And The Long Night Takes All

by PaintedElectric

The dead are coming and winter follows in their wake. As Winterfell prepares for battle, Sandor thought not to catch the attention of the Lady of Winterfell when so little time remains. But always, other forces are at work and pieces are moving, regardless of whether or not the pawns are aware that they are players. Multiple character POV. Be aware of ratings.

11. Chapter 11: What Will Come to Pass

BRONN

He was fucked. He had seen the dead firsthand and would rather run right back the way he had come and launch himself into the fray to fight the entire army single-handed rather than face Cersei or rather, what Cersei had in store for him. It had been a slim hope that she would find his information valuable enough to pass on to her other battlefield commanders but he had clung to that hope to fool himself into believing that it would save him. Now, and especially after the attack on Euron Greyjoy by the wolf, she would be in the foulest of moods that the kraken was injured and Sansa Stark was unscathed.

He had done many reckless things in his life but had never taken such a gamble as this. Enough fear festered within him that he was absolutely considering going to Lady Sansa and begging amnesty. He did not want to die by the Mountain's hand; if he had, he would have faced off against the giant fucker on Tyrion's behalf in the trial by combat following Joffrey Baratheon's murder. He did not come all this way and survived what he had to have his head smashed in like an overly ripe melon.

Was morality really worth dying for? Had he just risked everything to avoid killing a girl to whom he owed nothing? Since when in the seven hells had he grown a conscience for the greater good, for the good of anyone but himself? He was renowned for his selfishness but here at the end of the world, he had gambled with his life, and for what?

By saving Sansa Stark from the fate of murder, what had he achieved except his own death sentence?

Fuck me.

It was the only thought on his mind in the hours spent riding back to Winterfell. It was the only thought on his mind as he made his report to Jon Snow and the Dragon Queen, as he ate an entire leg of mutton proceeding the war council, as he listened to Mormont and Littlefinger inform the war council of what had occurred at Last Hearth. And when the council was dismissed, Bronn made the decision to plead for his life in exchange for protection from Cersei. He would go to the Dragon Queen and explain himself and she would grant his request. Unless he was a complete idiot, he could not have mistaken her forgiving nature in how she had accepted his sincere apology for trying to shoot her and her dragon out of the sky. Her dragons had accepted his repentance, so she would as well.

And even if she didn't, Lady Sansa would. She could see that he had been trying to protect her without being forthright and she would grant him clemency. Or he'd die, but he was heavily banking on the Stark's mercy to save him from the Lannister's lunacy.

He was the last one left in the library as the war council trickled out but before he could think of where he might find Lady Sansa to plead his case, he felt an unpleasant prickle running down his nape and ran his hand over it to make the hair lie flat. He had experienced that sensation once before but once was more than enough to ingrain the memory into his very soul because of what had followed.

Whirling around, he saw that being preoccupied with the task ahead of him had blinded him to the boy in the wheeled chair who was tucked into the shadowy corner where two shelves of voluminous books met. Those unblinking brown eyes bore into him once again but he could not even open his mouth to protest what was about to happen to him when the surrounding library faded.

He stood once again upon a field of white, eerily silent and still. Bodies littered the ground and blood ran freely, staining the snow in a color that appeared inky black by firelight. The sword in his hand was not his, but by its perfectly balanced weight, he could tell that this was Valyrian steel. How he had won such a prize was not known to him, but he knew why he had it. In anticipation of the appearance of that icy blue and black demon, Bronn turned on the spot but he only came face to face with emptiness.

Then a hand rested on his shoulder and he made to hack off a head at the shoulders but saw that the man who had grabbed him meant him no harm, for he was bloodied, defenseless, and dying. Petyr Baelish. There were multiple stab wounds in his torso and five symmetrical gashes running from his cheek down to his collar bone where it appeared as if someone had raked their fingernails into his face as deeply as they would go.

"Your sword…" said Littlefinger, and then fell dead at Bronn's feet.

What the fuck.

His first instinct was to turn Littlefinger over and attempt to revive him, shaking the man's still form as his narrow eyes stayed open to stand eternal watch without ever seeing again. A punch to the gut told Bronn that he was experiencing something almost entirely unfamiliar to him: grief. This man he loathed was dead and Bronn felt the pain of loss in his breast, so foreign that he choked on it.

He stood up to back away from the body when another hand, this one much heavier, landed on his shoulder and this time he turned with caution to see Sandor Clegane bleeding from his hip and from a nasty wound over the right side of his face which sealed his eye shut with congealed blood.

"Only you," rasped Clegane, his hand trembling so hard that Bronn's entire body shook, and then Clegane keeled over sideways.

Bronn did not need to check for a pulse on Clegane; he already knew the big man was dead, just as Littlefinger was but Clegane was a beast of a man who would only fall prey to fire and there was not a burn mark on him. This man could not be dead. Somehow, Bronn had made a mental image that only the Mountain could bring down his brother, so to see Clegane broken and beyond help now, Bronn felt his own resolve crumbling. He had counted Clegane among his strongest allies but if he had been cut down so easily, what chance did the rest of them stand?

Bronn's grip on his sword was slippery with sweat, his heart was pounding in his chest, and he could hear ringing in his ears. What was killing these men as if they were nothing? Why were they coming to him, wasting their precious last moments to speak to him in cryptic words?

He took a knee beside Clegane and touched a finger to the exposed skin showing through a rip in the man's sleeve. His body was completely frozen even though he had not been dead ten seconds.

What in the name of all the gods there ever were or ever would be was going on?

Then, a third figure came stumbling out of the darkness, limping heavily on a leg that had been cut down to the bone. One of his ears had been severed and he was spitting up a mixture of vomit and blood. His hand extended toward Bronn, pleading with him, but then he was grabbed from behind, stiffening as a blade made of black steel and ice was pressed to his throat.

Bronn could not see what held him, but knew enough that it was built like a man. It drew blood from Mormont's neck as a clear warning to Bronn: drop the sword.

If Bronn complied, he was leaving himself completely and utterly defenseless against the dead. Littlefinger had spoken of the sword as his last words, so surely the blade must be important? Bronn's grip on the handle was strong, but watching Mormont struggle with his unknown assailant was giving Bronn pause as to what he should do next. He had never been threatened with anyone's life before. He prided himself in caring so little about those around him that he could never be baited into lowering his guard to spare the life of anyone but himself. Why should he falter now? Mormont meant nothing to him.

Then why, said a voice in his head, is he here now? Why did Clegane and Littlefinger come to you before they died?

If he cared so little for them, why did their deaths rattle him so?

A whisper on the wind gave him one last warning: drop your sword.

"Don't," called Mormont as if he could read Bronn's thoughts. "Hold, Bronn."

The use of his name unaccompanied by any title from the knight caught Bronn off guard. Only Tyrion called him by his name because Tyrion was the only friend he had. No one else had that right or privilege.

A face behind Mormont swam into view, a face he had seen before on this very battlefield when he confronted its owner alone. Expressionless but also all-consumingly evil, the Night King seemed to mock him and his decision to keep hold of his sword as he cocked his head slightly to the side and then released Mormont.

A second later, an ice-white javelin tip blossomed from the weak spot in Mormont's breastplate as the Night King ran him through.

Bronn cried out and rushed forward to catch Mormont before he could land on his face in the snow.

Mormont's labored breathing made his entire body shudder. He clung to Bronn with waning strength but was desperately trying to choke up words while he still had time. "The fire. Hold…until the fire."

Bronn tried to ask what Mormont meant but no sound came from his throat. He opened his mouth wide to try and holler but though he could feel himself emitting noise, his ears told him that his cries went unheard. He shook Mormont in desperation, begging him not to join the ranks of the dead. Only now when Bronn finally wanted his company was Mormont abandoning him.

And when he lifted Mormont's face the better to look at him, he screamed into oblivion without ever uttering a sound.

Dead, blue eyes stared back at him from what had moments before been living grey-blue eyes. In unison, hundreds of eyelids opened around him, forming a sea of blue pinpricks. As one, they began to rise until Bronn was surrounded on all sides with nowhere to run. The dead pressed in on him with one giant simultaneous step, and another, and another.

Cold, rotting hands closed around his arms, his legs, his face. He tried to swing his sword but could no longer move as the dead pushed him down, down into the snow, blocking out the starlight above.

The last, the last, they seemed to chant, and as their hands ripped into him and shredded his skin from his bones, he felt himself slamming back into his present body.

He stumbled into the side of the library table still laden with scrolls, battalion markers and paper weights, and struck his hip at the corner. Swearing, eyes watering, he flipped a chair over before remembering that he was not alone and he rounded on the Stark boy. The brother of Lady Sansa he may be, but he had deliberately brought mental distress to Bronn twice now and Bronn was having no more of it. If he had to tip the boy out of his chair and burn the blasted thing to prevent the boy from ever having access to him again, so be it.

Starting forward and positively fuming, Bronn was unprepared for the boy to speak since the last time he had done nothing but stare after planting such a terrible vision in Bronn's mind. "It is what will come to pass if you are not there to prevent it."

"Now, you listen here, boy: whatever the hells you did t'me the first time was somethin' I didn't take kindly to and what you just did t'me now was uncalled for so I'll tell you this once: you go fuck yourself right over the edge of a cliff and leave me the fuck alone."

"If I did that, my sister would be dead and your body would be hanging from the gallows," said the boy. "And the alliance that currently exists between the North and the South would be in shambles and the fate of the world would be doomed."

He did know. He knew what Cersei had ordered Bronn to do, and yet he had said nothing. Bronn had not been detained or executed only because this boy had not spoken a word. Bronn was inclined to call that cheating.

"So it's thanks t'you givin' me visions of a dead king that we're all not dead already? You're tellin' me that the fate've the world rests on me and whether or not I choose t'do what I was told t'do?"

"You already know the consequences of your actions, if you were to go through with them. I am only affirming it, for I saw it happen. I saw both what would happen if you chose to be a Lannister man or a Stark man and every possible outcome in between but I cannot see which outcome you will ultimately choose. I can only see what can be, not what will be. I do not know what will be until it becomes so but I can attempt to influence you to choose what I believe is right."

"Y'don't have to influence me, boy. I know what's right, I just often choose not t'do it."

"But this time is different because you chose the middle ground for the first time. You did not refuse Cersei but neither did you obey her and in doing so, you created a future for yourself. I saw many futures for you and in more than half of them, you chose to run to avoid the responsibility of atoning to Cersei or Sansa. I could tell you that in one of those futures where you fled, there was victory against the dead, but I would be lying. In no future where you decided to do as you always have done do the rest of us survive."

"So I say again, whether or not the rest've you survive depends on what I choose t'do? Are you having a laugh at me? Just who the hells d'you think you are, tellin' me my business?"

"I am the Three-Eyed Raven and I am Brandon Stark, nothing more or less. It is not what I am but what I can do. I can see almost everything, which is a great burden, but I was also granted the gift of becoming an impartial party who will not pass judgment on anyone for their decisions. Whatever you choose to do, it will be your decision and I will not have influenced you." The Stark boy sat up straighter, leaning forward with those large, unblinking brown eyes fixing Bronn with absolute certainty. "But I have shown you everything I can, everything you need to know so that there are no surprises. You know exactly what it is we are facing and exactly what to expect. You have seen the dead army and you have seen the Night King, the last enemy in this world that you have not yet faced."

Yet. It was an incredible thing to think that of all the evil in the world, all the beasts and men and magic that the world had to offer, Bronn had but one opponent he had never encountered. He was a man who had encountered every other scrap of filth that could be thrown at him and now the last one he could possibly face was the most difficult and dangerous. Oddly enough, he was absolutely content with not having to face that enemy.

But this boy had seen things Bronn had done, could do, might do…

"Why'd you show 'im t'me?" Bronn asked Brandon Stark, not wanting to know the answer. "Is it foretold in any've my futures that I'm the one who has to fight 'im?"

"You don't have to do anything. I showed him to you because if you do decide to face him or if you happen across him on the battlefield, should you choose to stay, you will be ready. No one can force you into this decision, and that is what makes all the difference. You have to make the decisions that may or may not lead you to battle with the Night King."

Now for the question that Bronn really did not want an answer to, but he had always been curious to a fault. "D'you see any futures where I don't die if I face 'im?"

Brandon Stark considered him and then (and Bronn hoped he was imagining it) his expression turned to one of sympathy. "If I told you, you would not have the courage to face him if you decide to stay. Consider, though, that I have seen every variation of victory and defeat. Futures where most of us die and win, where all of us die and lose, but the one constant throughout all futures is that someone–and not necessarily the same person every time–is there to confront him. Someone always stands between him and his ultimate goal of our extinction."

"Yeah? Who else have you seen havin' the balls t'match swords with that fucker?"

"My siblings: Jon Snow and Arya Stark. Euron Greyjoy, Jaime Lannister, Jorah Mormont, Sandor Clegane, Brienne of Tarth, many others whose names mean nothing to you but who are no less important, but I cannot say who it will be. It could be any one of those people or any combination thereof but we won't know until it happens."

"That's very fuckin' helpful, that is."

"Ser Bronn, I tell you all of this not as the impartial party in the form of the Three-Eyed Raven, but as Brandon Stark, I would advise you against any decisions that would put you in favor with the woman you currently serve. Serving the Lannisters has led you to this moment, but do not let that sway your decision now. Whatever you decide, make sure it is because you want it to be so."

What would he decide? What could he decide after seeing what he had seen? What did he want after being privy to such hopelessness? He had seen the fate of all mankind…if he allowed that fate to happen. The boy had said as much, that what he saw would become reality if he tucked tail and ran before he could face fate.

He had always felt small and insignificant in the grander scheme of things. A sellsword, a knight, a would-be-lord, a battlefield commander, but still not a great man among greater men. Thousands of years from now, if humans survived, there would be heavy volumes, dusty tomes forgotten in some overly packed library containing the names of Daenerys Targaryen, Jon Snow, and Cersei Lannister. There might be one mention of his name, maybe not even that. No one would remember him. But he had never cared to be remembered after he was gone. He had always lived in the here and now, wanting to be known for the deeds he had done by the people who had seen him do those deeds. The Stark boy was telling him that his fate had already been closed and that his presence in the last battle could make all the difference. He had the luxury of foresight, of knowing what was in store for him, should he choose to stay.

So what did he decide?

"You wonder why you saw the men you saw," said the Stark boy knowingly when Bronn had not given a response. "I did not make you see them. That vision was of your own invention. Your thoughts and emotions fed into your fears and showed you what you most dreaded as if those were your final moments. You fear death, you fear the Night King, and you fear dying unwanted."

"That doesn't explain why I saw those men."

"Yes, it does. They came to you, to speak with you and give you advice, courage with their last breaths and you realized as you watched them die that you had something to lose. Call it what you will, but at its core, it is respect. You earned that from one another during your battle at Last Hearth. Whether or not you intended for it to happen, your loyalty to each others' safety created a bond that only death can sever, and you saw that bond snap in your vision and it frightened you."

"Lemme make meself clear: I don't care whose brother you are, you come crashin' into my mind again unasked an' I'll wheel you an' that chair right into the vanguard so the dead can have you. A wight in a wheeled chair would be one last source've entertainment for us all."

"That," said Brandon Stark, "was not a part of any future I saw."

"Then maybe your powers aren't as strong as you think they are. I'll do it, boy. Stay out've my head."

Then, before the Stark boy could gift him with another vision, Bronn shoved the double library doors open and stalked out as quickly as he could without running. Down one corridor he walked, and up another, through a doorway hidden behind a tapestry, and then he collided mid-stride with Jaime Lannister.

"I've been looking for you," said Ser Jaime, and his tone was reprimanding as if Bronn had done something else to earn scorn from a Lannister besides existing.

"I've been tryin' not to be found by Lannisters for the time being," said Bronn.

Frowning Ser Jaime continued in a harsh whisper, "My sister has sent the Queensguard to find you. She's absolutely furious right now. You left on a suicide mission in the company of her enemies–"

"Thought we all were supposed to be allies?"

"You know this alliance will only last as long as we have a common enemy but I would not put it past her to set her soldiers upon all those who serve Daenerys the moment the battle is ours. She has one goal and you have made it clear that you want no part in helping her to obtain it, which means there is nothing I can do to protect you."

Bronn could never have called Ser Jaime a friend but never before had he actually hated the man for the sort of codswollop that flowed freely from his mouth. Until now. No matter what good and noble deeds the great Lord Commander Jaime Lannister did, he still had the savagery and indifference to the sufferings of others ingrained in him, planted by his father and sister before him. He knew what Cersei had commanded of Bronn but instead of trying to dissuade her or inform the likes of Jon Snow or the Dragon Queen, he had done nothing because it would take him out of good standing with his sister. Still, with their judgment day upon them, he was choosing that mad bitch over everything.

"You could protect me if you had any balls hangin' twixt your legs," said Bronn savagely. "Or did they cut those off too when they took your hand? After everything I've done for you whether or not I was bein' paid, you're gonna stand there an' let her kill me for this? How is it that your brother who's half your size has twice as much bravery than you? He's never been afraid to call your sister out on the bitch she is an' if I'm t'be the first casualty because she wants to stay a spiteful bitch, then fuck you. You're the only one who could possibly get through to her, but you won't. You'd rather she have that giant fucker finish off the people she hates one by one when those people might be all that stand between her and certain death because you an' your golden hand aren't gonna be stopping any Night Kings anytime soon."

The elder Lannister brother's facial muscles strained as they always did when someone insulted his sister but he allowed his anger to ebb away. "Out of respect for all you have done for me, I will not bring you to her and I won't stop you from doing whatever you're about to do. I will tell you now that she has ordered all of her Queensguard to find you and bring you to her and if you had any sense, you would flee. And if you manage to escape, consider our debt settled. You may not have been the most morally sound man and your humor has bitten too deeply at times, but the entire Lannister family is indebted to you, so go with our thanks, and good luck."

There was something to be said for the man who loved the craziest bitch in the Seven Kingdoms and yet who had come to warn Bronn in spite of that love. The way he bade Bronn farewell, however, implied that he thoroughly believed that Bronn would not manage an escape before he was dragged before Cersei. Jaime doubted Bronn's survival and while he did not do anything to tamper with it, neither did he do anything to ensure it.

Bronn hated him, but admired him just enough for this one small, final act.

Would he run, or would he beg for mercy from his host? Even if he did flee, he could be brought back by the dragons and made to confess, then be executed. If he stayed, he could be made to confess and then be executed all the same. He could not win, could not survive. He had come all this way, only to reach the end and meet his match because Cersei Lannister was a controlling, narrow-minded, self-serving, idiotic, vengeful cunt.

Fuck her.

Glancing by chance out the window, he saw the cloaked forms of Lady Sansa and Brienne of Tarth heading toward the godswood with the white wolf trodding along beside them. Now was his chance, perhaps his only chance if Cersei had already sent her best men out to find him. He did not trust himself to navigate the many halls and corridors of Winterfell without running afoul of some Queensguard and so he pushed the window shutters wide open and climbed haphazardly out of the window onto the stable roof. As night was falling, the courtyard was emptying out of busibodies and only those on duty were still lagging about, warming their hands by the pit fires one second more before attending their watch atop the walls.

Bronn spotted the head of fiery red disappearing through the gated archway to the godswood and sitting down on the edge of the compacted hay and wood roof, he jumped down, landing on his knees in the mud and snow. He had not even begun to stand when a shadow fell upon him and he instantly attempted to run but he was caught by his cloak and reeled in like a fish about to be gutted.

He made to scream but a hand clamped down over his mouth and dragged him backward. Twisting and writhing every which way to try and reach his sword, he watched the sky overhead disappear as he was brought under the high arched roof of the kennels. At the far back kennel, he saw by the dying outdoor light that Cersei and Qyburn were waiting for him–or at least waiting to make an example of him.

"A true regret, Your Grace," said Qyburn, sounding as if a particularly horrific experiment of his had gone awry. "There was always potential, but it would seem he is just as human as the rest of them and is therefore susceptible to human error and human loyalty."

"What did you possibly think could be gained from that little excursion to Last Hearth, sellsword?" asked Cersei, and despite being a sellsword at heart, Bronn felt a stab of indignation that she had addressed him thus and not given him his proper title.

The massive hand over Bronn's mouth loosened its hold on him and he was able to hurriedly gasp out, "I wanted t'see the dead meself, fight 'em if I could. I wanted t'be as prepared as I could be an' pass on what I learned to the rest've the soldiers–"

"And the irony of it all is that you shall not live to fight the dead again but rather join them," said Cersei nastily.

Ser Gregor took him by the front of his tunic and lifted him completely off of his feet. Then one hand closed around his throat. It did not squeeze, but it held him aloft as if he weighed nothing, trapping him.

"I told you what the repercussions would be if you stalled any longer in carrying out my orders," said Cersei. "I gave you plenty clear warning and instead you abandoned your queen's commands to go and rescue a couple of Northern traitors. My brothers always told me you were a smart man but I never saw this intelligence they spoke of and I suppose now I never will. Ser Gregor, try not to splatter his blood everywhere. I want it to be several days before anyone finds his body."

Bronn went for the dirk at his belt, knowing it would do no good against a giant that couldn't die but he was going to do his damndest to try. Instant pressure at his windpipe warned him of his impending death and he saw black spots dancing before his eyes. Then, he found himself being ripped from Ser Gregor's grasp and stuffed unceremoniously behind an equally massive form.

With his head still swimming and his vision blurring, he saw Cersei glaring at the shape of the man in front of Bronn. "Do not interfere in that which does not concern you, dog."

A second savior came to stand beside Clegane, blocking the Mountain's way to Bronn, and Cersei looked much more surprised to see Ser Jorah Mormont than she did to see the Hound.

"This is no matter of yours, either."

"To the contrary, Queen Daenerys has vouched for this man and as her sworn shield, I would be remiss in my duties if I did not step in to prevent you from having him murdered," said Mormont with even more loathing in his voice than when he spoke to Bronn.

Clegane chimed in with a voice of forced calmness, "My brother's going about killing people for no fucking reason—again. And we're already short on people to fight the dead as it is and you're having him kill one of our best. I'd say it's my business."

"You have no part or say in how I choose to deal with traitors. This man's life is mine to do with as I please."

"We're all traitors to you but you can't touch any of us. I'd say he's being smart in abandoning a sinking ship. You'll not touch him."

Cersei exchanged a silent glance with the Mountain and the elder of the two Cleganes moved forward with his eyes set on Bronn. Clegane and Mormont both put their hands to their sword pommels, though Bronn saw Mormont wince something terrible as if the movement caused him great pain.

The Mountain drew a quarter inch of steel, waiting for Cersei's command.

"I don't care," snarled Clegane. "I'll cut your fucking head off right here and then who'd protect your queen's pretty little neck? Try it, big brother."

"You would lose," said Cersei with a leer.

"Aye, that I might, but I'll be taking him with me and that would leave you with your one-handed brother and the kraken cunt as your protectors so if I lose, so do you."

"Is this man worth dying for? Is his life worth yours?"

"We could ask you the same thing regarding a certain Lady of Winterfell," said Mormont.

"I know what you want the sellsword to do and I promise you, if anything happens to that girl, the wights will never get to you," Clegane vowed. "It'll be fire and blood—and that's only if I don't get to you first. Feel free to take this as a direct threat. You're a stupid bitch for devoting all your energies toward killing Sansa Stark when there's so much more at stake."

"Is her death worth ruining the strained alliance we have formed against the dead? Is her death worth losing this war, just to bring you satisfaction for a short number of days before you're killed by an undead army?" asked Mormont.

"That is a question unsuited for a man who has never held a position of power. I wouldn't expect someone like you to understand my motives, nor do I need to explain them to you."

Clegane dug his heels into the soft earth like a bull preparing to charge. "You'll never get to her and if you do, nothing can save you from what those dragons will do to you, alliance be damned. That Dragon Queen will strike you down, keep your armies for herself, and claim the throne. You're making it all too easy for her in trying to murder Sansa Stark."

"Why do you protect her, even now? You did when Joffrey was still your charge and you do now that she has numerous others to defend her. What is she to you?" It sounded like a genuine question asked out of genuine puzzlement as if Cersei truly did not know, as if she was truly that ignorant.

"She's more," answered Clegane simply. "More than any of your brood ever was or ever will be. The whole lot've you are the sort I never wanted to be: selfish, stupid, and blind. Except your daughter and youngest boy. They were good, something they inherited from their grandmother or somewhere else but not from their father and definitely not from you. They deserved better than what happened to them, but then again, they deserved better parents. Everything that happened to 'em is your fault, but you won't accept that. You'll blame it all on Sansa Stark because she's the only person you feel you can punish for your mistakes and those'll be the last words from your lips."

The compliment Clegane had paid Cersei regarding her children coupled with Clegane's usual onslaught of insults had stumped her on how to retort and Mormont took the opportunity to get in his say as well.

"I must say, I cannot understand for the life of me why someone with so much hatred for another would devote all of their energies into attempting to have that person killed when the likelihood that that person will die in an approaching battle is monumental. We all know what little chance we stand and yet we all are choosing to stay and try for victory. There will be heavy casualties and one of them very well could be Lady Sansa, especially if she insists on fighting, so why waste time, energy, and resources trying to have her murdered? Surely there must be other, better uses of your time?"

"She was never accused of being one've the smarter Lannisters," said Clegane with that dog-like bite in his words. "You might just try to change that in your last days. Try to do something that will make future generations remember you favorably instead of rememberin' you as the Lannister that had the world at her feet but threw it all away because she was a spiteful and jealous simpleton with the brains the gods gave a pigeon."

"You have gone too far," said Qyburn, speaking for the first time against Bronn's rescue party. "Beware, Sandor Clegane. Beware of what happens to those who stand between a Lannister and her–"

"And you shut your hole," said Clegane. Partially turning to Bronn, he motioned that Bronn should stand up. "Shift yourself."

Bronn was none too keen to turn his back on the Mountain, but he would hear the giant coming if Cersei ordered Ser Gregor to pursue them and that would have to be warning enough. He led the way out, followed closely by Clegane and Mormont who acted as an honor guard until they were well out into the courtyard and within sight of anyone looking down from the windows or walls.

"That's not the end've it, not by a long shot," said Clegane, watching Bronn rub at his throat and sheathe his dirk.

"Did you follow me?" Bronn asked and he was pleased to find that he could still speak, even if the muscles in his neck felt slightly tender as he did so. He had feared that the few seconds he spent being throttled by the Mountain were enough to rupture the inner workings that made his throat produce sound.

"Could be that I did," Clegane answered vaguely.

"Out the window?"

"That was a surprise. I followed Cersei, knew she'd have you brought to her sooner or later."

"Awfully noble of you t'step in there as you did."

"You've earned the right to death in battle, not murder by an undead giant fucker like Gregor."

Bronn appealed to Mormont. "And did you have those same noble intentions?"

"I was persuaded," said Mormont dryly. "Are you upset that I came along?"

"Not particularly." Chewing at the inside of his cheek in anticipation of what was about to come out of his mouth, Bronn struggled to find the words. He was not in the gratitude-giving business. "Clegane, Mormont…y'won't want it, but you have my thanks, an' you can't give that back."

Bronn could see that Mormont was slightly amused and Clegane slightly murderous since the latter hated gratuity, but the big man had to accept that not everyone was going to cower when he bared his teeth. Mormont, on the other hand, was looking at Bronn with a bemused expression as if Bronn were a rather bothersome piece of a puzzle he could not figure out.

You're welcome to venture a guess, knight. I'm not sure've what I am now either.

Then, in a move Bronn had not expected of the knight, Mormont tilted Bronn's head back to get a better view of his throat. The knight's fingertips poked and prodded, but not ungently. Normally, Bronn would have taken the hand of any man who came at his throat, but he knew Mormont meant him no harm just now. When he had finished his inspection, Mormont lowered his hands and took half a step back. "Some mild bruising, but nothing appears to be irreversibly damaged. Though I would place a snow compact on the bruises while you can. You will need your voice in the days to come."

"Have lots of experience determining if a man's been too far throttled, have you?" Bronn jested.

"I have been throttled a time or two," returned Mormont clippingly as if that settled the matter.

Bronn bent over to scoop up a handful of snow, shaped it into a block in his hands, and pressed it to his throat. He shivered as a few melted droplets ran down under his tunic, but otherwise, he felt the snow soothing his abused skin. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tyrion approaching but pretended not to notice him for as long as he could, which was about five seconds.

"You were lucky this time, my friend."

"Aye, that's me. Luckiest fucker alive," said Bronn. He didn't need to ask how Tyrion knew what had just gone on in the back of the kennels. Tyrion had the annoying habit of knowing these sorts of things just by reading one's expression and he had been reading Cersei's all throughout the war council meeting earlier that evening. With a tinge of indignation that Tyrion might have suspected what Cersei was going to do and had not thought to warn him, Bronn prepared a word or two to serve the man a good telling-off when Tyrion spoke the damning words.

"Cersei ordered you to kill Lady Sansa, didn't she?" he said without further preamble.

There was no point in lying now. He had severed ties with Cersei and had no one to whom he could turn except Cersei's enemies. Shrugging, he answered, "She might've."

"Then why is Lady Sansa still alive?"

"Because I don't fuckin' want t'kill her, that's why." The hells sort of a question was that? Surely Tyrion couldn't be upset that Lady Sansa was still alive? He might have everyone else fooled, but Bronn had had several conversations with him discussing Tyrion's unspoken lust for the woman.

"My, my, Ser Bronn, do my ears deceive me or do I hear remorse in your tone?"

"I hate your sister more than I fear her an' I'm not about t'kill that poor girl just because your sister's a grudge-holdin' bitch. I'm not dyin' for either've 'em, either."

"Lady Sansa will be pleased to hear that her life is so valuable to you," said Tyrion knowingly, and he stepped aside.

Sansa Stark stood there, grim-faced, but not angry, which Bronn took for a very good sign that he would at least get to say his piece before she ordered him executed. He also made a mental note to pitch Tyrion off the top of the walls for cornering him into this situation without preparation. This was not how he had hoped to tell Lady Sansa of Cersei's murderous plot. In fact, he had hoped to not have to mention Cersei at all but rather be taken into Lady Sansa's good graces based off of his past resume.

Glancing left and right, he saw that Clegane and Mormont had had a hand in this conspiracy as well and his gratitude for their earlier interference turned sour. They were evil for ousting him like this.

Approaching him with that outwardly calm but inwardly stormy demeanor Bronn had come to expect from the Starks, Lady Sansa spoke. "Cersei gave you the order to end me the very day you arrived in Winterfell. You had a mind to try that evening but instead you offered me advice to arm myself. You contributed to my archery lessons. You distanced yourself from those people who ordered you to do something against your better judgment."

"Aye, I took me orders quietly an' never saw them through, but how d'you know?"

"I know because you had the opportunity to lie just now and you didn't. Knowing that it might cause displeasure on your queen's behalf, you told me the truth. I know because my brother Bran could see the plot to murder me unfold. He told me that you are aware of his abilities, having experienced them firsthand, and so you will know that how I came to know of your orders is true. Bran had his eye on you at every turn and you never so much as lifted a finger against me. You sold Cersei the lie that you were trying to win over me, and you did, but not as you had intended. You have proven yourself loyal to me, to my house, and to something greater than good and evil. You have earned your place as a man welcome in my home and if you would serve me, if you would forsake your dedication to House Lannister, if you would abandon your love of gold, women, and life for someone who meant nothing to you, then you are a man far changed and I gladly accept you."

Behind her, he could see Brienne of Tarth and Lady Sansa's younger sister smiling at him, which he took for a good sign, though he did not breathe a sigh of relief just yet. He had never been forgiven or pardoned so easily as this. There had to be an underlying catch.

"Kneel, Ser Bronn, and I will liberate you from your place in the service of House Lannister."

Bronn came down onto one knee before her, still unsure what she meant by "liberate". He did not see a sword with which she might behead him, though he could most certainly run if she meant to try. He might even get past the thousands of Unsullied just outside the castle walls before they caught him, dragged him back, and had Clegane finish him off.

"Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, I Sansa of the House Stark, Lady of Winterfell and Wardeness of the North, do release you from your service to House Lannister, to the unrightful queen, and to the Seven Kingdoms. Pledge yourself to me, fight for me, and I will offer you the protection of my house for as long as you shall live."

Which might not be very long, Bronn thought. He didn't know what sort of ceremonial protocol was required for a situation like this but knew that he had to say something in recognition of relinquishing his sword from the Lannister grip. He drew it now and set it at Lady Stark's feet.

"My sword is yours, m'lady, now an' always." He paused a moment and then continued somewhat sheepishly, "I, er, I don't rightly know the words…"

"You've said enough. Rise, Ser Bronn, rise as a man of the North."

He felt no different, looked no different, yet as he stood up, the weight of secrecy and deceit fell away from his shoulders. In the service of the Starks, he could do no wrong. He was in good standing with the Dragon Queen and her beasts now. He need only fear Cersei's giant pet and the Mountain was just one man. Cersei could send nothing else to do away with him. No commander, no soldier, no assassin (he had been her only assassin) could touch him now.

Always, there had been fear of being caught thieving, murdering, whoring with the wrong woman but now he served the highest power in the Seven Kingdoms. What a liberating feeling…what a terrifying feeling.

"And now I will ask you something much more personal and I would like you to be honest with me," said Lady Sansa, stepping closer to Bronn so that he had to stare her dead-on in the face. She was close enough that he could count every freckle on her nose, had he cared to. "Besides the fact that you were reluctant to kill me because of your dislike of Cersei, what else stayed your hand? Why would you risk the one thing you love most for a woman you hardly know?"

"If I knew the answer to that, I'd tell you, m'lady, but I'm not certain. I s'pose…I s'pose I'm startin' t'realize I'm not growin' younger an' that I'm tired've the shit that comes with doin' dirty work like the kind Cersei wanted me t'do. My body won't let me continue in that line've work anymore. I've got one last reserve of energy left an' I'm savin' it."

He knew he had not completely satisfied her with his answer but that it had also given her much to think about. If she had been expecting some teary, heartfelt confession of how he had seen the error of his ways, she had been sorely disappointed. In truth, he was well past his prime and had far outlived the median age of men who shared in his line of work. He wanted to be the first to reach an age of quiet retirement and with so many Northern castles now standing empty, he supposed that Lady Sansa might just offer him one in appreciation for his service if the both of them were still breathing after the last battle.

The view would not be as nice as it might have been overlooking the southern seas, the woman promised to him would perhaps not be as easily manipulated as Lollys Stokeworth had been, but the Protector of the Realm would keep to her promise unlike Cersei. A Northern castle for a Northern lord, the name Blackwater and a matching banner adding to the new list of bannermen to House Stark.

"Very well, Ser Bronn. I thank you for your honesty and welcome you gladly into my service."

Bowing at the waist, Bronn watched the hem of her cloak turn and glide away through the freshly scattered snow.

Beaming, Tyrion grasped Bronn's hand as if he were congratulating him on a well-fought victory. "How does it feel to be a free man once again?"

"Feels like I'm about t'fuckin' vomit. Cersei will know I've turned cloak to her within the next hour or I'm a grumpkin–"

"Nonsense. You have the protection of House Stark and with it, House Targaryen, House Mormont, and all those who would fight for the Queen and the North. And if Cersei is one of perhaps five at most who want you dead, she'll have quite the fight on her hands. Her men know you stayed to fight for them against Daenerys on the Gold Road. They know you see yourself as one of them, and they won't raise a hand to you. Trust me when I say that the only man she possibly could have sent after you now only has one working arm."

"Aye, you're now free to worry of nothing but the dead," added Clegane unhelpfully and feeling that it might not be in his best interest to clout the man who had saved his life in the head, Bronn wrapped his cloak more tightly around himself and for once, held his tongue.