BRONN
"I'll give you one chance to shut up before I gag you and stuff you in the back've one've the wagons," said Clegane after about four hours of listening to Bronn sing every song in his melodic arsenal. The first five days of the journey were spent listening to the seasoned warriors recount the best methods to fighting the dead and asking the Umber boy every detail about his castle so they could secure the people and not spend one more second in the castle than necessary.
There was not much else to do on the road and these Northerners were a dour lot so Bronn had taken it upon himself to provide the entertainment in the hopes that some of the others would appreciate his efforts but he seemed to have wrung Clegane's last nerve as Clegane threatened to rip out his vocal box and shove it up his prick.
"Is it the subject? I only sing've the South an' the West because the East's got a bad ear for tunin' an' the North doesn't have any songs worth singin'-"
"Doesn't matter where you pull it from, I don't want to hear it."
"You ungrateful sods have done nothin' but scowl an' shit since we left Winterfell an' I'm bloody tired've it," said Bronn indignantly. "Are you really that much've a sour old ballsack that singin' bothers you, big man?"
"Only when you do it," said Clegane nastily. "You don't have the voice you think you have and it's fucking irritating so shut the fuck up."
Clegane was not a man known to enjoy anything in life so Bronn took his opinion with a grain of salt. A man who could not even find enjoyment in a woman before a fight could stick his opinion right up his arse as far as Bronn was concerned. "I'd like to appeal to the rest've our company. Anyone else of the same mind as the Hound here? Mormont?"
Mormont completely ignored him as he set about to laying out his bed roll and so Bronn asked again with the same response, finally nudging the knight in the ribs to which Mormont stuck a finger in his ear and pulled out what appeared to be a wad of cloth, giving Bronn his answer. He then appealed to Littlefinger, though he hardly expected a better outcome.
"I never was one much for enjoying singing, no matter the supplier," said the lord, granting Bronn far more courtesy than was expected after their last interaction.
Finally, Bronn looked to Dondarrion who gave an impartial shrug. "There's few opportunities left to sing. I say do as your heart desires so long as you can keep quiet once we come up on the Last Hearth."
"That's one for the singin', I'll take it."
Bronn helped himself to the seasoned bone broth from the pot over their fire as he settled in with his camp mates. Supper was the only meal that they stopped for and the only meal eaten warm but it was hardly filling since they had had to take the bare minimum that could be spared to weigh their horses down as little as possible with provisions. Bland food and bland company, but Bronn had suffered through much worse than this.
He felt a nudge at his backside and gave a start before he saw the two red eyes peering up at him. He had quite forgotten the wolf since it did blend into their surroundings and was a quiet thing that kept his own company during the day and seemed to stake Clegane and Mormont as his own. Mormont he could understand since the wolf was of the North, as was Mormont at one point but the only possible reason for the wolf to like Clegane was that they shared a common ancestor. In any case, the wolf was always to be found sleeping beside one of them at night and Bronn didn't pretend to understand the way a direwolf's mind worked.
"Well, what d'you want, then?" he asked the beast as it eyed him expectantly.
"He's hungry," observed Mormont.
"He's a wolf; he can hunt better than any've us."
"Game is scarce here," said Littlefinger. "He hunts all day and rarely do we see him return with a bloody maw. Any game left in the North is quickly moving south to escape the pull of death. Animals can sense it long before we can, so if he's looking to us for food, he truly must be hungry."
"And I'm the one who's got to share my rations with 'im, have I?" Bronn complained.
"If you want him to like you, yes. Each of us already has," said Dondarrion.
Bronn did not need the wolf to like him to continue coexisting with it but he supposed that like the dragon, it would be far more beneficial to have such creatures on his side rather than have them indifferent to him. At the moment, however, he was far more curious about how the wolf had apparently shared meat with Littlefinger and posed this question to him. "You shared your food with 'im an' he didn't bite your arm off?"
"Why should that come as a surprise? Why wouldn't he like me?" returned the lord with genuine curiosity.
"Because he serves the Starks, he serves Jon Snow, an' unless I was misreadin' those looks the lot've 'em were given' you, none've the Starks like you, so why should their wolf?"
"Because I also serve the Starks and I hold no ill will toward the wolf and I recognize that we need him. I have no problem splitting my rations with him."
"Good, then split them with 'im again."
"He didn't ask me; he asked you."
Bronn was about to tell Littlefinger where he would be sticking the lord's rations when the wolf sat down beside him and lifted a paw to nudge at Bronn's arm. The act was pathetically familiar in that Bronn had seen many dogs beg the same way but those dogs had all been spoiled by their masters and he had the distinct feeling that this wolf would not beg unless he absolutely had to. Bronn had eaten dogs and wolves in his time and the meat was wretched but he never cared one way or another what he was eating as long as it would keep his belly full. He was immune to the charms of animals and yet this direwolf had found a way to tug at his heartstrings. For whatever damnable reason, now of all times, he felt sorry for it.
"Fine," he relented, and after knocking back half of his bowl of stew, he held the rest of it out for the wolf to lap up. The wolf made quick work of it and then planted a very wet kiss on Bronn's neck. Warm saliva dribbled down into his tunic and as he wiped it away with disgust, the wolf went to lay between Clegane and Mormont.
"If all I can expect in gratitude from 'im for feedin' 'im is a wet collar all night, I'm gonna be sour for the rest've the trip."
"Which should be by tomorrow evening," said Littlefinger, consulting the map they had been provided, not that they needed it. A man who let others choose the routes was prone to feeling lost if he didn't constantly check his position on the map and Littlefinger checked it as often as Bronn had to clean the cold phlegm from his nose.
"You bring that bloody thing out one more time, I'll wipe me arse with it an' feed it to the fire an' make you breathe the ash all night," Bronn promised.
"Boy, come over here," called Clegane to the young Umber lord who was eating at a fire with a handful of his own men some twenty feet away.
"He's lord of his house; you can't just call him boy," Littlefinger protested.
"Aye, he's lord of his house and how old is he?" asked Clegane.
"Eleven."
"Then he's a boy. He's a lord and a boy, just like you're a twat and a lord. Lucky for you that you can be both."
The Umber boy came to stand beside Clegane somewhat hesitantly. Collectively, Bronn and the others had not spoken ten words to the boy since leaving and as a lad heading for home in the company of strangers on a dire mission, he had every right to be afraid. It didn't help that Clegane was glaring at the boy as if he had done Clegane a personal wrong.
"H-have I angered you, my lord?" asked the boy.
"Don't take offense, m'lord, he looks at everyone like that," said Bronn to put the boy at ease.
"I'm not a lord, boy," said Clegane sharply. "I'm not a knight, either, so don't bother yourself with titles where I'm concerned."
There was a small amount of relief to be seen there on the boy's face. Reared as the grandson of a high lord, he would know that titles were of great importance but would not have imagined he would be called to use them so often so soon. It was all confusing enough to Bronn who had been in the company of fancy folks for years but for a boy of eleven, it was sure to be a chore.
"What would you like to be called, my lord?" asked Beric Dondarrion.
Taken aback at being asked, for a young lord such as he knew that his opinion mattered very little in situations he knew nothing about, the boy shrugged. Then, realizing the error of his gesture, he fumbled with his words as he said, "Whatever it please, my lord."
"I'm not a lord, either, but if you'd like us to address you as one, we will. We're your friends and we would like you to trust us so it would be best to know what to call you."
Again, the boy faltered for words.
"What did your father call you?" asked Littlefinger.
"Not by much, my lord. He did not call for me often and was away for most of my life."
"What do your friends call you?" asked Mormont.
"Just Ned."
"Then it is an honor to meet you, Ned," said Littlefinger with a warm smile that did not extend to his eyes. "You may call me Petyr."
One by one the rest of them formally introduced themselves to little Ned and then Clegane made his intentions known as he gestured with a stick to the mud in front of him. "I want you to draw up your home, Ned. Show us what you remember: how many people you expect to be in which room, the size of the rooms, how long it takes to get from one to the other, everything. I want to have the castle evacuated within an hour by the time we get there. We don't have much time to waste."
Ned took to the task with excitement as he sketched the castle out for Clegane. His enthusiasm was apparent in how he felt that finally, he had something of value to offer and it truly was valuable because though he did sketch quickly, he had an artist's hand. A green boy, a gentle boy. He was going to die.
Bronn said nothing, but the gentle boys never lasted long in this world. Cersei's youngest had been a gentle boy and their kind were stamped out quickly in a world that only offered war and suffering. The minstrels, the farmers, the actors and dancers, they all died, as would Ned Umber. Bronn might have said that he would grieve for the boy, but that would be speaking a lie. It was a fact of life that boys like him died every day. Good people, innocent people, and less frequently awful people, but Bronn could not be in the profession he was in and be a man who wept for the dead, so he never allowed it to bother him.
He had only mourned for one person in death and that was the baker in his village, for the man had kept Bronn fed on the nights when his mother threw him out of their hut on a whim. That man had been killed over a few coppers by men who thought the baker had shorted them and that man had no one but Bronn to grieve for him but some forty-odd years had passed since then and Bronn had never again stopped to spare a thought of the deceased so he would not start now in considering that Little Ned Umber and almost all if not all of the men around him would be dead in a few weeks.
When Ned Umber had finished detailing the castle for them, he returned to his campfire looking quite pleased with himself but as he went, Clegane poked moodily at their own fire and muttered, "That boy's gonna die."
"I didn't wanna be the one t'say it, but aye," Bronn agreed. "Too young t'learn how t'swing a sword in just a few weeks an' too weak besides. He couldn't kill a man even if it was a man an' not the dead."
"We don't all have it in us to be murderers the first time we hold a sword," said Littlefinger cooly.
"You ever killed a man before, Baelish?" asked Bronn.
"I-"
"An' I don't count payin' other men t'do it for you. I mean did y'look a man in the eye as he died, knowin' you were the cause?"
Littlefinger knew what to expect when Bronn heard his response so he made no effort to embellish his words with some long spiel about this or that because he would arrive at the same answer regardless. Biting his tongue, he muttered, "No."
"Absolute fuckin' waste've time an' space, you are."
"My reasons for coming along are my own and I do not owe an explanation to you or anyone else," said Littlefinger brusquely.
"It's obvious enough why you're here; you wanna earn the Stark girl's favor back after y'lost it doin' whatever the hells you did to upset her. No hope in earnin' that back. She's got eyes for someone else, someone much taller and more surly."
"Even if she did, don't you think that business is between her and whoever that is?" asked Mormont even though everyone in the circle knew who Bronn was talking about.
"Gossip among the high lords an' ladies is one've the few small pleasures us low borns get to experience in life. If that girl's taken a fancy to our Hound here, everyone will hear about it 'cause everyone will be talkin' about it but not everyone will know the truth except for those who know her or the Hound well enough. I don't, but I've seen it with me own eyes."
"I'd advise you to see less unless you'd like to wear your eyes around your neck instead," said Clegane.
Unlike the last time Bronn had brought up Clegane's affiliation with Lady Sana, this time it angered him, but Bronn could not place why. Apart from Littlefinger and Dondarrion, they had the same audience as before, but perhaps that was the problem in and of itself. Littlefinger was enough to make any man uncomfortable revealing his personal matters and Littlefinger was involved with Lady Sansa himself which meant that one of these men was going to end up dead over the matter of who got to bed her first.
"Y'know how you can tell a rumor is true? It upsets the people who're involved in it," said Bronn wisely and he got a rise out of Clegane just as he hoped he would. The bigger man stood up but Bronn remained sitting because the fire sat between them and they both knew all he had to do was kick it in Clegane's direction to end any potential fight.
"Does it offend you to hear the truth told to your face, Clegane? I didn't think you were the sort've man to bother 'imself with gossip. And what's it matter if she fancies you or not? Why's it cause to fight me for statin' fact? It's there for everyone t'see but I'm the only one who's got the balls to say anything about it. She's wanted you for a while now an' that's a fact, not a judgement. So if you want her, take your chance t'fuck her before you run out've time."
"I don't believe Lady Sansa would appreciate you tempting a man to bed her, willingly or not," said Mormont as the honorable bastard he was.
"I think she'd thank me for tellin' the big man t'get a bloody move on. And I would if I were you, Clegane, because you'll not get many chances t'fuck a highborn."
"Her status means nothing to him," said Dondarrion. "Status means nothing to men who serve no one."
"You're not in the Brotherhood anymore and I never was," said Clegane, snapping at his one defender as he always did when someone else tried to fight his battles. "And you," he rounded on Bronn again, "had best shut your hole."
"Why're you angry if I'm offering my full support?" asked Bronn in genuine curiosity. "Pretty thing that she is. Downright beautiful, I'd say, an' I don't offer that term lightly. I'd fuck 'er." Clegane's swordhand rested on his pommel and Bronn backtracked. "But I won't because she doesn't wanna fuck me. I'm many things: thief, spy, murderer, but not a rapist."
"And doesn't that make you an upstanding citizen of the realm," scoffed Mormont.
More than eager to point out a few faults that the knight had just to break even with him, Bronn was quick to respond. "I didn't sell anyone into slavery either, so let's maybe hold off on passing judgment on me until you've fessed up to your own sins, eh, y'carpin' fuck."
"It is no concern of yours as to the lives of the men and women above your status," said Littlefinger. "And I would think you are the least qualified person here to offer their opinion on what love is-"
"Didn't say she loved 'im," Bronn corrected. "Said she wanted t'fuck 'im an' he wants t'fuck her. Like you wanna fuck her, Baelish."
Bronn truly did have a gift in being able to get under the skin of men who believed themselves to be immune to such taunts, but Littlefinger also reacted differently to being made the butt of a joke from the last time Bronn had done so. Instead of drawing an arrow on him, Littlefinger sat forward for the fire to illuminate those emotionless grey eyes in a way that told Bronn he had best sleep with one eye open for the duration of their time together.
"Take this as you will, Ser Bronn; I do not have to explain myself to anyone here, least of all you, but to curb that irrepressible waggling tongue of yours, I will. If you are under the assumption that I wish to bed Lady Sana, you would be mistaken. I have watched over her because I owed it to her mother. I have pledged myself to her and I love her as a dedicated man should because she has earned that loyalty and respect from me, but the hurt that was done to her by Ramsay Bolton made it impossible for her to trust men as she did before. She will never take another man to bed and if she did, it would not be me, nor do I wish it to be. I wish to ensure her safety and happiness for however long she has left in this world. I have completely dedicated myself to that goal in protecting someone other than myself, which is more than I can say for you, so as you yourself said to Ser Jorah, let us not pass judgment until you have confessed to your own sins."
Bronn took a swig from his wine pouch (something he had had to pinch from the maester's stores, as someone had ordered all wine to be placed under lock and key) and then belched loudly. "You certainly do know how to take the fun right out've a conversation, Baelish. You take yourself too seriously and wouldn't recognize a joke if it came up an' bit you in the arse."
"Have you not discovered by now that you are the only one who seems to be a joking man here?" asked Dondarrion. "It's difficult to find humor in these bleak times, my friend."
"It'd be easier if you lot weren't so desperate t'die. Which brings me back to you," Bronn lifted his skin in a toast to Clegane. "I'm tellin' you t'go for it because she actually wants you an' the gods know she deserves something she wants before she dies."
"Why d'you care what she wants?" asked Clegane.
"I was her husband's shield for a time. I protected her, grew t'like her a bit, but I've come t'like her a lot more since then. She's a good woman, and after what Joffrey did to her, from what I hear tell've what Ramsay Bolton did to her and what Baelish here says Ramsay did t'her, the poor thing's earned a good fuck at the least."
"You don't strike me as the sort of man who cares how the world has wronged other people," said Mormont. "Lord Tyrion told me about you and none of your deeds have led me to believe that you care in the slightest what happens to Lady Sansa."
"Lucky for me, I know a mite more about what I care about than you do, Mormont. And what I do care about might surprise you."
"I don't find myself surprised very often."
"That's because you're a humorless, boring old codger."
Mormont did not deny the claim, but he did not look pleased about relenting, either. He brought out one of his dragonglass daggers and ran the material between his fingers as the campfires around them began to grow silent as the men found sleep one by one. Littlefinger likewise took out individual arrows and sorted them into no particular order in his quiver partly to have something to do and partly to try and fool them all into thinking he actually knew what he was doing.
"Doesn't matter what order they're in," Bronn told the lord. "They're all just as easy or as hard t'pull out and if y'can't draw one fast enough, you'll die."
"Yes, that seems inevitable, but I will not die a coward." The comment was directed at Clegane more than Bronn. "I refuse to die without a weapon in my hands."
"Doesn't matter if y'die with a weapon in your hands if you're rubbish with it," said Bronn in disagreement. "I could pick up a spear an' die an' it wouldn't mean a damn thing because I don't know how t'use it. Havin' a weapon in your hands makes you a warrior as much as standin' in a sept makes you a septon."
"I didn't say I wanted to die a warrior, only that I would not die a coward."
"Warriors can be cowards. All men have some cowardice in 'em an' if you aim t'die as the best've 'em all, you're in for some painful disappointment."
"Valar morghulis." said Dondarrion.
"Aye, all men must die," said Bronn.
"And none are so irritating as you," muttered Mormont.
"You never met me brother."
Here, Bronn was done verbally sparring for the night and so he draped his cloak over himself and curled up before the fire, but sleep did not come as easily as he would have liked. Whether or not he had shown it to his companions, they had given him much to think about and that, coupled with what the crippled Stark boy had shown him of the Night King, made him sincerely doubt his survival capabilities for the first time in a good long while.
They all joked about death, as secretly terrified men did. There were those who talked of nothing but death and how much they feared to die; there were those who talked of how they would outlast death to the bitter end; and there were those who would meet death and see how the dice rolled. Bronn's companions were of a mixed sort and the only one who appeared to be truly afraid was Littlefinger, for Bronn knew his kind well in making empty threats to seem stronger in the presence of fear. What Bronn did not expect, however, was to find an absolutely determined look in the lord's eye that had never once been present in the eye of cowards–and Bronn had known more cowards than he had known brave men. It was difficult to say what sort of end would come for Petyr Baelish and how he would face it but Bronn knew he needed to reevaluate his initial impression of the lord and (if Bronn was still standing at the end of the battle) see how Littlefinger had died.
Assuming, of course, that Cersei didn't have him viciously murdered before the battle, seeing as how he had disobeyed a direct order in volunteering for this mission. He knew from the moment he offered himself up that Cersei would have his head upon his return unless he had a very good reason for going. It was a gamble, but one he was willing to take. Either Cersei bought his lie that he had gone for her benefit to pass on what he had learned to her soldiers and commanders in hopes of preparing them, or she didn't. If she didn't, Bronn hoped that Lady Sansa and the other Northerners would see his value and protect him as one of their own if he proved himself. In fact, he was heavily relying on his good standing with Lady Sansa to be what saved him if Cersei attempted to set the Mountain on him. There were numerous places to hide in Winterfell, but he would have to come out some time and Cersei would be waiting for him when he did.
He couldn't remember the last time he had done something so stupid, but he couldn't live his final days plotting murder because of a spiteful, jealous, hateful, narrow-minded bitch. He'd done enough evil in his life to be downright tired of it by now and so doing the opposite seemed as good of a goal as any. He had not expected that goal to cause as much trouble as it currently had, though. Perhaps this was why he asked few questions in his line of work, just did the job, took the gold, and pretended as if he had seen nothing. There was far less danger in having no conscience.
One by one he heard the others drift off to sleep all apart from whoever was on first watch and when that watch ended, he felt Clegane kick his foot to alert him that it was his turn. Grumbling to himself about lack of sleep and the cold, Bronn turned outward to face the darkness with the fire at his back but it did little to warm him. He tried to keep the image of a lone blue figure out of his head, knowing he would start seeing shapes that were not there if he allowed his imagination to run away with itself.
Presently, the wolf came to lay down beside him, pressing his girth to Bronn's side in an attempt to warm him and Bronn rested his hand in the white fur. He found comfort in the wolf's presence and wondered not for the first time if it truly was as intelligent and perceptive as the dragons. It was certainly more approachable but Bronn had reason to believe that this direwolf knew what was coming, knew how the men felt, and was trying to communicate a sense of peace and calm to them as best it could.
Bronn kept watch for four hours and then awoke Dondarrion for his turn but the wolf remained at Bronn's side through the night, a temporary shield to keep out the neverending cold and darkness.
/ /
Midday brought the sight of Last Hearth into view and one of the Umber soldiers blew a horn to alert the occupants of their arrival. No time was wasted as they rode into the courtyard and Mormont announced for all to hear that the castle was to be emptied in an hour's time. Only essential provisions were to be gathered: weapons, food, and the like. Everyone was to remain in groups and pairs and no one was to wander off alone. Bronn and the others were given sections of the castle to help clear, as many of its inhabitants seemed determined to weigh themselves down with personal effects and heirlooms. More than once Bronn had to bodily drag a weeping old woman away from some tapestry or quilt and nearly came to blows with an older chap who wanted to bring along a cauldron large enough for two men to sit comfortably in.
"You're welcome to put that in the wagon, but that means you're stayin' here," Bronn invited. "There's not room enough for the both've you."
"It's been in my family for–"
"I don't give a fuck if this came from the First Men, it's not goin' in the wagon. Now, getcher arse down to the courtyard or I'll drag you."
Bronn escorted the man and a family of four to the courtyard, hearing young Ned Umber's voice reassuring his subjects that they would return one day for their belongings and that this was only a temporary evacuation. Once again, Bronn pitied the boy and the death that awaited him.
He went back inside to gather more of his assigned people and found them inching their way through the corridors, gazing fondly at every torch bracket and stone as if bidding farewell to a lover.
"If you lot were walkin' any slower you'd be walkin' backwards right into the Night King's army. Shift yourselves or I'll do it for you!" As hardened as these Northerners were, none of them seemed to have ever been told off so abruptly before and went along with much grumbling as Bronn brought up the rear with further threats. "Y'want t'leave this place with all limbs intact or d'you want me to ask nicely? I said move along!"
Three more trips and Bronn finished his sweep of his assigned section, seeing them into the wagons as he and the others converged at the rear of the wagon train.
"That's the last've my lot," he said.
"And mine," said Mormont.
"Is that it, then, Ned?" asked Dondarrion, but the Umber lad was not among them.
The wolf's head suddenly perked up, its ears flattening for a moment and then pointing forward. Its ribs were pressed against Bronn's side and Bronn could feel the beast's growl growing. He took comfort from the wolf though he could not say why but he placed a hand on the wolf's head to acknowledge it.
"What is it, boy?" He chided himself for addressing the wolf as if it were a dog but last night had given him more reason than most to believe that direwolves, like dragons, understood far more than anyone gave them credit for and could sense danger long before humans could. Not once on their journey had the wolf growled or bared his teeth at anything but the way he was staring unblinkingly at the castle now with hackles raised boded ill for anyone left inside.
"Where's the Umber boy?" asked Clegane suddenly. When no one had an answer, he grabbed the nearest soldier and shook him violently enough to snap his collarbone if he had wanted. "Where's your lord?"
"He went back inside to make one final sweep of the castle, m'lord," said the soldier.
"And none've you idiots thought to accompany a boy going back into a castle alone?" Clegane thundered.
High above the central tower, Bronn could see a wall of dense fog descending upon the castle. It moved in a uniform way, unnatural and foreboding. And silent. All sound to the north had suddenly gone mute and the wolf beside him let out a snarl.
"Fuck," Bronn muttered, drawing his dragonglass sword.
"Start heading back," Mormont instructed the solider in charge of the lead wagon. "Do not stop for anything, leave anything behind that you must to keep pressing on, all the way to Winterfell if you can. Leave our horses here and we will catch up with you once we have Lord Umber. Go now."
As the wagons began to pull out of the courtyard single file, Mormont drew his sword as well and Dondarrion lifted his into an offensive position but it wasn't until now that Bronn noted that the man did not have a dragonglass sword. Meaning to ask what exactly he hoped to achieve by stabbing these undead corpses with steel that would do nothing against them, Bronn watched the sword come to life with fire and Clegane stepped wisely out of the way.
"Lord Baelish, stay right behind us at the ready," said Mormont. "Do not leave my side. If we are forced to spread out, Beric and I will take center. Clegane, you have the left. Ser Bronn-"
"The other left, aye."
Nearly pressing in against one another shoulder to shoulder, they entered the castle once again in search of the lord to whom it belonged.
/ / /
JORAH
They had come through this exact corridor to the great hall not even ten minutes ago and yet now, the place was bitingly cold, devoid of life, and silent. There had been much commotion with the castle's occupants hollering at one another to not forget this or to run and fetch that but the castle might as well have stood empty for centuries for all the warmth and welcome it was not exuding. Every footstep ought to have echoed deeper and deeper into the very walls of the castle and yet they heard nothing as if a cloud had descended upon them, swallowing all sound.
Jorah knew this silence well and the memory of it caused him to lift his sword higher in anticipation of an attack. The dead did not come quietly if they knew they were closing in on an unsuspecting party but if they were simply moving forward as a mass without haste, they could almost pass unnoticed. If they had reached the castle and were now combing the rooms one by one, it would not do to call out for little Ned Umber.
Damn that boy, thought Jorah darkly. What purpose could he have had to run back into the castle alone when Jorah had made it exceptionally clear that no one was to go anywhere alone? As a child, he still had a child's ignorance and penchant for finding trouble at the least opportune moment and Jorah absolutely faulted him for that now.
"You blockhead, point your arrow at the ground until you have something to shoot at," rasped Clegane as he looked back over his shoulder to see Lord Baelish with his arrow nocked and drawn. "And loosen that tension. If you shoot me in the back because of an itchy arrow finger, I'll shove one've those arrows so far up your arse I'll be able to see it coming up your throat."
Baelish pointed his arrow to the floor and stepped in closer to Jorah so that Jorah felt the former's breath on the back of his neck. Then Baelish stepped on Jorah's heel and without breaking stride, Jorah said, "Not that close, Baelish."
With Ghost in the lead, they padded through the castle, searching room by room and wondering if somehow they and Ned had missed each other and the boy was now out in the empty courtyard thinking he had been abandoned. Jorah wanted to send someone to check on that very fact as they entered the great hall again, but absolutely did not want to split up their party at the moment. They moved between the tables, checking under them for Ned and whispering his name as loudly as they dared when there came a loud thud from above.
"Hold," said Clegane, lifting his eyes upward. As one, they raised their weapons as if preparing for an attack from above.
Another thud sounded and another. It was not the product of feet walking about on the wood and straw roof but of repetitive pounding of feet trying to break in. Jorah realized what was about to happen moments before it did but it was Bronn who shouted the warning, "Here they come!"
A body fell through the roof, flailing and snarling. It landed near Clegane who brought his sword down on it before it could regain its feet. Another body fell through the same hole as a second hole opened up above Beric.
Jorah felt splinters land on his head and leaped aside as a third hole led to three wights simultaneously diving through to engage them in battle. Jorah dispatched one with a quick thrust of his sword and then locked blades with the second. The third gained its feet and was promptly tackled by Ghost who ripped off its head, leaving it far less dangerous in its decapitated state.
The shutters above the high table burst open and a wight began to crawl through face first. Lord Baelish pivoted toward the window and took aim. He let loose his arrow and it just barely found its mark in the wight's upper shoulder. Nevertheless, the dragonglass tip felled it on impact and it toppled from the window, breaking the high table in half as it landed. More wights began to pour in and as they jumped down, they were met with the clash of dragonglass as Jorah, Clegane, Beric, Bronn, and Ghost met them head-on.
It was an endless tide and Jorah knew that they would soon tire and be overwhelmed if they didn't make a run for the courtyard now while they could still stand. His heart was heavy with the thought of having to abandon Ned, but they had no time left to spare looking for him.
"Fall back to me!" he hollered, backing up to the archway that would lead to an antichamber with a back exit.
He heard a shriek from behind him and saw Baelish with his sword drawn, battling with a wight to keep it from biting down on his neck. Jorah moved to help but felt a cold, skeletal hand grab him by the shoulder. He stabbed backward with his knife without bothering to look and then seized one of the long tables by the clawed foot legs.
"Baelish, move!" he shouted and Baelish had half a second to react. Dropping his sword, he allowed himself to fall backward and Jorah threw the table bodily at the wight. Baelish took one of his arrows and stabbed the dragonglass tip into the wight's skull but lay where he had fallen, gasping in shock at his near death experience.
Jorah pulled him to his feet and ordered him to pick up his weapons. Baelish had just reacquired his sword when Jorah heard a giant groan from above and shoved Baelish aside as debris rained down on him, knocking the wind from his lungs and trapping him underneath heavy timbers. His sword had fallen from his hand and he could not free his other to reach for his dragonglass dagger. A wight rushed him, bringing a rusted axe up to cleave Jorah's skull in half but Bronn cut its legs out from under it and shoved its remains away to clear the path to Jorah.
"Oi, one've you lift that off've 'im while I pull 'im out!" shouted Bronn as he grasped Jorah's forearm and began to pull. Clegane easily lifted the timber and tossed it aside as if it weighed nothing and Bronn released his hold on Jorah with a scowl. "You might've told me I didn't need t'get involved."
"Here!" called Beric from the archway. "Hurry!"
With Bronn in the lead and Jorah bringing up the rear, the four of them ran to where Beric was waiting.
"Ghost!" roared Clegane as they went, and Jorah saw the wolf gain level with them, his maw bloody.
They passed through the archway and filled the corridor shoulder to shoulder as they began to back toward the antichamber. The wights were congealed at the archway, fighting aimlessly to get through first but once they did, it would be a very tight battle to hold them off.
"Hold here," said Jorah. "Hold this line. Baelish, behind me. Conserve your arrows until you can guarantee a kill shot."
"For how long?" asked Baelish.
"Until I have a better idea," responded Jorah.
Here, surely, they would lose Petyr Baelish. Jorah would look over his shoulder and see that a wight had broken through and felled the lord and so he mentally prepared to only have Clegane, Beric, Bronn, and Ghost to hold back the horde with him. The corridor filled with wights and together, Jorah and the others stabbed, hacked, and sliced away in the limited space, backing up bit by bit as they did. The bodies of the fallen wights created a small barrier that their brethren had to climb over, but it was not enough to offer respite. Jorah felt his arms tiring and knew his movements would soon be slow enough to leave an opening for a wight to stab him.
"In here, quick!" shouted a high-pitched voice, that of a boy.
Jorah gave Bronn a hard shove to get him moving first, then ordered Clegane to follow. Beric swiped his sword wide, setting five wights on fire in unison as he turned and ran. As Jorah began to turn, a wight grabbed his arm but a rush of wind beside Jorah's cheek and the sound of an impact told him an arrow had taken out the wight's skull. With Ghost beside him, Jorah ran for the doorway that was being held open by Ned Umber. Jorah had no time to marvel at how the boy had survived up until this point or feel fury and indignation that it had taken this long to find him.
Diving through the doorway just behind Ghost, Jorah felt something heavy fall on his legs and Ned struggled to shut the door with half of a wight's body blocking it. The wight ignored Jorah, rolling onto its side to see Ned just inches away. It sliced through the boy's leg and Ned cried out. Clegane brought his axe down on the wight's neck and bending down, dragged Ned Umber out of the way before slamming himself against the door.
Beric and Bronn also threw their weight against the door and Baelish ran about the room, pushing whatever he could find toward the door to help bar it. Jorah took a moment to process surprise that Baelish was still with them when he had thoroughly expected the lord to be dead in the corridor they had just vacated. He helped to slide a thick wardrobe in front of the door and then took stock of the situation. There was no back exit as he had originally thought; he had miscalculated which of the antichambers had an exit and this one did not, leaving them trapped.
"Where in the hells did you go?" Clegane asked Ned as he dug his heels into the stone floor to gain more traction.
Jorah gave the boy no time to respond as he took Ned by the shoulders and shook him. "How do we get out of here?"
Wincing at the injury in his leg, Ned pointed to the far left window. "We're above the stables. The other two windows are right above the moat."
Beric ran to the suggested window and opened the shutters, sticking his head out into the snow to see how much of a drop there was and if it was survivable. There was doubt to be seen on his face but with a partial shrug and a somewhat indifferent shake of his head, he said, "Not ideal, but it'll have to do."
"Then get going," snarled Clegane as a vein throbbed in his temple with the effort of holding the door.
"I'll go first, then throw the boy out to me," said Beric, and without pause, he jumped straight out of the window. Jorah heard a thud rather than the crash he had expected and he and Bronn ran to the window to see Beric rolling off the stable roof and landing on all fours in the courtyard. He held his ribs as he stood up, swaying slightly.
"He cracked his ribs, for sure. He won't be catchin' that boy." And before Jorah could stop him, Bronn flung himself out the window. He instantly dropped into a roll when his feet hit the stable roof and his momentum carried him straight off to land much more gracefully beside Beric. He waved up to Jorah as a signal to bring Ned up for his turn.
Jorah saw that Clegane and Baelish were now losing ground on holding the door even with the addition of several tables, a collection of chairs, a wardrobe, and a chest piled up in front of it. Ned sat on the floor beside them with Ghost standing guard and Jorah groaned at having completely missed the fact that they had to somehow throw a direwolf out the window.
"Mormont, hold here with me," said Clegane, and Jorah added his weight to the barricade. "You," Clegane rounded on Baelish, "can you run?"
"Yes, but-"
"Then take the boy and run."
"I can't carry him."
"D'you wanna hold the door?" Clegane thundered. "Either hold the fucking door or take the boy, gods damn you! Throw him out the window, go after him, and then run!"
Baelish hesitated with a look at Jorah but went to the boy and told him to hold on as the former draped the boy across his back. The little lord was nearly half of Baelish's body weight, but Baelish managed to secure a hold on him and carried him to the window. He called to Bronn and Beric below, took a few steps back, and then with a running start, hurtled poor little Ned Umber through the open window.
Jorah closed his eyes, praying that the boy would miss the stable roof and that Bronn was a fair catch. He heard a whoop from the courtyard and breathed the smallest sigh of relief but the shudder from the other side of the door meant his relief was short-lived. He watched Baelish sidle out onto the ledging and then drop out of sight and then appealed to Clegane.
"I can go next with Ghost," he offered.
"You can't lift him."
"Then I'll hold the door, provided that you make it quick."
He saw conflict on Clegane's face, reluctance to leave Jorah to make the last stand and fear that something might go horribly wrong. Jorah was unsure what to make of this sudden concern from a man who claimed to care so little about everything, but it endeared him to Clegane enough to give him a reassuring nod.
"I can hold it."
Still looking pained at the decision before him, Clegane spared one last look for Jorah and then let his body weight fall away from the door. He seized the direwolf in his massive arms and fell sideways through the window, leaving Jorah to hold…hold…hold…and let go. He had no time to aim as he scrambled to fit himself through the window frame and let himself fall into open space. He hit something wooden hard on his left shoulder and the slant made him continue rolling. Expecting an even harder surface of stone to be his next landing, he was properly surprised when he felt somewhat of a cushion underneath him and as he sat up, he realized that Baelish had attempted to catch him and was now laying gasping for breath beneath him.
With no time to spare for expressing gratitude or to check if Baelish had injured anything, Jorah hauled him to his feet and the two stumbled toward their horses as the sounds of the wights breaking through the barricade reached them. Jorah only had time to take notice of Ned holding tightly to Bronn on the back of Bronn's saddle and Ghost at the forefront before urging his horse to take off at a gallop.
The horses sensed the dead behind them and put every ounce of strength into outrunning the swarm. Bitter wind bit at them from the front and Jorah leaned low over his horse to try and blink the water from his eyes. He did not want to think of what might happen if they caught up with the wagons with the entire army of the dead on their heels but the wagons only had half an hour's head start at the least.
Chancing a glance back over his shoulder, he saw perhaps a hundred wights charging after them, but where the other thousands were, he had no idea. The sight inspired some hope within him. Only one hundred.
Jorah's hands froze to the reins, his thighs ached from hugging his horse's sides so tightly. Time no longer existed. There was only the cold and his horse's heaving breaths. Some higher power gave the beasts strength beyond that of normal horses for soon, they came upon the Last River which they had passed the night before, only now it was swollen and overflowing. The bridge was gone, leaving it to anyone's guess as to how deeply it ran.
Beric's horse was the first to reach the flooded bank and he pulled up short, asking through expression only what to do. Clegane made the decision for him by plowing his horse straight into the icy waters with Ghost leaping in after them. The current was strong, but the horse's hooves must have touched the river bottom, for its head remained above water as it fought across the way. Ghost was paddling with all his might, but could not fight the current. He gave a panicked yelp and Clegane reached out, grabbing the wolf by his scruff and hauling him along as his horse cleared the deepest part of the river and began to gain ground on the opposite bank.
Deep enough to sweep away anyone or anything that tried to cross on foot, but just shallow enough for a horse. Deep enough to hold off one hundred wights, if only they could get across in time and as Jorah once again looked back to see their pursuers, he saw that they had no time.
"All of you, go now!" he hollered, and drove his horse into the river's icy depths. Instantly, whatever numbness from the cold he had been feeling was overtaken by the biting, searing cold of a river in the dead of winter. He could hear the others' horses struggling on either side of him and saw Ned completely frozen to Bronn's back as the water threatened to suck him away.
Bronn was so focused on leading his horse to safety that he was not aware that the wights had now reached the bank and were hurtling themselves into the water in an attempt to grab any of them. The sellsword already had a fair head start but a wight made a lucky jump and managed to grab a fistful of Ned's cloak. The boy's neck snapped back but he held onto Bronn. The wight drew a rusted dagger from the water and Jorah felt his body reacting before his mind had fully committed to the decision.
Winters were bitter and harsh on Bear Island and only once before did Jorah ever experience the unpleasantness of swimming in winter waters this far north. It had been an accident and his father had fished him out of the river and given him a stern scolding for not minding where he stepped and observing the ice. Jorah never again made the mistake of venturing out onto uneven ice or chancing freezing waters but he had no other choice.
He sprang from his horse's saddle, diving sideways to pull the wight from Ned's cloak. Crashing through the water, he felt the douse of absolute cold as he descended into a world of ice. The wight continued trying to stab Ned Umber but now with the boy out of reach, it turned its attention to Jorah and one hand fumbled at Jorah's throat as the other brought the dagger upward for the kill. Jorah latched onto the wight's forearm to hold back the weapon but even as he did, he felt himself sinking, not drifting away as the wight pressed itself down on him in an attempt to stab him. The strength required to keep the corpse from filling him with puncture holes while also fighting the unbearable temperature of the water all while trying not to panic that he was drowning was a monumental task.
What an incredibly stupid way to die. He had promised his queen that he would return to her, that he had no plans to let death have him. He had made it his life's mission to remain by her side until death took him and yet he was going to become human flotsam forever hovering just above the riverbed. The thought angered him that he had survived so much only to drown here at the Last River.
Burning, furious heat resonated at his core and he found hold of his dragonglass dagger with his free hand, driving it upward into the wight's gut. The corpse ceased movement, its grip on his throat untightening, and as Jorah released his hold on its forearm, the current claimed it and bore it away as Jorah continued sinking. Now with barely any oxygen in his brain and far too much water in his lungs, Jorah tried to right himself, tried to pick out which direction was up so he could kick for the surface, but he had no sense of anything except his imminent death.
An arm hooked around his neck but somehow, his body could sense that it possessed some form of warmth and he allowed it to heave and haul until his head broke the surface of the water and he inhaled a painful, sharp gasp of bitingly cold air. He allowed his savior to paddle to the opposite bank, all while watching the wights continue to dive into the river, only to be swept away. Another pair of hands grabbed him and helped pull him into the shallows and he finally blinked up into the faces of Bronn and Baelish.
"You lived on a fuckin' island and never learned how t'swim?" choked the sellsword who was sopping wet and shivering.
"I can swim perfectly. The wight dragged me right to the bottom and wouldn't let go," said Jorah, though it hardly seemed important to say so. He had just enough sense to know that he needed to bring warmth back to his body and as the last of the wights were washed downriver, he blessed the flood for providing them a few minutes of respite to try and achieve that warmth.
They all began to strip off their sodden layers while the horses regained their breath and Ghost shook water from his fur not ten feet away. The feat which they had just accomplished was practically unheard of. Fate and no small amount of luck had been with them this day, but Jorah did not want to press it any further by risking frostbite or some other cold-driven calamity.
Jorah had a silent battle with his own tunic to try and strip the thing off even as it clung to his body like a lover, reluctant to let go. When he finally managed to pry it off, what had previously been reserved chuckling now dissolved into complete silence and he did not pretend not to know why. Of them all, Baelish had seen some of his scarring and Clegane knew but Beric and Bronn certainly didn't and now that they all could see just how heavily he was scarred across both chest and back, their amusement turned sour.
Clegane was the first to break the silence in the only way he knew how: abruptly. "The fuck did they do to you to stop the spreading?"
"It was the young man who served with Jon Snow and my father at the Wall, Samwell Tarly. He was forbidden to try, but he did all the same and I would experience every moment of agony at his hands again if it would lead to this outcome every time. He had to peel and slice the infected skin off one layer at a time."
"He flayed you," said Baelish.
"There was no other way."
"Well, the rest've you don't stand there gawking at him with your cocks out. All've you keep movin' about or you'll freeze. You too, boy," Clegane snapped at little Ned Umber who was still staring at Jorah's chest.
"The scars," said the boy faintly.
"From an illness you need not worry about, my lord. Attend to yourself and keep warm as we build a fire."
Bronn set about to making the fire as the others continued to wriggle out of what clothing they could spare. "How many would y'say we killed?"
"Perhaps fifty, maybe more," said Beric. "And that doesn't include the lot that just got washed away. They'll join back up once they find their footing again."
"That wasn't even a fraction of 'em, was it?"
"No fraction at all," said Clegane. "Fifty is nothing when their numbers count in the thousands."
"We did remove nearly a hundred from his path. That's a hundred bodies he cannot use against us," said Jorah optimistically.
"Not yet, anyway," said Clegane darkly.
Bronn scowled at Clegane and spat, "I hate you."