort of advantage. He would just have to charge in recklessly and hope fortune was with him. If either of them thought to take their javelins and launch the ice weapons at him as he ran toward them, he would never stand a chance. Those weapons had brought down a dragon; in comparison, his armor might as well have been parchment.

Drogon dipped low overhead and glancing up, Jorah could see Daenerys astride him, looking back over her shoulder at him as if to ask what he was about to do. He only had moments in which he could convey his intentions and pointed his sword at the nearest Walker. It appeared as if she understood, for she steered Drogon around, lining him up to approach the Walker head-on and keep its gaze focused ahead rather than behind.

Jorah's head was still throbbing from the hit he had taken earlier but he grit his teeth together as he broke into a run. The ground was heavily pockmarked with deep boot prints and he had to exercise great care to not snap his ankle as he navigated the open moors. He was closing in, less than a spear's throw from the Walker and Drogon roared as he flew low, opening his mouth to emit dragonfire. The Walker's attention was drawn away, its arm tucked back to let its javelin fly…

Bright, brilliant flames sent up steam as they made contact with the snow and though it blinded Jorah, he knew exactly how much farther he had to go before he was close enough to make a swing. He heard Drogon cry out from above, not as terrible as Viserion had when the mortal blow had been struck, but enough for Jorah to know that he was in pain. The shriek distracted him so that he nearly slid directly into the Walker but at the last moment, sliced sideways and took off the front of the creature's face where it burst into an explosion of powdered snow and ice.

The ground shuddered from the impact of something heavy landing on it and Jorah knew that somewhere, Drogon had come to a very harsh landing. As the steam cleared, he saw the massive shape of the dragon heaving on the ground and the small white form of Daenerys standing beside him, checking his wing for damage. The Walker's javelin must have found its mark and wounded Drogon, though how severely, it was difficult to say from this distance. What was a complete certainty was that the second Walker now had a stationary target and was marching across the moors on a direct path to Daenerys and Drogon with another ice javelin in hand.

Drogon was too large of a target to miss and had no way of protecting himself on the ground, for the Walker was impervious to fire. It was such a great distance to cover, but Jorah would have to get to them in time. The alternative was to watch the Walker kill another dragon right in front of him and send Daenerys into a debilitating state of despair. If the Walker tried to kill Daenerys first, Drogon would die defending her but if it chose Drogon as its target, there was no way for her to defend her dragon. The solution was to have Drogon take flight, even if he had to leave his mother on the ground. Jorah could get there in time to protect her if absolutely nothing went wrong between now and then, but so very many things could go wrong.

With each footfall, he felt his stomach leaping into his chest, felt his brain rattling around in his skull, felt the cold searing through his lungs. He almost could hear a denser quiet settle over the battlefield as if something above him was blocking the snow from falling directly on him. He thought he saw a hint, the tiniest glimpse of a giant wingspan and prepared to yell if what he hoped was coming actually came.

Dragonfire cut a bright path to the second Walker and over the roaring sound, Jorah hollered, hoping Daenerys could hear him, "Make him fly!"

Five seconds later, a powerful gust of wind nearly blew Jorah off of his feet as Drogon took to the skies, though his flight was hindered by a tear in his wing. The dragonfire supplied by Rhaegal covered both Jorah's voice and his approach as he sprinted the last few feet to where Daenerys–uncertain if he would arrive in time–had retrieved a dragonglass hatchet from where it had not been picked up once its newly resurrected master had dropped it. She adopted a warrior's ready stance exactly as Jorah would have if he had been armed with such a weapon and it struck him that she may have learned this very technique from observing him.

The Walker emerged from the dragonfire with its arm still poised to let the javelin loose, only its target was now clearly Daenerys who stood no chance of deflecting or dodging it. Jorah put on the last burst of speed he could muster, but knew it was still not enough. He would have to give up the element of surprise to draw the Walker's attention away from Daenerys or remain silent and watch her die. He could not even form words as his exhausted body prepared to give out on him, so he simply let whatever sound his throat decided to make spill out.

It was just enough. The Walker pivoted to throw the javelin at him, the bigger threat, but Jorah cut furiously through the air with Heartsbane and severed the ice weapon in two. The Valyrian steel passed through the javelin and embedded in the Walker's neck but before it had even begun to erupt into a shower of ice, Jorah was turned toward Daenerys, reaching for her to reassure himself that he had not been too late.

Daenerys grasped his forearm with an equally haggard look, taking a moment to run her hand across his brow as if studying him and committing his face to memory for fear that she might never see it again. This entire night, he had spotted her several times riding Drogon and she had even come to his rescue at one point in the overrun courtyard, but he had not been able to see her so clearly and closely, to actually touch her and know they were still in this fight together until now.

Suddenly, her eyes grew wide as she caught sight of something looming behind him and on instinct, he dragged her down, secured his arms around her, and rolled until they were alongside a mound of bodies which he quickly pulled on top of them. He had kept his sword in hand, but it would do him no good in close quarters and he had no idea yet what they were even hiding from until he craned his neck sideways to see her mouth, It's him.

And there he was in a silhouette blacker than the darkest night with those two blue points acting as shimmering beacons. The Night King came for them, stalking forward as if he knew where they lay, hidden underneath long-dead cadavers of his army. Jorah could hear the king of the dead coming as he kept his queen pressed down beside him. If they were discovered, he was all that stood between Daenerys and death. He was the last line of defense for her and he was utterly alone.

He had not even decided how he would meet the Night King head on in this clash of warriors when he heard a battle cry and the sound of blades matching, though there was an unforgivable sound from one end, like the howl of winter's wind screeching through the mountains. It was the sound of Valyrian steel meeting the Night King's sword.

Shifting the arm that blocked the scene from view, Jorah saw that it was not Jon Snow who had come to their aid at the eleventh hour or Brienne of Tarth or Jaime Lannister or anyone who had been in possession of Valyrian steel that Jorah knew of, but Bronn, wielding Longclaw for a reason Jorah did not want to consider.

"Run, you fuckin' bastard!" Bronn roared, and Jorah knew Bronn was talking directly to him, but how could Bronn know he was here? Was it an educated guess, or had he witnessed Jorah's battle with the Walkers and seen him disappear into the piles of bodies, assuming he had dropped down to hide?

Had it been anyone else, the Night King would have disarmed and killed them in an instant but Bronn was a swordsman unmatched and he held his own against his opponent with skill that Jorah could truly admire and appreciate now that he had a few spare moments to observe. He fought in a manner Jorah had never seen, dirty, deceptive, but determined. His face was the image of calm and concentration despite the enemy he faced and Jorah had a very sobering moment to consider that if he and Bronn had ever met on the battlefield, Bronn very well might have bested him, for the man moved so effortlessly and flawlessly that he might as well have been a higher being whose sole purpose was to do this dance of combat.

But the fact remained that Bronn was only in this duel to buy an escape for Jorah and Daenerys and if they did not take the opportunity to run, they were throwing away Bronn's selfless sacrifice.

"Run toward the trees," Jorah whispered to Daenerys, pushing her away from him. "Go now, while his back is turned."

With any luck, Drogon or Rhaegal would return for her at least, but Jorah could not go with her because he was not meant to be in the skies. His place now, as it always had been, was here on the battlefield and with how each event had led him closer and closer to this exact moment, he was inclined to believe that he was planted at this spot for a reason. The hit to his head, the passing of Samwell Tarly, the death of Lyanna, the battle with the Walkers, and now Bronn battling the Night King had all occurred in succession to ensure that Jorah Mormont came to be here at this moment in time. He wondered if Brandon Stark had seen this as well.

Holding tight to his hand, Daenerys faltered. She was loathe to leave him, but he could do nothing for her here that her dragons could not do better and having her within sight and distance of the Night King or any of his followers would only serve to get both of them killed. He could not make a dent or a difference in this battle if his mind was focused on protecting his queen, and so he had to choose.

It had always, always been her when he made his decisions. He had done everything for her, given everything for her, but she was not everything. She was a woman, a queen, a leader, a kind soul, and a good-hearted person, but she was just one. He had to accept that he could now do no more for her and that his purpose involved more than just being her shield. This battle, this final confrontation, did not involve her, but he felt strongly that it involved him, and he had to choose to leave her to see it through to the end.

He begged her through expression alone to go and held steady in his hiding place as he watched Daenerys tear across the field with her hatchet in hand looking quite strange for a woman who had never wielded one before. She was growing smaller and fainter as she went and when she was almost to the tree line, a giant shadow swooped down over her and when it shot back up into the clouds, she was gone.

On the verge of standing up as he breathed a sigh of relief at his queen's safety, Jorah saw the Night King look to where Daenerys had just disappeared. It was not too fond of a hope to wish that the Night King now thought that whoever Bronn was defending was now gone and would not suspect that Jorah still lay hidden.

Bronn ducked low to avoid the Night King's sword and then jammed the heel of his boot against the Night King's leg to upset his balance but as an enemy that did not feel mortal pain and did not adhere to the strength and anatomical restrictions of a human, the kick had no effect whatsoever on the dead king. And it was a costly mistake

Bronn matched blades with him for several more seconds and then the Night King struck a blow. His blade sliced Bronn across the shoulder and the instant chilling effect from the crystal made Bronn's legs give out as his body began to succumb to the unnatural pull of death. Longclaw was still in Bronn's dominant hand, but his face had gone lax and his body hunched in premature defeat as the effect of the frosted sword took a swift and heavy toll on him. Coming around behind him, the Night King kicked Bronn onto his stomach where he landed with an awful finality. In the moments before the end, Bronn found Jorah still hidden amidst the pile of bodies and a chilling grip held Jorah's heart hostage. Never before had he seen such irrevocable terror on a man's face and been so completely unable to prevent what was about to happen next.

The Night King turned his sword point-down and drove it straight into Bronn's spine.

Jorah bit down on the leather of his glove to stifle his scream as Bronn cried out in agony, tears springing from his eyes as he tried to crawl away. The Night King twisted the blade in deep and Bronn spat out blood, impaled, staked, and trapped exactly where he had fallen. His cheek fell softly into the snow, eyes wide open and Jorah thought that surely, Bronn must be dead even as that thought filled Jorah with dread and strangely, immense sadness.

The Night King retracted his blade, stared down at Bronn with no emotion whatsoever to reveal what he might have thought of this man who had challenged him, and then walked away. He left no doubt in Jorah's mind that the distraction of Daenerys and the dragon had worked and that the Night King did not sense or know that Jorah was still there, crouched, frozen, and horrified at the sight of the body of Bronn lying there, defeated and still.