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.

12. Chapter 12: Fire and Darkness

JORAH

His queen stood at attention facing the library door when he entered as if she had been expecting, anticipating his return. Her face burst into a relieved smile when she saw him and despite being in the presence of Jon Snow, Tyrion Lannister, Lyanna Mormont, Varys, and Jorah's own companions, she crossed the room almost at a jog and threw her arms around Jorah's shoulders. Her embrace held him firm as if trying to feel any injuries within him and he barely managed to conceal a wince as her fingers grasped at his lopsided shoulder blade.

Her welcoming embrace was as comforting and familiar as ever and in spite of the danger that loomed on their heels, he felt temporary respite that the gods or whatever it was that decided his fate had allowed him to come back to her once again. It was difficult just now to think that perhaps his luck on that front had run out as an uncomfortable feeling in his midsection warned him that he had escaped death three times during his departure for her and luck rarely favored a man in such a way. Men who evaded death as often as Jorah had often had it coming to them in a worse way, more painful and devastating than it would have been if he had died properly the first time.

He could not be bothered with any of those depressing thoughts right now, though.

"Here's your knight, delivered a bit more battered than he left but still whole, Your Grace," announced Bronn, sliding his arm genially across Jorah's shoulders and bringing more pain to his shoulder.

Jorah wasn't certain of when it had been decided that he and the sellsword were comfortable enough around one another to engage in such friendly contact but he tried not to let his displeasure show. He did, after all, owe the man a debt for fishing him out of Last River.

"You have my thanks, Ser Bronn," said Daenerys with an appreciative smile. "What else do you have to report?"

With Bronn and Dondarrion helping to fill in where he missed a detail or two, Littlefinger embellishing where Jorah tried to gloss over, and Clegane offering no assistance at all, Jorah relayed the news of their success to Daenerys and the rest of her advisors.

"And how much time would you say we have until they find their way across or around Last River?" asked Tyrion.

"If the temperature drops much further, it might freeze and allow them passage, otherwise they will have to go much further downstream to find somewhere shallow enough to cross. Going around would put them several weeks behind and so I believe that we have been bought perhaps one week more, give or take a few days," Jorah calculated.

"Those few extra days may be all we need. Every spare moment helps now," said Jon Snow.

"I have a few suggestions to reinforce the countermeasures we already have in place," said Jorah.

"We would hear these suggestions at the war council this evening," said young Lyanna Mormont. "It is with relief and happiness that I welcome you back, cousin." She sounded neither relieved nor happy, though being a Mormont, any expression other than solemnity was often wasted on her.

"I am glad to be back, my lady," said Jorah somewhat awkwardly. He had only spoken a handful of words to his cousin but supposed that was for the better since he hadn't the slightest idea how the girl was taking to him and was in no mood to find out if she thought poorly of him.

"Forgive me, my lady, but I am curious as to what Ser Jorah believes we need to do to further prepare," said Varys. "I need hardly add that his suggestions may not be well received by certain temperamental members of the council. What conclusions have you come to concerning our strategies and battle tactics, ser?"

Jorah appreciated the man's subtle insult of Cersei and how, no matter what news Jorah returned with, she would find something to complain about, some way in which she would whinge about how unfairly she and her people had been treated. Or perhaps Varys was referring to the likely tantrum she was to have after the attack on Euron Greyjoy by Ghost. Word traveled quickly within closed walls, but Varys would likely already know all that occurred in the godswood and was taking precautions against the Lannister monarch.

"Perhaps a few amendments to what is currently in place are in order, but seeing the dead in the confines of a castle has only reaffirmed my belief that even battle-scarred men may flee when they see what is coming for us. I fear that courage may abandon many of them."

"All the more reason for every able-bodied individual to fight and fill in the ranks of those who would allow cowardice to prevail," said Lyanna crisply. "It is still my intention to fight, if your statement was meant to deter me."

As quick-witted and sharp-tongued as her mother ever was, Lyanna also had the misfortune to be proud to a fault, just as Maege Mormont had been. That pride existed predominantly in the Mormont line, though it had appeared to skip a generation where Jorah was concerned. He did not suffer from the epidemic of pride, though that had not exactly endeared him to his family. Lack of pride and honor was what had led him to stooping so low as to sell another human being. He could not allow the last heir of his house to deliberately place herself in harm's way to prove that she was as capable a leader as any middle-aged Northern lord.

"My lady," he began, but Lyanna cut him short.

"I have already been read a list of the many reasons why I am not fit to participate in this battle, ser, and I'll not hear that tedious list again."

"If I may, my lady, I do not wish to speak as a man telling a woman where her place is. I would not presume to tell the head of House Mormont where she ought to be, nor would I say that your age, gender, or experience is any reason to doubt your courage or your abilities. I know that your mother would have allowed the swordmaster to place a weapon in your hands as young as five years of age and that eight years is more than enough time to hone your skills. What I fear and what I would caution you against is being in battle before you are needed."

Quick to the comeback, Lyanna scoffed, "If the battle reaches the courtyard where I will be, would you not say that that is the perfect time to call upon all reserves? Would you not say that my presence would be needed if the dead breach the walls? By then, every man, woman, and child who can hold a weapon will be of great value."

Jon Snow attempted to finish what Jorah could not. "My lady, what I believe Ser Jorah is trying to say is that–"

"What my cousin is trying to say is the same as the many lords who have already thought themselves my superiors, claiming to have my best interests at heart," snapped Lyanna.

"But unlike them, Ser Jorah does have your best interests at heart," Jon reasoned. "He is your family, the last of your family–"

"I don't need you to remind me of that, my lord. I know that is his excuse for fancying himself my protector, but I will not be told what is best for me or for my house by a man who brought shame to both."

On the heels of a small victory in securing the rest of Last Hearth inhabitants, Jorah had not expected praise on his return. In fact, he had not expected anything but to bring any new information to his queen and the council. To be met with criticism and from his cousin, no less, he was blindsided and if he was completely honest with himself, wounded. It should not have disturbed him to hear the words of his crimes when he had admitted it to himself a thousand times, but to hear it from her, from the only family he had left, it stung something terrible. His last living relative disowned him as a Mormont and as a Northerner. He felt all eyes on him as the weight of Lyanna's statement burned and bled through him.

Then, Petyr Baelish spoke in a defensive tone Jorah had not heard him use even in his own defense. "If any great lord or lady has ever lived a life devoid of regrets, sin, and shameful acts that they wish they could take back, let them make their presence known. No disrespect meant, Lady Mormont, but I believe that you are holding a grievance with your cousin because of an ideal that was instilled in you by your mother when you were a child. She saw the shame Ser Jorah had brought to your house in the wake of his departure and she saw it as a slight against her brother, your uncle, Lord Commander Jeor Mormont. As a true sister would, she took it upon herself to honor her brother and taught you that Ser Jorah was unworthy of your house and as a girl heeding her mother's teachings, you took up that discrimination without ever having met Ser Jorah or knowing what sort of man he is."

Jorah said nothing. He did not necessarily want Baelish speaking for him, but now that Lyanna had revealed her true feelings regarding Jorah's place in this world, he felt that nothing he could say would convince her otherwise. If there was one man who stood any chance of changing her mind, it was Baelish–though that was not entirely a comforting thought.

"I do not judge a man I do not know without good reason to, and I saw the effect his betrayal had on my family, staining the name of our house," said Lyanna. "This is a family affair, Lord Baelish, and if you wish to place yourself in it–"

"Begging your pardon, my lady, but you often speak sharply and quickly, silencing those of us who have yet to make our point, and with good reason, but I promise you, you need not do so now. You have learned to speak over those who look down on you because of those things you are: young, unseasoned, a woman, but that does not mean that what others have to say is unimportant. I insert myself into this family affair because as little I know of him, I believe that I know your cousin better than you and am therefore qualified to judge his character."

"And how do you come to that conclusion?"

"Because a man shows you who he is when he has fought beside you. Ser Jorah has made mistakes, as all men have, and he has suffered greatly for it, but in battle he remains stolid and unwavering. He thinks of the safety of others when he has every right to only be concerned for himself. And he displays such admirable attributes off the battlefield as well. He had no reason to defend me, yet he did when my integrity was threatened. He has proven himself to be a good man, a remorseful man, and I would ask that you see that side of him rather than the side you were encouraged to see."

This seemed to be Baelish's way of repaying Jorah for allowing him to accompany the Umber garrison, for saving him at Last Hearth. He had done what he was best known for to come to Jorah's defense when Jorah had done the same for him. It eased Jorah's mind slightly to know that no debt was left unpaid between the two, but he still did not know enough about this man to know if Baelish was done dealing with him or if he had some alternative plan for their supposed friendship.

Lyanna, however, seemed to be thinking along the lines of Lady Sansa in having no trust for Baelish's word, for she appealed to Varys. "You know this man well, Lord Varys?"

With a deep nod, Varys said, "As well as any person can know Petyr Baelish, my lady. I have known him longer than most, if not in depth. But what I do know of him, he has always been a self-serving man who would play brother against brother rather than take one side. It has never been in his character to come to the defense of another man seemingly with no strings attached. That said, I would say that his words are genuine and he has no alternative reason for praising the good deeds of Ser Jorah other than to simply do just that which is a disturbing and cautionary act in an of itself."

"Why would you say such things now, Lord Baelish?" Lyanna questioned. "What do you owe Ser Jorah?"

"Only my life, my lady. I would call him my friend, perhaps the only one I have. He knew who I was but did not pass judgment on me until he had seen me in my barest form in battle."

"You have a reputation for being misleading, Lord Baelish, so you will forgive me if I am hesitant to take you at your word."

"Then take mine," said Clegane from behind Jorah. "You came to my defense when I was on trial for being a member of the Brotherhood, m'lady, and so you must set some stock in my honesty. You said it was a waste of time accusing men of past sins."

"I do not condemn men for their sins, but I do question the circumstances that led them to commit those sins in the first place."

"I'm sure I've done worse than your cousin, m'lady. I know I've done worse. What I say is this: we don't have time to be discussing how noble one man or the next is. Your cousin is here, battle-proven and ready to fight. Whatever he's done in the past, it's no different from what the rest of us have. I'm sure I've done terrible things in my time, but we aren't on trial for what we've done in the past. We're here to fight and shouldn't be questioning those of us who actually showed up. Good men and shit men alike came to fight the dead but the dead won't care which we are when they get here."

Jorah could see Lyanna weighing her options and considering the words of those around her regarding this man she did not know. It was a difficult position for anyone, let alone a child who had been heavily influenced on how to think and who to trust. Ultimately, though, Clegane was right in that time was of the essence and could not be wasted on taking the measure of integrity in a man like Jorah. He had not intended for his report to Daenerys to be turned around, for his honor to be brought into question, but if it was so important to Lyanna, perhaps he should speak his peace now that she had been somewhat subdued by the confessions of Clegane and Baelish.

This was Jorah's opportunity to pledge himself to his house once more, to right what had been wronged when he left his father and family brokenhearted after his betrayal. Ever since Tyrion had informed him of his father's death, he had imagined Jeor Mormont's soul stuck between worlds, unable to pass on knowing that the future of his house hung in the balance. Making peace with Lyanna just might earn his father's soul eternal rest and if nothing else, Jorah could do this much for the father who had still believed in him and loved him despite Jorah's many shortcomings.

"My lady, I make no excuses for my actions, but I would ask that consideration on those matters be set aside for the time being. If I must answer for past crimes, I will once this war is over and if I do not survive it, I will have paid for my sins with my life. For now, I ask that we only continue battle preparation but I promise you that I will atone when the time comes."

"I would hold you to that oath, ser. On your honor as a knight, on your honor as a man who serves his queen, I would hold you to see your oath fulfilled."

"On my honor, my lady," Jorah promised.

"I will hold him to that oath as well, Lady Mormont," said Daenerys. "You can be sure that the name of your house will not be sullied."

Lyanna gave a curt nod, though Jorah could see that she was far from satisfied. "Very well, then. You were saying before that you thought it unwise for me to participate in the battle, Ser Jorah. I would hear your explanation as to why you think so."

"I do not make false claims about concern for your safety, my lady. I do not know you, but honor compels me to do all within my power to ensure your safety and the survival of our house. As a deed to my father who took the black so I could take his place as head of the family, I have to prioritize my blood. You are my family, and as such, you will not be told what to do any more than I will. But you have not seen the dead as I have and you have no idea what it will mean to face them. I do not say you will run and hide because I know you won't, but you will be slaughtered if you stand and fight while their numbers are still too great. At their strongest, they could sweep through a battalion within seconds, no matter the strength or experience of the men. At half that strength, they could do the same in a matter of minutes. If you are within their path, they will cut you down without ever giving you the chance to wield your sword. So you see, you would be wasted in battle if you are near them before we have the chance to reduce their numbers. No one would stand a chance in those conditions and your death would be needless. You say you wish to fight because you can, so save yourself until the opportunity arises where you can fight."

"And that is the great amendment you sought to make to our battle plans?" asked Varys.

"The current measures we have in place to stall the dead long enough for us to pick them off from a distance need to be fortified and doubled. The longer we can hold them at bay, the better chance we have of cutting down their numbers."

"We can show you, as the idea was conceived by those of us who have just returned," said Baelish. "Alert the other council members and we will convene in two hours' time."

/ /

New defenses were in place, existing measures were reinforced, and the council had come to a consensus that they were now as prepared as it was possible to be given their manpower. Jorah had stood in discomfort for the entire meeting, biting back his pain to be the primary voice out of the five of his companions. Baelish did his part to offer suggestions and recount what they had seen at Last Hearth but Clegane, Bronn, and Beric said almost nothing. Jorah could not help but notice that they all seemed to be watching Cersei Lannister and Ser Gregor Clegane as if expecting either of them to suddenly sprout fangs and attack the other council members with a vengeance for what happened to Euron Greyjoy. The kraken himself stood uncharacteristically in the shadows with a heavily bandaged arm, for once refraining from trying to work his way under the skin of all those around him. Coming so close to having an appendage ripped off was certain to humble a man.

To the immense surprise of all, however, Cersei offered no counterarguments, no claim of injustice, no resistance whatsoever. It was unsettling, to say the least, for Cersei did not concede without a fight and when she did, it was because she had something more sinister planned for later. She had a reputation for trying to outsmart her enemies in that fashion but it was a trick she had tried ten times too often. Leaving an air of unease at her lack of rebuttal, Cersei was first to leave the library and the rest trickled out in twos and threes.

Jorah exited with Daenerys and was thinking longingly of the quiet confines of his privately assigned chambers when his queen pulled him aside in the corridor with a tentative hand resting on his arm.

"You aren't upset with me, are you?"

"Not that I am aware of, Your Grace," said Jorah, nonplussed.

"When Lady Lyanna spoke to you earlier–I said nothing because I assumed you would not thank me for fighting your battles for you."

"It was not a battle, but an inner conflict of a girl who should not have to bear the responsibilities and burdens of assuming the role she has. All of our mental defenses are weak at the moment and my young cousin–strong-willed and determined girl that she is–is no different. I suspect I should have remained silent in my concern for her since I believe that this parental sort of affection did not sit well with her. She must miss her mother and my presence is not helping her to maintain a strong outlook."

"All of those things can be forgiven, but she is still wrong in what she said to you," said Daenerys and the pressure on his arm tightened. "I know I am the least qualified person to tell you this, but in my eyes, you have earned your right to be called a Northerner once again. I would guess that your traveling companions as well as many lords of the North would claim you as theirs. But I also know that your cousin's opinion is the one that matters most to you concerning your right to bear the North in your name and your blood so I would remind you that she does not know you so she cannot appreciate your finer attributes as I can, as those who know you can."

"Thank you, khaleesi. I must admit that I did not anticipate an attack on my honor by my own kin, but she is the only one who can truly accuse or absolve me…once the great war has been fought and won. My honor has waited some fifteen years; it can wait a little longer."

He recalled a similar conversation he had had with his queen's brother years ago, though the terms had been hostile then.

"Does honor mean nothing to you?" Viserys had asked him.

"It means everything to me." Jorah had responded. Honor was all he had sought to restore ever since his exile because it was all he had left after his wife had found solace in another man's arms, another man's coin pouch. As a disgraced knight, he had only his name and that was enough to get him killed if he ever hoped to return to Westeros. The want for honor had brought him to Daenerys and honor had made him abandon all other wants to serve her. He had redeemed himself multiple times in her eyes and until they had come to the North, that had been enough for him.

His wants had been so menial and though he still desired the queen, still loved her as he could love no other, he had been at peace knowing that she cared for him even if his love was unrequited. But in the presence of Northmen, he had thought back to the events that set him on this path to achieve the unobtainable. Now, the respect of the North was what he convinced himself he needed most and yet it was the one thing he could not have–yet.

No matter what heroic endeavors he undertook, he would always be the stain upon his family's name. He had hoped that he might earn his father's forgiveness when he and Daenerys sailed to Westeros but now that his father was bones beyond the Wall, Jorah had to instead seek the approval of his cousin, young enough to be his daughter and bull-headed enough to be his aunt. He would have expected nothing less from the last living heir to House Mormont but being reminded of his failures and set aside now when his days could well be numbered was a tonic that was difficult to swallow. Fate had denied him the exact reciprocation of Daenerys's love, surely they could be swayed to grant him this one wish for acceptance before he might spend the rest of eternity meandering around as an undead corpse?

Fate did not care one bit whether his needs and wants were met and he was not the only one who had had to take pause in his endeavors to serve the greater cause of fighting the dead. Jon Snow had had to relinquish the title of King in the North in order for Daenerys to assist him in the fight. Daenerys had had to put aside her siege of Westeros to deal with the army to the north. In retrospect, Jorah's own struggle to be accepted by Lyanna Mormont seemed frivolous.

It should have been enough for him to have earned back his queen's favor, as that was still his greatest want–but it wasn't enough. He could never have called himself a selfish man but now that he wanted after something so unobtainable, he was starting to feel extremely self-centered and did not know how best to deal with these new feelings.

He could see that his response had concerned Daenerys who was looking at him with pity as she so often did. He hated that pity she harbored just for him, that saddened look in her eyes as she gazed upon him, knowing that she could not care for him as he did for her. He did not need her pity; he was content to love her and be near her without having to encounter that look every time. But she was concerned for him still, so he pressed his lips to her hands in an attempt to reassure her but said nothing else concerning Lyanna Mormont.

On his way to his quarters, he had been intercepted by Clegane who had informed him that Cersei had taken up residence in the kennels outside, watching and waiting for something and Jorah suspected that he knew very well why. He accompanied Clegane not as a favor to the man, but because he was one of the few who had noticed Cersei's odd behavior that evening and was in a position to do something about it. However, Cersei did not make an attempt on Lady Stark who was in good hands with Lady Brienne and Ghost for company, but on Bronn who materialized out of nowhere in the courtyard just feet away from where Jorah and Clegane were stationed.

Placing himself in harm's way to protect the sellsword was not one of Jorah's more intelligent decisions, but he had long suspected that Cersei had given Bronn orders to harm someone within the castle and if Bronn was still alive at this point and his intended target was still alive, Cersei was about to remedy both points. Jorah would not bear witness to a man being murdered for refusing to do the deed himself.

As prepared as he was to enter into battle with the Mountain, Jorah was ever so grateful that it did not come to blows since his shoulder was in high protest against any movement whatsoever to the point where he almost sobbed in relief that his knightly duties were not called on for the evening. He made a quick exit after watching Bronn swear himself into Lady Sansa's service (something Jorah believed the man would benefit from if he managed to live through the battle to come), and shut himself in his quarters which had once belonged to the swordmaster of Winterfell.

Removing his armor and tunic took the better part of ten minutes as he moved gingerly from his bed to the cupboard beside it. He stood bare from the waist up, staring over his shoulder at the looking glass which was perched rather precariously on top of the bedside cupboard as if someone had placed it there with haste and without bothering to see if it would hold its position. In the reflection, Jorah spotted Sandor Clegane watching him from the doorway but he had been too preoccupied with the odd placement of his shoulder blade to notice.

"Do you ever bother knocking?" asked Jorah indignantly.

"Not really. Your shoulder blade's in the wrong place, by the way."

"Yes, thank you for your astute observation. I had no idea."

"Bit surlier than usual this evening, aren't we?"

"Surly as ever, just in more pain, as you would be if you had a dislocated bone."

"I can set it for you if you'd like," Clegane offered.

"Have lots of experience in that field, do you?"

"Had to set my own a few times, thanks to my brother," said Clegane, reminding Jorah of his own words to Ser Bronn regarding throttling. "D'you want my help or not?"

"I suppose I do, if you offer it freely."

"How long have you been walking around like this?" asked Clegane.

"I cannot say for certain," said Jorah, laying face-down on his bed with his arm hanging over the edge. "I can only conclude that it happened when I was tackled by the wight at Last River."

"And you didn't say anything?"

"I suppose I didn't notice."

"Y'know, there's a fine line between whinging over injuries and asking for help when your arm's about to fall off," said Clegane as he prodded gently at the dislocated bone.

Indeed, there was a fine line between neglect and ignorance but in truth, Jorah had been too cold and too preoccupied to notice the pain until the night before and had planned to visit the maester upon arrival back in Winterfell but had wanted to have a look at the extent of his injury before calling on the man.

"Breathe in," Clegane instructed as he began to lift Jorah's arm upward parallel to the ground and Jorah inhaled deeply. Every centimeter Clegane raised his arm, the pain increased tenfold to the point where he wondered how he could have gone four and a half days without noticing how misaligned his body was. Then again, he had suffered through having half of his torso covered in greyscale which was a pain unlike any other he had ever experienced, so the small matter of a misplaced bone was relatively painless by comparison–until this moment.

Jorah turned his face down into the fur draped atop his bed, gritting his teeth to keep from crying out.

"And out," said Clegane. On the exhale, he moved the shoulder back into its vacant socket with a satisfying crack and Jorah felt his face instantly relax as the knot between his eyes loosened in relief. Sitting up, Jorah rotated his arm in an experimental circle and though it felt sore as if someone had been smacking the flat of a sword against it all day, the fact that he could move it at all was a blessing. He had seen a man or two lose the affected arm when the dislocation had been too severe and was not looking forward to joining Euron Greyjoy in fighting the dead one-handed.

Before he could speak word of thanks to Clegane, his door flew open, bouncing off the wall as the intruder barged in with an expression of complete indifference to seeing Jorah half naked on his bed.

"Did neither of you learn to bloody knock before bursting into a room that isn't yours?" asked Jorah in exasperation at the sight of Bronn standing there, picking the dirt from beneath his fingernails with his dirk.

"I might've knocked once or twice in me life, but I figured you'd want this sooner rather than later." Bronn held up a small vial of some blue liquid. "Saw you walkin' lopsided like you had some stick riding up your arse, so I went to the maester for some milk've the poppy."

How thoughtful. Alarmingly so. The concern Bronn had shown for Jorah on the road was a tribute to Daenerys's orders but now that they were safely returned, Bronn had no reason to go to the maester on Jorah's behalf, much less speak a kind word to him. Only genuine human goodness could have compelled him to do such a thing and Bronn was one man who Jorah was certain had never experienced a single second of genuine human goodness in his life.

To disguise his lack of grateful response, Jorah said, "Milk of the poppy is white."

"Aye, he didn't have any, so he gave me this instead."

"Load of shit, that is," said Clegane. "That wanker's got plenty milk of the poppy. He sent for the biggest shipment he could from the Citadel. Knew he'd need it for the battle."

"And he wouldn't want to waste it on one man's aches and pains," said Jorah. He took the vial from Bronn and added nonchalantly, "You stole it, didn't you?"

"Not sayin' word one, I'm not."

"As a man newly appointed to the service of Lady Stark, you can't be doing things like this," Jorah reprimanded.

"Ungrateful shit you are, eh? I go to the trouble've nippin' that for you an' my thanks is more've that cheerful, winnin' attitude? Piss off." When Jorah fixed him with a glare that warned him of the seriousness of the situation, Bronn shrugged. "What could they do t'me? Hang me? Give me a stern tellin' off an' rap me knuckles with a switch? As if they haven't got better things t'do."

"Aye, they've nothing better to do," said Clegane. "They're all going mad in here, pickin' fights and finding shit excuses to put men in their place."

An uncomfortable moment of silence passed in which they all remembered but none of them alluded to the earlier conversation in the library. As a man made for inserting himself into awkward situations, Bronn was the one to cheerily point out, "If nothing else, consider that the wolf likes you a hell've a lot more than he does most other people. If the Northmen see direwolves as a true beast of blessing, you're as blessed as they come. Even your little spitfire cousin can't deny that, though I s'pose she'd be more impressed if a bear was the one sharin' your bedroll every night."

There was some truth to be had there, for certain. If sacred beasts such as dragons and direwolves trusted Jorah enough to allow him close but more than that, to seek him out, he had to have some purity in him that would endear him to his own people. Jorah recalled how one winter his father had taken him hunting on the mainland and how a bear had happened upon them on the hunt. It had rushed Jorah but his father had stepped in front of him wielding Longclaw, stood his ground, and stared the animal down for what had seemed like an eternity in the howling wind. Jorah had never felt less like a bear than when he had seen the enormous beast matching gazes with his father but Jeor Mormont had the blood of their house running strong and true through his veins and their sacred animal did not strike him down or even raise a paw to fight. It had not yielded, but backed away with what Jorah could only describe as respect.

Jeor's confrontation had made his already famous name more legendary on Bear Island as the other islanders revered him and Jorah recalled wanting to be acknowledged as just as worthy as his father, worthy enough to come face to face with a bear and have it hold him in such high esteem.

But Jorah had surpassed his father in earning the regard of two animals that were not on his sigil, both of them legendary creatures in their own right. Bears were not uncommon by any means but direwolves belonged in the far North beyond the Wall and dragons had been extinct for the entirety of Jorah's lifetime, now considered more myth than anything. Jorah had proven himself to both and had earned back some of his honor in doing so, for he had commanded many Northmen already during the Umber rescue and found himself an object of envy by those who wished they were in favor of the dragons and their mother.

In his own misguided way, Bronn had managed to bring Jorah some reassurance when everyone else had failed to, which was the very last thing Jorah expected from a man who was a stranger to decent and kind acts.

There suddenly came a loud clatter and then the sound of glass shattering as the looking glass finally fell from its perch and exploded into hundreds of tiny silver and white crystals upon the stone floor.

Jorah had heard fishwives tales of how such a thing meant an extended period of bad luck but could only sigh and begin to sweep up the mess with the corner of the stag rug on the floor to protect his hand from the shards. Luck did not sour much more than it did for a man who had contracted greyscale and since he was most likely going to die in a few days anyway, he doubted luck would have any say unless it determined how long it would take him to die and how painful his passing would be.

/ / /

SANDOR

Sleep came easily to him now that he had a full belly, relative warmth, and peace of mind that at least he was within the same castle as Lady Stark and could entrust her protection to the wolf once again. He had not been in such a pleasant mood since leaving Winterfell, though by no means was that attributed to the conditions on the road to Last Hearth. He had endured worse traveling with the Brotherhood and when he had gone north of the Wall. No, it was the company that had set him on edge and the irksome thought that he now had inadvertently become too involved with Lady Stark to sleep peacefully knowing that her most dangerous living enemy shared her roof.

As a wanderer between parting ways with Arya Stark and finding himself back in Winterfell, he had had no one to worry himself over but night after night since arriving at the Northern stronghold, he found his thoughts plagued with worst case scenarios involving the deaths of both Stark girls and his traveling companions. He would see images of bloodied corpses with faces he recognized as he tried to find sleep and a near empty belly as well as freezing weather had made those terrible thoughts come to him all the more frequent. He knew what he was setting himself up for when Lady Stark sent him on his way with the promise of something more to come and he had taken the accompanying dark thoughts in stride even though it left him in a fouler mood than normal. What he had not taken into consideration was the impact his traveling companions had on him both while awake and asleep.

There was Beric, inserting quick praise to his bleeding Lord of Light when he thought Sandor wasn't listening, as he knew Sandor had a habit of throwing something whenever Beric's god was brought up. Littlefinger, who shamelessly watched Sandor go about his work and who watched him in silence with an expression that was working to divulge any secrets Sandor may be keeping. Bronn, who was an irritating berk at best with his incessant warbling and chipper, if black-humored attitude. And Mormont, who actually said and did nothing to Sandor unless asked.

Sandor knew Mormont had just as much reason as he did to have his thoughts wander elsewhere, for Sandor was not the only one with a woman awaiting his return at Winterfell. As commander of their group, Mormont did not impress his leadership upon them or make any statements that suggested he thought himself superior to them. In fact, Sandor would have placed himself as the unspoken leader to their traveling troupe over Mormont.

The man was a puzzlement, though. He took charge when the situation called for it but was otherwise silent, still, and serene. If Sandor had not heard it from Mormont's own mouth that he had been cured of greyscale, Sandor could have taken the man for a statue on those long nights of waiting out the cold, waiting until the break of dawn. As lonely of a life Sandor had led, at least he had chosen to walk the solitary path, unlike Mormont who looked as if that path had been forced on him, leaving him bitterly alone when not in the company of his queen who loved another as she could never love him.

Mormont was doomed to long for a relationship that could never be and that required a certain measure of strength Sandor knew only few men had. He pitied Mormont for being too good of a man, the sort of good man the gods liked to fuck with for their own entertainment. At his core, Mormont had the heart and mind of a noble man and the world had no place for him. He was too old to be this sort of man when younger men of the same stock like Jon Snow existed. He was just excess, of no consequence to any greater power.

It saddened Sandor to the extent that he could find the capacity to care for another person. Mormont had called him a friend but Sandor wasn't sure he felt the same about the knight just yet. And that frustrated Sandor even further, to feel such sympathy for Mormont for having almost no one in this world while he was deliberately denying the knight his friendship to its fullest extent.

In truth, Sandor was not altogether sure how to go about making friends with anyone. He had formed a bond with Arya Stark out of necessity and taken up with Thoros of Myr and Beric Dondarrion because it was the only favorable option at the time but now, when he was not in dire need of a friend but strangely, confusingly, wanted one, he was at a loss as to how he might convey any of this to Mormont.

When the fireside conversations turned to Lady Stark and Bronn and Littlefinger argued their way through the night, Sandor put all thoughts of friendship aside in favor of wondering how well Brienne of Tarth was serving in her duties to protect the Lady of Winterfell. There was only space enough in Sandor's head to worry about one person at a time and so Mormont would have to wait…

But those ill thoughts returned when Sandor heard Mormont's own flesh and blood renounce him. Mormont had looked broken then, shamed, afraid, lost, and Sandor had not known how to help him. Lyanna Mormont was not a cruel young woman, but she did not know Mormont well enough to pass judgment on him, judgment that could wound him far deeper than anything Sandor could say. Sandor had been properly irked when Littlefinger had found the words to shed some favorable light on Mormont, though he could not say why. And so Sandor had spoken in the best way he knew how: deflection. To hell with it all, but be thankful for the men who had come to fight and die. It was the least he could say and do when Mormont had spoken out for him during his trial.

In fact, Sandor found himself full of surprising reactions and emotions to various encounters within the ten hours it had been since he rode through Winterfell's gate that morning to setting Mormont's arm that evening. He would be the last to admit this aloud to anyone and was even less inclined to admit it to himself but he had grown used to the presence of those who had gone to Last Hearth with him. He could not call it growing fond of them (all seven hells would have to freeze over twice for him to be fond of Littlefinger or of Beric going on about his Lord of Light), but he was at least tolerant of their companionship when they shut up and did little more than exist beside him. They, at least, were still breathing, and breathing company was better than dead company. Sandor was grateful for anything with a working set of lungs after spending a good handful of nights listening to rattling moans from the surrounding dead as he slept on the island in the middle of the frozen lake. He would take anyone in the world as company (apart from Cersei) if it meant never having to hear the dead again. It was only by stroke of luck that the men who he had ridden with were actually somewhat interesting if also irritating.

Bronn was as grating as ever, yet he had proven himself to be more than Sandor originally took him for. Sandor was a man far too used to experiencing life in all its unfairness, but he could not stand to be accused of something he did not do and to see others taking the fall for someone else's shortcomings, it infuriated him. He would take any excuse to confront his brother–or whatever husk of a man was left of him–but he had been more keen on coming to Bronn's rescue if it meant giving Cersei a well-deserved and long overdue earful. She had always been the stupid Lannister and her eldest son had inherited his mother's lack of wits but at such a crucial time for making alliances, she was doing her damndest to still make enemies.

And then there was Mormont, noble, honorable, stout-hearted bastard that he was. He and Sandor had a mutual understanding on the road to let the others do the speaking and to save their words for when it mattered which suited Sandor just fine. He could not say he wished the knight was more talkative, but he did wish the man would speak out in his own defense once in a while. That sort of behavior in always coming to someone else's aid, in choosing to be a good man with a good heart, it would lead him to an early grave if he wasn't careful.

Sandor had enough conflicting thoughts in his overly crowded mind that night that he lay awake for some hours in a fit of discomfort before finally drifting off well past midnight where he hoped to have a dreamless sleep.

No such luck.

He was a child again, imagining himself as the gallant knight atop his steed as he admired his brother's wooden toy of the same making. Gregor had left the toy knight on the floor of his room and Sandor saw no harm in taking it for a few minutes to pretend, to escape the dreary reality that was his life in the wake of his mother's death. He could hear the roar of the tourney crowd as he imagined himself jousting with a faceless opponent. When he won, there would be wooden knights made in his likeness, songs sung of his heroic deeds…

Then Gregor burst into Sandor's room, his eyes blazing as he caught his little brother red handed. Sandor tried to splutter out an apology, insisting that he had not brought any harm to the toy as he held it out for Gregor to take back. Gregor seized him by the scruff of his neck and the back of his breeches, lugging him toward the hearth. Sandor clawed at his brother, trying to rake his fingernails down Gregor's face, but his arms were too short to reach and Gregor was twice as strong as him besides. He felt the heat of the fire, first warm and then quickly, uncomfortably hot. He called out to Gregor to release him, apologizing earnestly for taking the wooden soldier without permission, but his brother was deaf to his cries.

As Sandor looked up into that face, an exact replica of their father's, he saw no remorse. He saw only an animalistic, sadistic joy for what was about to happen.

His face was melting, his body was thrashing, his voice breaking, his throat bleeding, and no one came for him this time. No servants burst into the room to pull Gregor away. No one threw water upon his face to take away the agonizing sting. No one held him to try and stifle his screams. No one would save him and he would burn here for all eternity.

Burning, burning so fiercely, so painfully, so realistically…

His eyes snapped open to see a wall of flame erupt in front of him, catching onto his blanket and his sleeve. All reason abandoned, all thought cast aside, Sandor sat up boltright and screamed. He rolled himself out of his cot and onto the floor where he thrashed about to try and douse the fire that was spreading from his sleeve to the rest of his nightshirt. He knocked into another row of cots and sent the occupants scrambling to avoid him but one or two braved the flames to come to his aid and throw water upon him. Three or four flagons of water and a bucket or two of the stuff later and he was drenched but gratefully alive and no longer alight.

Staggering unsteadily to his feet, he whirled back toward his cot where he saw a man take flight, leaping from bunk to bunk as shouts of, "Catch him, hold him down!" filled the room. The man tried to bound over a set of heads as he jumped from one bunk to the next but a hand reached up and interrupted his flight by grabbing him around the ankle. Sandor saw the man go down some thirty feet away and even as his arm steamed and begged him to relieve the pain, he marched through the throngs of Stark men to confront his attacker.

It was Bronn who had caught the assailant, Bronn who had the man's arms locked behind him and when he saw Sandor coming for him, the man made water where he stood.

"Mercy, m'lord!" the man cried, sinking to his knees so that Bronn had to hold him by the hair.

Sandor locked eyes with the sellsword who was inviting him to do his worst because the latter understood what this man had just done to him. He didn't have to like the sellsword to have a mutual understanding with him and after the business at Last Hearth as well as the earlier confrontation with Cersei, they most certainly could appreciate the other's proclivities.

Gripping the man by the throat, Sandor clenched hard, digging his fingers in as deeply as they would go, deliberately trying to break, crush, and rupture. He felt the man's muscles contracting in protest, felt the workings inside of his neck begin to cave in. It had been so long since he had killed a living being with his own hands, as his last kills had been hanging two men and prior to that, taking an axe to Father Ray's murderers which was over a year ago. The sensation had almost been lost on him in downing wights since then. The feeling of elation that came with ending a man's life was something he was not proud to say he had missed but for men like this who would attack another man in his sleep and try to burn him to death, fuckers like this deserved to die painfully.

The sorry excuse for an assassin tried to scream but Sandor already felt blood beneath his fingers as the man's throat finally burst open and spurted red in all directions. Standing aside to let the corpse fall at his feet, Sandor only realized after that any secrets to his employment that the man might have had had died with him.

Bronn immediately began to sift through the man's personal effects to find some telltale sign of who he had been but Sandor turned away from his kill to find the entire occupancy of the barracks watching the scene unfold. He couldn't stand to be here with so many eyes watching, so many mouths whispering. He had grown used to the pointing and staring, but it had always been years after the fact, never moments after an open attack on him. They had all seen him react and now they would all know how the fire reduced him to a frightened babe. Barking orders to clear a path, Sandor shoved through them all, hardly aware of where he was going until he found himself standing at the base of what the local Northerners called the Broken Tower where he was slightly shielded from the wind but where the snow could still reach him. Ahead of him was the north gate, behind him the guards hall, and beneath him, the crypts.

Dropping to his knees, he scooped up a great fistful of snow and pressed it to the exposed flesh along his arm. His tunic sleeve had been burnt away in places to reveal spotted bits of bright red skin which blistered at the touch. The snow was a luxury he had never had in the south. Local river water was all he had at his disposal to soothe the burns on his face which had been tenfold as extreme and painful as the new marks on his arm. He knelt in the snow, trying to center his thoughts on only the snow and not the pain as he listened to the wind whipping through the rubble remains of the tower high above.

On this moonless night, there was almost no light apart from a torch burning in a brazier just beside the door through which Sandor had come but he could still sense someone standing near him by the sound of their breath. He had come to know that breath well in a few short weeks, for he had fallen asleep listening to it every night, taking comfort in knowing that it was a constant during a time of great change and uncertainty. And the man did not even breathe loudly, but Sandor knew the sound well of a pair of lungs at work.

To his credit, Mormont did not ask him in empty concern if he was alright because any man with a pair of eyes could see Sandor was clearly not fucking alright. The knight did not speak at all, standing sentry against further attack or perhaps standing watch against the night itself. He gave no indication that he even knew Sandor was there as Sandor applied more snow both compacted and melted to his burns.

At this moment, Sandor hated Mormont for seeing him so weak. Men who knew why he fled the fire and saw how he cowered before it were harsh to judge and it was the one thing Sandor had not grown used to with time. He could stand to be laughed at for many things, to be shunned for his face, to be ignored in the hope he would turn a blind eye, but to be judged for a childhood trauma that had grown to a petrifying fear as an adult, he could not stand it.

"Do you know what I fear most?" asked Mormont after a time, eyes turned skyward.

Shivering despite the burning on his arm, Sandor made some unintelligible noise in his throat as an answer. He didn't have the heart or the capacity to tell the knight that he didn't give a damn what the former feared because Mormont would answer the same as all men did: death.

"Some might consider it a childish fear."

"I'm not judging, Mormont, I'm just in pain right now and not in the mood to hear you yammerin' on, so bloody well sod off and preach to someone else," said Sandor through gritted teeth.

"In terms of things that other men would judge me for-I fear the dark."

That was unexpected. As a Northerner, as a man who knew winter well, Sandor figured Mormont would be more accustomed to the dark than most men. Northerners feared tales of old, horrors the rest of the world had forgotten, but darkness? Sandor might have laughed once, but how many times had he been laughed at for his fear? He was not one to mock a man who was openly admitting his weakness, not to counter it, but to offer comfort from admission of it.

"And to this day, I still fear it," Mormont continued. "Even more now that I am home in the North because the night is at its deepest and darkest where winter reigns. I have not seen the stars since I came back here and I absolutely hate it, so it's not entirely for you that I'm still standing here. Perhaps I'm taking more comfort in your presence as I face my fear but I am willing to face it however long I must to be able to help you face yours."

Sandor had faced his fear many times, for the only way to see through the darkness was to ignite a fire. In that sense, he and Mormont both had to confront their own fears every night of their lives. Fire to drown out the dark, darkness to extinguish the fire.

Still, he was unwilling to admit that he needed or wanted any assistance from the knight and responded in the only way he knew how whenever someone offered kindness to him; he rejected it.

"I don't think I'm in a position to want, need, or deserve your help, Mormont."

"That's not my opinion and I do consider myself to be an expert on the subject of what my opinion is, so in my opinion, you are deserving. Every man has a gods-given right for help when he most needs it, especially when staring his fear down in the hopes of overcoming it. And yours is a rational fear. I would consider anyone a foolish man if he did not have a respectful fear of fire. The only living person who has no reason to flee from it is Queen Daenerys, for she cannot burn and I have twice witnessed that miracle, but all miracles aside, you are wise to fear something that kills and have more reason than most to fear and hate it. Your reaction to being burnt is normal. You are normal, not weak for remembering and being cautious because of a terror that was instilled in you as a child. All men fear. Even you, wouldn't you say so Ser Bronn?"

Sandor gave a start, for he hadn't realized the sellsword had followed him out into the northeastern courtyard but sure enough, there he stood with the assailant's blood still on his nightshirt. He had donned his sword belt but otherwise looked similar to Sandor in that he had rolled out of bed with only enough time to stuff his feet into his boots. And unlike every time Sandor had looked at him before, Bronn had no smirk on his face. To the contrary, his brow was knitted together in what Sandor could only identify as concern which confused Sandor to no end. A man with no conscience should not exhibit anything short of contempt.

"Aye," said Bronn in response to Mormont.

"What do you fear most?" asked Mormont plainly and after a moment of thought, Bronn answered, "An unbeatable enemy, I s'pose."

"How do you know there is one?"

"I've faced just about every sort've evil in this world: men, beasts, the elements, my own aging body. I've beat 'em all because I knew they could be beaten. I even faced down a dragon and lived, and I saw for myself that dragons could be beaten. But the fucker leadin' that army our way is what scares me."

"You haven't seen him," said Sandor despite himself. It was not easy for a man of Bronn's background to admit to fearing anything, to admit infirmity of any sort, and Sandor should not chastise him, but Bronn had not seen the Night King as Sandor and Mormont had.

"I have," retorted the sellsword.

"You see him on one of your trips up north've the Wall?" asked Sandor skeptically.

"Saw 'im in a vision. Icy blue an' white with a horned crown on his head. Face made've more ice that looks carved from stone. Angry-lookin' fucker, dressed all in black, a spear made've ice on 'is back. An' cold, empty eyes that sparkle like sapphires but also suck every good feelin' an' happy memory right out've your soul." As he spoke, Bronn's eyes grew distant, worried, and fearful, and it was the look Sandor and Mormont had shared with the others who had been with them on that frozen lake. It was the look of a man who had seen death's face.

"I believe you saw him, but I don't believe you saw him in a vision," said Mormont.

"Wasn't my vision," said Bronn, but he did not elaborate.

Silence passed during which the snow in Sandor's hand had melted and he replaced it with a fresh supply. Just when he was starting to wonder if he was expected to say something following Bronn's admittance of somehow seeing the Night King, Mormont spoke again.

"So here we are, men who fear death, the dark, and fire. Regular, normal fears. No shame in admitting that. It does not make one less of a man in confessing what keeps him awake at night, what makes him shudder at the mere thought of it. I consider no man a coward for expressing that which makes him human. If it is within my capability to help a man confront his fear, I will. No one can survive in this world without help, Clegane."

"It's just a fucking burn and it'll stop burning eventually. I don't need help for that," said Sandor, feeling somewhat exhausted in his endeavors to make Mormont bugger off and wondering if the effort was worth it.

"You aren't kneeling out here in the snow because of the burning, though. You're out here because of the memories the fire brings and you should not face that fear alone."

"Why not? I did the first time."

"Only because you were forced to, or am I wrong? From what little information I have gathered about your past, your mother was already dead when your brother burned you and your father silenced the truth to protect your brother's reputation. You had to face that turmoil alone but not by your own choosing."

"Maybe it's because the gods wanted to punish me for what they knew I'd do," mused Sandor, though he did not entirely believe it. He did believe that the gods had it out for him and wanted to punish him just for the hell of it, not for something he had not yet done. In fact, if they had left him the fuck alone and not allowed Gregor to burn him, he might never have been set on this path. He might have turned out a very different man if the gods had minded their own damned business.

"I don't believe that for one moment and neither do you," Mormont disagreed. "Some men are gifted with everything in life when they deserve nothing while others are given nothing when they deserve the world. I do not believe that you are sinless or that you believe yourself to be, but from what little I know of you, what little I have seen with my own eyes, and from what I feel to be true, you deserve more than you were ever given. You should have been given a guardian when your brother took half your face. You should have been given care and kindness but were rewarded with neglect and hate. It is not my place to apologize for that, but it would be a privilege to try and help you counter some of those painful memories . And this time I want you to know that I truly mean what I said before."

"I know it," muttered Sandor, and it was all he could give. He knew, had known for quite a while, but did not want to accept it because he did not want to accept the responsibility of it. He did not want the heartache that came with having someone to care about and losing them and he knew that making friends when his days were numbered would only make his death and theirs harder to face. Death was easier to cope with when the dead meant nothing to him.

Mormont ought to know that good and well, but the man was either too stubborn or too stupid to pick up on the hint when someone was resolutely telling him no. Sandor had yet to tell him to fuck off but perhaps he should try it now and see to what effect it made Mormont realize how ill-advised it was to go about searching for friends at a time like this.

But Sandor was still humbled and still grateful, even if he could not tell Mormont. As infuriatingly stoic and honorable as he was, Mormont meant well, and Sandor had the feeling that the knight had never had a proper friend himself (at least, not one he didn't want to fuck). He was a good man and a far better one than Sandor was. As soon as he had heard of the attack in the barracks, he had come running to find Sandor because he knew that the aftermath would be just as painful for Sandor. He knew that Sandor might reject any attempts to comfort him, but had come to stand vigil over him all the same.

And the sellsword had been the only one to follow him out after watching him burn firsthand. Bronn had seen Sandor react to the fire before in the sands between the Mud Gate and the Blackwater. Bronn had seen Sandor freeze as armed men attempted to cut him down and Bronn had fired a handful of arrows that felled those men who would have killed him. A man like Bronn would have mocked him, used his fear against him, taunted him with it, and yet Bronn had come out into the night and the cold to ensure he was at least not suicidal.

Sandor did not know what to make of any of it. He could only consider that perhaps Bronn felt the need to return the earlier favor of preventing Gregor from doing to him what Sandor had done to his own assailant.

Not in all men, but in most men, there resided some small amount of humanity, some desire to do good. The gods gave Bronn enough of that inane goodness to fill a teaspoon and they might have spilled a gobletfull or two too much when handing out Mormont's portion, but Sandor could not fault either of them for doing what he himself had unknowingly been doing since he saw the army of the dead: trying. In a man's last days, his last moments, he tried to connect to something that would help him cling to life just a few seconds more. Mankind was so terrified by death that he would go against his own nature to isolate himself just to know that another human was nearby and that he was not going to die alone. When the dead arrived, when the long night came for them all, the greatest fear of every living soul, the fear greater than death itself, would be the loneliness that came hand in hand with it.

Sandor, Mormont, the sellsword, and all of Winterfell were trying to make up for a lifetime of missed opportunities, trying to live these last days by taking up tasks that they had procrastinated all of their lives. Ride a dragon, fuck a queen, make a friend, do the impossible because they had fewer days left to live than they had fingers.

"M'lady, what brings you out here at this time've night?" said Bronn abruptly, and Sandor twisted his neck so suddenly that he felt it crick as he saw Lady Stark in a cloak that covered most of her nightgown approaching them from the direction of the Great Keep.

"I was informed of an attack on one of the men in the barracks, an attempted murder, and a brief investigation led me out here," said Lady Stark. "I will have the maester examine the assailant's body in the morning and I suspect Lord Varys will have some news for us on the morrow on who might have employed the man. In the meantime, I will see to Sandor Clegane, sers."

Sandor most definitely did not need to be tended to and cared for like a sick babe, but his arm still stung and even that could not completely deter him from passing up a private audience with the Lady of Winterfell.

"Ser Bronn, go wake Maester Wolkan and tell him that I have need of a burn salve. Bring it to my chambers as quickly as you can. Ser Jorah, rest assured that Sandor will be safe with me."

She was evidently addressing Mormont's look of concern but Sandor did not miss Bronn's obvious attempt to hide a snort with a cough at her claim that Sandor would be safer with her than he would be in a room full of trained soldiers. Mormont left them with a reassuring nod to Sandor and an incline of his head to Lady Stark and Bronn dismissed himself to go to the maester though he did not go without shooting Sandor an all-knowing wink.

Taking his arm to help him to his feet, Lady Stark spoke quietly to him as she gave a small tug in the direction she wanted to lead him. "Sandor, come with me."

"I don't need any special treatment. It's just another fucking burn," he said waspishly as he stalked off in search of the maester's quarters himself since Lady Stark had mentioned that the man kept all wine under lock and key and wine was the only cure Sandor currently wanted to see. If Lady Stark still wanted to speak to him after, she was welcome to but he felt that he could not face anything else this night without liquid courage.

Lady Stark did not give up so easily, grabbing his good hand, digging her heels into the ground, and leaning backward. It was laughable how the entirety of her strength was not even enough to slow him down, let alone stop him. He kept walking until she came around to stand in front of him, pressed her hands against his chest and fixed him with an icy glare he had never seen from her before.

"You stubborn, narrow-minded arse, you will come with me and let me tend to you or I will make you by whatever means necessary. You may say whatever comes to mind and curse me for inconveniencing you, but I'll not hear one word of protest until after I've dealt with you. Come with me, now."

He had half a mind to refuse her, just to see what exactly she planned to do to make him obey but his arm was still smarting and his fear was still at its peak from another possible attack. Curiosity won out in the end and he humored her by offering no more resistance and allowing her to lead him. It made his heartbeat pick up a bit of a prancing pace as he found himself several minutes later in the Lady of Winterfell's chambers and he had to bite back the jest he longed to speak of what others might say to see their unwed proper lady taking a man into her room in the dead of night.

"Sit down there," she said, gesturing at her bed, and a thousand impure thoughts went through Sandor's mind at the offer. He did as he was bid, though, sinking down onto the feather mattress and wondering if this was the same bed she had unwillingly been taken in by Ramsay Bolton. If it was, how could she stand to sleep in the damned thing? Or better yet, how could she stand to sleep in the same room where it had happened to her? As a child, Sandor's father had moved him to the room that would have been his sister's–had she lived past infancy-once Sandor insisted he could no longer stand to sleep in the room where Gregor had attacked him. If he could not endure the thought of being in the same room as his traumatic experiences but Lady Stark could, what did that say about him? About her?

She lit three candles and placed them on her bedside cupboard to cast light on him since he noted that she did not feed the glowing embers in the hearth out of respect for what had recently been done to him. Pulling the remnants of his sleeve away to cast the burns on his arm into better light, she wrinkled her nose slightly at the smell of singed flesh.

Clamping his free hand on the edge of the bed, Sandor knew he must look like a scolded child as he kept his gaze down in the hopes that she would not see the tenting at the front of his trousers. Gods, could he do nothing in her presence without the damned thing stiffening as if to sniff the air in hope?

"It's not so terrible," Lady Stark concluded after examining the extent of the burns. "Not nearly as bad as-" She stopped and bit her lip in embarrassment.

"As my face," Sandor finished. "You can say it. It doesn't scare you anymore."

"Not for a long while." She packed a thick layer of snow that she had gathered from outside into her hand and pressed it to the burn which brought instant relief to his arm. "I pity you the pain. The pain of a burn lasts much longer than any other sort. But the snow will help to dull the worst of it."

"Been in more pain than this."

"I'm sure." She took his hand and made him hold the snow pack as there came a light knock on the door. "It's open," she called, and Bronn entered a moment later with a small jar in hand which he gave to Lady Stark with instructions from the maester on how and how often to apply to Sandor's burns. Sandor hardly paid any heed to what was being said, only returning to the present when he heard the sellsword leave.

Lady Stark screwed open the jar, dipped three fingers into the cream-colored salve, and lightly dabbed it onto the larger burns on his arm. He winced, but the cooling relief the salve brought was worth the second of pain that preceded it as it made contact with his skin. A crease of concentration appeared between Lady Stark's eyes as she tended to each burn individually.

"I do not envy you living in the South in your youth with nothing but sun-warmed well water to put on your burns."

"Our maester had a foul-smelling paste he plastered onto most've my face but the smell made it damn near impossible to sleep," said Sandor. "A month of that fuckery and I wouldn't let him put on anymore and decided I was better off in pain than sleep deprived and in pain. After a while, you just learn to deal with it on your own, however you can."

Suddenly–and he could not have predicted this–she planted a swift but meaningful kiss upon his temple. The skin her lips had touched burned hot, though not with pain or discomfort. He would not have been surprised to see an imprint of her lips on his forehead surrounded by a fiery reddening of his skin if he had cared to glance in a looking glass.

He wanted to grab the front of her robe, pull her down onto his lap and jam his mouth against hers, but if he did, it would lead to one of two outcomes: she would reject him and leave him to lick his wounds alone or she would want more and he would have to fuck her one-handed whilst ignoring the pain from his entire left side. Neither aspect seemed appealing and he hated himself for having to sit there and do nothing when he knew no better opportunity would ever arise. She might or might not have been aware of what her intentions were perceived to be but Sandor could not bring himself to attempt anything with her in this room where she might have been violated for the first time. He did not want her to associate him with the Bolton bastard in any sense.

His lack of response had the undesired effect of showcasing a delicate blush on her cheeks in mortification at what she had done.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"

"Nothing to be sorry for," he grunted. "Though I'll take some more snow, if you've got any."

Grateful for his deflection, Lady Stark offered him another compact and Sandor pressed it to his burn with a growl. "The fucker couldn't have waited until after the battle to do this to me? Ill timing is what it is. Haven't raised a hand to anyone in this castle since I came here. Kept to myself, kept my opinions to myself as much as possible. No one should've seen the need to do this."

Lady Stark shook her head, brow furrowed. "That man didn't have any quarrel with you, but he was paid to hurt you in this way, in a way that would scar you both mentally and physically. Whoever hired him knew what they were doing."

"You sound like you already know who did this."

"I do, but I can't tell you."

That was the only thing she could have said this night to upset him. Grabbing her wrist, he held on tight enough that she could not break loose, but not hard enough to bruise her or frighten her.

"A man just tried to burn me alive as I slept. I think I have the fucking right to know."

Apologetically, sympathetically, she countered his hardened stare and shook her head. "Save for this and the earlier incident in the godswood, there has been peace amongst warring parties and if I were to reveal the name of the culprit to you, it could upset that balance. You would be out for their blood, you would have it, and then you would be executed or hunted and murdered. For your safety and to preserve the peace, I cannot tell you."

"Horseshit, woman. If you don't tell me, this fucker will try again and again until I'm dead and I don't intend on dying before the great battle. I would rather be stabbed a hundred times over by a thousand wights than die from fire, but I'll die burning if this cunt isn't dealt with in my way by me."

"They won't be able to harm you again, I promise. In the morning, I will confront them, punish them how I see fit, and the matter will be settled."

"And you don't think they might try again to kill me tonight?"

"I do think that, which is why you will not be returning to the barracks tonight. You will sleep here, in the safety of my room. If you are uncomfortable sharing the bed, I will offer you furs and blankets to sleep on the floor."

He was a fool for thinking she had ulterior motives or for entertaining thoughts of those motives in his head, but at the moment, he still wanted to exact his revenge on the son of a whore who had ordered the attack on him and nothing, not even the promise of sleeping in the same room as the Lady of Winterfell could distract him.

Seeing the expression on his face, Lady Stark sighed. "You are not so easily distracted, I know, but I will bargain with you. If you allow me to handle this in my own way, if you stay here tonight and do nothing, I will tell you who I believe is responsible after I have dealt with them. Agreed?"

"I don't see that I get anything out've that deal, girl."

"You will have safety as you sleep and peace of mind knowing that the person who ordered the attack on you will never be able to do so again. You are only missing out on killing that person yourself and seeing as how you have already made a display of dealing with the actual man who attacked you, I think your needs have been satisfied. Do you accept my terms?"

Countering quickly since she did have a valid point, Sandor said, "If I sleep here tonight, there'll be at least three maids carrying the news of their lady's nighttime escapades in the morning and you can bet your arse that that is news Lord Varys will spread to every corner of the castle. Your people are starved for a bit of gossip and that sort of information could tarnish your reputation. Your people will think their lady is a–"

"Let them think whatever they want about the matter," said Lady Stark smartly. "I have no reputation to uphold concerning who I do or do not take to bed. The Northmen only care for the political decisions I make concerning our welfare and survival, not who sleeps in my bedchamber or what happens behind closed doors. And in any case, if we all are going to die in a matter of days, what harm will it do?"

"And if we don't die?" he countered.

"You are the one wandering around sulking about how we all should accept our fate and die."

"But if we don't…" he said again.

"Then those who would judge me will most likely be dead. If it's pride that prevents you from seeing the logic and reason in staying here for tonight, you had best learn to be humbled in the next few hours because I will not have you return to the barracks when there is a known conspirator at large."

She gathered half of her bed dressings and lay them down on the bearskin rug for him. "Sleep, Sandor. At least here, you will have fair warning if anyone tries to kill you. The only ways in are through the door, the window, and the chimney, and even a skilled assassin would have to make a considerable amount of noise to get through any of the three."

"If an assassin wants into this room, they'll know how to do it quietly," said Sandor doubtfully.

"That was what Arya thought as well, but being an assassin herself, she has laid several traps that would buy me time to run or grab a weapon and all of them let off a decent amount of noise. Trust me when I say this is the safest place in the castle. Now, go to sleep."

She cast off her cloak, revealing her plain white nightgown. He had not seen so much exposed skin from her since her days in King's Landing and he did not thank his cock for its reaction to seeing her now. How was he supposed to sleep in the same room as her after their exchange? He would have to wrestle with his thoughts and his growing erection for what remained of the night and it was too much to hope for that she wouldn't hear him tending to the matter just feet away from her.

Sandor knelt in the furs and then lay down on his side, facing the lady's bed where she was bringing her coverlets up to her chest but not before he spotted several jagged scars along her forearms that stood out milky-white on her sun-deprived skin. Most of them looked to be made from fingernails but one or two might have been self-inflicted and the thought that she had been so hopeless and lost as to want to take her own life to avoid any further pain from the Bolton bastard made Sandor's feelings of lust dissolve into barely concealable rage. What he wouldn't give to have gotten his hands on the fucker while the bastard was still alive…

Lady Stark caught him looking, but far from being ashamed, he was glad that she could now see that he did not look for his own sake, but for hers.

"I would've killed 'im for it," Sandor told her in no uncertain terms. "That, and worse. However painful his end was, however painful you made it for him, I would've made it worse."

"I know." He did not miss the gratuity in her voice. "Goodnight, Sandor."

There was nothing to protect her from that which he could fight on his own. There was nothing that could come for him that he would not hear. And yet, he stayed awake for some time after he heard the gentle breathing that informed him that she had found sleep. Guilt struck him through the chest that he had not been there for her when she had most needed him. She had absolved him of his absence even though he could have done nothing to prevent harm from coming to her but of all men alive, he alone had now seen what had been done to her because he alone cared for her in a way no other man did. He alone also had her return the favor, though she would not admit to that anymore than he would.

His little bird had had her wings clipped and though she now could fly once again, she would never be able to reach the heights she might have if no damage had ever been done to her. She would always keep low to the ground, within sight of safety after losing trust in open skies…

/ /

He awoke with a start some hours later as he heard a quick creak from her bed which did nothing to tame his morning arousal, for he knew she had been watching him after waking before him. For how long she lay there, he had no idea nor did he care, but she had sat up quickly now to avoid being caught in the act.

"You're quiet in your sleep," she told him by way of greeting. "I expected you to thrash around and snore something terrible, but I forgot you were even here, you slept so soundly."

"Men sleep soundly when they've nothing to keep them up at night and nothing to worry about," said Sandor, stretching his cramped legs and rubbing his sore backside. "But my limbs won't thank you for making me sleep on the floor when I might have had my own bed."

"Next time, you are welcome to a bed like I originally offered," she said clippingly.

"Next time?" Sandor repeated, though she tactlessly pretended like she had not heard his last remark as she went to stand behind her private screen to change into proper garb for the day. Now, surely, she had to be playing with him in a way he did not appreciate at all, tempting him and testing him to see how he would react to having her naked in the same room as him and only separated by a thin opaque sheet. But he would not play this game with her and remained where he was, eyes searching the room for a clue as to where she might have hidden a wineskin for her own personal use. Nothing quite stirred him into wakefulness like a swig of wine in the morning.

Promptly, there came a rap upon the door and Lady Stark called for the knocker to enter as she stepped out fully clothed from behind the screen. A visitor Sandor had not expected to see was Lord Varys, though now that the Spider was here, it was just as well that they let him see the truth for what it was instead of spreading the rumor that Lady Stark had taken the Hound to bed.

"Apologies for the earliness of the hour, my lady," said Varys with a bow to Lady Stark. He looked down upon Sandor who still had not left his spot on the floor and remarked, "Well, it doesn't look quite as comfortable as a barrack cot down there, though I imagine it is considerably warmer."

"Don't look at me like that," Sandor snapped.

"Like what? If you mistook my expression for disapproval over something that hasn't even happened, forgive me, Clegane. You see, this is just my face and I am afraid it tends to upset people when they conclude that I have gleaned the wrong impression."

"And what do you believe is the right impression, my lord?" asked Lady Stark.

"From what I have gathered from the men in the barracks, Ser Jorah, and Ser Bronn, you brought our friend here to your chambers to protect him from further attack, my lady. That, and nothing more, though I need hardly add that that little rumor will help to spread itself without any of my assistance. And to that effect, it is the attack on Sandor Clegane that brings me to you this morning. I have already been at work looking into the matter and I have discovered that the attacker was a newcomer to the North. He marched with the queen's escort from White Harbor and before that, he had come from the Reach. Those who recognized him knew him only as Rugan. As to who his employer was, I do not yet know."

Sandor waited to see if Lady Stark would offer Varys any lead on that front but she said nothing regarding it. Instead, she said, "Then he had no loyalties to the North or its people. A man seeking coin enough to charter a ship to sail him back the way he came when he realized what was coming."

"That is likely, my lady, though we cannot say for sure because sadly, though they now apparently can walk again, dead men still do not talk."

"They don't get the chance to light some poor sod on fire in his sleep, either," reasoned Sandor.

"Yes, I can see that you are in quite an agreeable mood this morning, but do try to remember that murdering people is now frowned upon, regardless of the crime of the offender."

"If you held a trial for every man who's committed a crime since coming to Winterfell, you'd be in session while the dead are knocking down the door. A man tried t'burn me alive and I killed 'im. That's my justice and I think those who're in a position of power wouldn't begrudge me my own justice."

"I don't presume to understand your reasoning for doing any of the things you do, Clegane, but I do find that it would serve both of us well if I informed you that you cannot just go about ripping out men's throats because you feel wronged, however tempting the inclination may be. A dead man cannot give us answers or condemn those who hired him."

Sandor finally stood up and Varys's eyes flickered to the fresh burns along his arm. "Aye, a dead man can't do those things, but the person who hired him will have gotten a look at him now and see how he ended up, so what makes you think they'll be keen to try again now that I'll be expecting them?"

"A very fine point you make, my friend. But do bear in mind that you are not the largest man in this castle so do not press your luck." With another deep bow and a promise to continue searching, Varys left them.

"Hell's he mean 'you're not the largest man'?" asked Sandor.

"He means that your brother far outweighs you and that if the person who wants you dead is Cersei and she sees that she cannot reach you by stealth, she will send her strength instead," said Lady Stark.

"Is it Cersei?" he asked quickly to catch her off guard, but she had not lowered her defenses enough to answer. "If it was, she'd give herself away in sending my brother after me."

"Not if she sent him after you during the battle."

"You heard her at the council; she'll want Gregor with her, not picking his way through thousands of corpses to find me. Even she isn't that stupid. She's still a dunce if I ever saw one, though: keeping a nearly invincible fighter with her in the crypts, trying to kill one of her own men for not killing you, letting the Boltons have you to secure her hold on the North."

Lady Stark turned fully to face him looking confused and somewhat cautious. "Letting the Boltons have me? Sandor, Cersei was drunk on the need to keep me in King's Landing and Joffrey wanted me as his plaything even being wed to Margaery. Neither of them would have let me leave under any circumstances, so how do you assume I came to be in Winterfell while the Boltons held it?"

Somewhat shamed that he had only heard what had been done to her and never had it from her own mouth how she had been shipped home like branded cattle, Sandor muttered, "Was it not the Lannisters who dealt with the Boltons, promised 'em whatever shite they promised 'em in exchange for you?"

Lady Stark shook her head sadly, almost pityingly, and with something akin to–fear. "Sandor, the Lannisters didn't sell me to the Boltons. I was smuggled out of King's Landing unbeknownst to the Lannisters and given to the Boltons by my rescuer."