JORAH
How did one spend one's final hours, knowing this was likely the last dawn, the last day, the last of everything? The last alliance spent it making final preparations in a collection of weapons being sharpened and placed, orders being relayed, meals being unenthusiastically taken, and prayers being pleaded. All in silence. Any voice, any sound was quickly stamped out, leaving its echo as a ghost that never existed. Wildlings, Dothraki, Unsullied, Stark and Lannister soldiers alike, and common folk had their own ways of coping–or not. At any given point, it was not uncommon to see someone at their post or sitting in the mud, motionless and distant as if they were already dead as they considered what sort of life had led them to this. More often than not, someone else could be seen sprinting off to vomit in one of the many empty barrels situated throughout the castle, but many of them were overflowing with how often they were being used.
And all in silence. All with a note of doom.
Jorah had wanted to spend every last moment he could in the company of his queen, but she had to be seen by her people as being diligent and comforting and did not need him at her side for all of that. He had thought to visit the godswood, but he could think of no prayer that he had not yet said that the gods had not heard in his head that could be better heard in front of a tree, no matter how deeply the roots grew and how long it had stood vigil over the Stark stronghold. He made assurances with Qhono that the Dothraki would be a deciding factor in the initial onslaught of wights. He rode out to where Drogon and Rhaegal were restlessly picking through bones of several sheep to try and take strength and comfort from their presence.
But he was restless. Now that he knew the dead were so close, he wanted them to be here before him. He wanted the wait to be over, for it was the wait that was driving him to the brink of insanity. He had always been considered a patient man, but if this was to be his final wait, it would be the longest and most difficult to endure. Rest was pointless, as his body would not settle. Practicing was even more pointless, for he had spent his entire life waiting for this moment and a few extra hours of honing his skills at his age would only tire him. There was nothing he could learn or teach himself or be taught by anyone else on the field of battle that would do him any service between now and nightfall.
And so he walked. He paced the perimeter walls three times, looking for weak spots in the trenches, but finding none because the Unsullied had done their job well. He walked almost every corridor within the castle and circled every bailey and courtyard until his mind demanded some sort of interaction or stimulation.
Unsurprisingly but also unwelcomingly, he found it in the form of Petyr Baelish putting in the last bit of practice afforded to him. Baelish was not at his archery station, but sparring with an opponent made of straw and wood. If nothing else, Jorah could at least say for the man that he was doing his level best to not die when many–if not all–of the people who had ever known him or known of him would have taken him for a coward who would spend his last moments sobbing and making water in his trousers.
Observing him, Jorah found that Baelish was not nearly as terrible as he had shown himself to be when Jorah had first dueled him by Lady Sansa's command. He had retained some of the knowledge he had learned as a ward of the Tully's and taken diligent note of everything taught to him by Jorah and Bronn, and that was what separated him from the green boys, but he was still no true combatant. His technique left much to be desired and if his opponent had been a sentient being, there were several times that his lack of defense would have enabled a dagger or sword to slip through and deliver a swift kill. Luck just might favor him this night, though, for the wights had no technique of their own. They fought as a horde, as a mass, and not as their true selves had while they yet lived. Any knowledge and skill they had possessed while they were alive and human was lost to them. Their purpose was to kill, but they attempted to do so sloppily and in that regard, Baelish and others like him might just stand a small chance.
Despite himself, Jorah had to offer one small bit of advice as he continued to watch Baelish perform the same misstep over and over again. He came to stand behind Baelish and called out in a voice devoid of emotion, "Shield up after you swing to protect your back. You leave your back undefended every time your sword comes down."
Panting with exertion and seeing how he now stood with his back completely exposed to his enemy as his sword tip pointed into the mud, Baelish made another attempt at the same attack, this time heeding Jorah's advice. He swung overhead and as his sword arm came down, his shield went up to form a barrier between an opponent's sword and his back. Turning back to Jorah for confirmation that he had done as instructed, Baelish only received a look of indifference, for if he was looking for praise, he would find none with Jorah.
"Do it on instinct and without being told," Jorah offered. He then turned his attention from Baelish to the stumbling form of Samwell Tarly making his way toward Jorah grasping a sword that was nearly as long as him in his hands as if it were his firstborn son.
"Ser Jorah," Tarly greeted.
"Is that your family's sword?" asked Jorah, admiring the ornate arrow fletching of the pommel and the plain wooden scabbard. The hilt appeared to be fashioned into a bow and arrow with the arrow tip becoming the sword itself. There was no mistaking that it was of Valyrian steel and Jorah would have been a liar if he had said that it did not look odd and unsuitable in Tarly's hands, but it was not his place to say so.
"Yes, it was my father's sword while he lived. But I stole it while he was still alive because it is the family sword and even as a man of the Night's Watch, I am still a part of that family and I didn't think it would do much good sitting on the mantle where my father usually kept it."
"It's a fine thing, crafted to the Tarly sigil," Jorah complimented.
"Your father, gods rest his soul, gave your family's sword to Jon. He told me you left it behind because you had dishonored your family's name. And Jon told me he tried to give it back to you, but since the Lord Commander had gifted it to Jon, you refused it."
"Aye, I left it, as it was not mine to take when I could no longer honorably contribute to my house. I intended for it to be passed on to the next heir to Bear Island and my house, which was believed to be my aunt Maege's only daughter, Lady Lyanna. She's not a woman yet grown, but she has the courage to take up our house's sword."
"By all rights, the next of kin in line to the head of House Mormont should have Longclaw, which would be Lady Lyanna Mormont and I don't doubt her courage, but I do doubt that she could hold it upright, and she doesn't mind it going to Jon. By all rights, the next of kin who should have Heartsbane here would have been my brother, but he stood with my father and died, and so it should have gone to my sister, but she's far from here and has never held a sword in her life."
Jorah could see the young man trying to muster the courage to say what needed to be said, but as he had a penchant for doing, was rambling, not that Jorah begrudged him that. He could ramble until Jorah's ears fell off and Jorah would not care, for the man had saved his life.
"My point is, Ser Jorah, that your father gave Jon Longclaw because of unfortunate circumstances that led your father to having no available heir and it was thanks to that gift that Jon discovered that Valyrian steel can kill White Walkers. I believe Jon was meant to have that sword, but I also believe you were meant to have one as well. So I would like you to take my family sword, if you would honor me."
Tarly held out the sword to Jorah, but Jorah hesitated. He had always believed that in relinquishing his birthright of the family sword, he was destined to not have one with such a history and such importance. He had forsaken his right to a sword that could make a difference like a Valyrian steel blade could.
"The sword is yours, Samwell. You took it as it was rightfully yours because you knew its use."
"The sword is mine to do with as I wish. I wish I could wield it, but it's too heavy in my hands and makes my arms tire too quickly. I've barely held a sword but to spar with a time or two. I'm no warrior, and the sword would be wasted on me," said Tarly modestly. "I want it to go to someone who knows its importance and can do it justice. I know you will honor my family and yours if you wield it, so please, take it."
Jorah allowed Tarly to place it in his hands, but just as he had the last time they had parted, Jorah took one of the young man's hands in both of his own and squeezed. "I will wield it for you and for my father and for both of our houses."
"Long may they stand," said Tarly with a tremble in his voice.
"Long may they stand," Jorah agreed.
"Then I leave you to it, Ser Jorah. If there is an after, that's when I will see you."
Jorah knew a horrible, gut-wrenching feeling as he watched Tarly walk away, but had to displace it. He could not allow despair to overtake him when he had just been handed the greatest gift any warrior could ever wish for on a night such as this. He could not allow himself to become reckless with thoughts of invincibility just because he had a Valyrian steel sword, but he did have better odds than most who would fight the dead. Between his skills and his sword, he might just last the night.
"That is a truly remarkable gift," observed Baelish, and Jorah gave a small start, for he had quite forgotten that the other man was there. Before he could offer a reply, he heard another voice say, "The hour is near, cousin."
Lady Lyanna had come to say her farewells. She was already dressed for battle in black boiled leather armor and the lightest chainmail she could afford to be fitted in. The sword at her side was not even the length of Jorah's arm and he appreciated Tarly's words that someone who could not properly hold a sword could not do it justice, no matter their right to wield it.
"My lady," Jorah greeted, deferring Baelish.
"I heard what Samwell Tarly told you just now, how Lord Snow's sword should be mine, were I grown enough to hold it properly. If we win this war, I believe I would have earned the right to reclaim Longclaw for House Mormont, as it is rightfully mine. But I also believe that my uncle knew what he was doing in gifting it to Lord Snow when you left it behind and I believe Jon Snow has earned the right to keep it for himself, as I believe you have earned the right to wield the Tarly sword."
Jorah waited, unsure if he had been given leave to speak or if this was Lyanna's way of apologizing for her earlier accusations against him. It seemed too miraculous that a lady as bull-headed as she could be humbled to ask for forgiveness now on the eve of battle. She was much too proud to be offering apologies.
"I do not know you, Ser Jorah, and I may never get the chance to find out, but I do know the sort of man you are, thanks to those who have fought with you and known you longer than I have, even if that is not long at all. I judged you based on the lasting effect your actions had on our house and the manner in which you departed. But I will not have it be said of House Mormont that we do not forgive those you are rightly deserving of forgiveness. You disgraced our house, but you restored your honor in the deeds you have done since then. If we survive, you would be welcomed back to Bear Island if and when you would choose to leave your queen's side. If we survive, you may once again bear our name proudly. If we don't, I hope you die nobly and with peace that you have earned your place amongst our Mormont ancestors."
Jorah bowed as deeply as his back allowed and then gave a grateful nod. "Words cannot describe my gratitude to hear you say such things, my lady. I am honored to have met you and known you for the short amount of time we have had."
"Do you still intend to tell me where I ought to be during the battle?" she asked quickly. It was one final test, and one Jorah intended to pass.
"I will never assume to tell you anything, my lady, only to offer the same advice as I did before in not fighting before you are truly needed, if possible. As our defenses are pushed back, we employ others until we have no other option but to fight tooth and nail. I know that even if a thousand men tried to hold you back, you would find a way through to fight with your men instead of behind them. But you also know not to throw yourself into the fray when there are others who can do what you can, only more efficiently. It is a difficult thing to do, waiting, but it is essential."
"Then let us go and wait for the end. Fight and die well, cousin."
"And you, my lady."
Watching her go, Jorah could have sworn that he saw something or perhaps someone walking alongside her. It might have been her mother, or maybe his own father, or a bear, or a combination of all the Mormonts who had come before her who now relied on her to carry on the name of their house. All these years spent in the company of Daenerys and Jorah had almost forgotten what it had felt like to belong to a family that shared his blood. Lyanna was the last of Jorah's blood and he was absolutely devastated by the fact that he could never express to her how much that meant to him.
She was young enough to be his child with wit and wisdom to match a woman three times her age. House Mormont thrived with her as its head of house and it would be a travesty to lose her before Jorah even had the chance to know her.
"The world will be poorer for losing such a promising young lady," said Baelish, once again bringing Jorah back to the present after bearing witness to such an intimate conversation. "I speak as one trying to be realistic, though I do not wish it to be so."
"Your wishes count for little these days, Baelish," said Jorah bitingly.
"As I have been repeatedly told."
"Was there something else you needed to say to me?"
"I would ask for your honest observation concerning my fate, Ser Jorah. It is not a question of if, but when and how I will die. What do you believe my chances are?"
Jorah considered him and his archery skills as well as his hand-to-hand combat experience and took into account how he fared at the Last Hearth. He was a liability when left to fend for himself, but showed promise if he found himself backed by other fighters. "I believe that if you are left to fight alone and your sword arm is all that stands between you and death, you will die quickly and without putting up much of a fight. But if you can stay alive and manage to keep the dead back in the company of others, you will last longer. You cannot defend yourself on your own, but do not make others die for you."
"I don't believe you need worry about that. No man, woman, or child would care to die for me. Being the most loathed man in Westeros does have its benefits. Rest assured, Ser Jorah, that I will die undefended with no more blood on my hands than what is already there."
"Try not to die a coward. Let your last breath be one gladly given, if you can manage that."
"If I did and you survived and discovered that I had given my life for another, would I earn your forgiveness then?"
It was a genuine enough question, but Jorah did not see how it mattered now. He and Petyr Baelish were not friends, even if Baelish had at one point considered himself to be Jorah's. Perhaps Baelish was a man of so few genuine emotions and experiences that, to earning the forgiveness of a man such as Jorah who he respected was one last obtainable goal for him. He might not die with remorse for what he had done to Lady Sansa and how it had affected her, but if he would die trying to do one last good deed in Jorah's eyes, it might send his soul to rest. But that was not Jorah's responsibility and he could not absolve Baelish of the sins he had committed.
"As I told you before, Baelish, it isn't my forgiveness you need."
"Though yours might be the only procurable forgiveness I can manage."
"You can't and you won't without Lady Sansa's first. Make one last effort to redeem yourself in her eyes and do something for her. For her."
"She would never know if I did since I am condemned to the wall and she will be below."
"You are an intelligent man; you will figure out some way to make your sacrifice known to her. And you have a few more short hours to contemplate it."
It was Jorah's way of casually dismissing Baelish without having to say farewell, as he did not feel that the lord had earned those words from him. It had taken restraint on Jorah's part to not say something more crippling to the man, but after the dressing down he had received from Lady Sansa, the cold shoulder Jorah had already given him, and the broken nose he had earned from Clegane, there was not much else left to give him that might hurt him.
"Fair fortune to you, Ser Jorah."
Fair is indeed the word.
Every hour was bringing colder weather and Jorah had avoided the fire pits long enough to merit a few moments before one now, so he excused himself from Baelish's company and went to the nearest gathering which saw Clegane, Bronn, Tormund, and Beric huddled around it, arguing over nothing as usual. None of them said a word to him as he joined them, for they were all engrossed in a debate between Bronn and Tormund about who had faced a greater quarry: Bronn with the dragon or Tormund with the giant.
"Dragon's twice the size of any giant," Bronn boasted.
As is your pride and ego, thought Jorah darkly.
"And it's still alive just outside these walls," Tormund argued. "My giant is less than ash now after I put him down. And I did it as a lad with only a sword in my hands, not some weapon a skinny man in a dress made."
"Dragon's got a belly full've fire. What's a giant got?"
"Ten fingers and a smarter brain."
Jorah looked between Clegane and Beric who wisely had decided to stay quiet on the subject, but they all knew there was no point in arguing with a wildling and that Bronn was not one to concede, so they were in for a very long afternoon if they stayed listening to the two men compare figurative and literal sword lengths. However, it appeared that Clegane could stand no more of their pointless bickering and snapped, "For fuck's sake, both've you fought large beasts and are still breathing. Take the victory and shut the fuck up about it."
"He has a point," said Beric. "You both are the only men alive who can lay claim to facing the beasts you did, which is an accomplishment in and of itself. There's no need to boast who fought the mightier foe because you're both here about to face an even greater one."
"Already have faced that greater one," Tormund pointed out smugly.
"Forgot the part where I went to Last Hearth and fought the fuckers meself, did you?" asked Bronn.
Tormund's reply was cut short as the wind swept through the northern courtyard and they all subconsciously pressed in tighter together to keep out the cold. Each and every one of them knew what that cold meant and the hair on the back of their necks stiffened as they anticipated the danger that came hand-in-hand with it.
"Not long now," said Tormund forebodingly with his eyes cast skyward at the approaching storm.
"We all should do what we can to keep our insides warm to outlast the night," suggested Beric.
"Good fucking luck on that front. Lady Stark's had anything worth drinking put under lock and key," said Clegane with a frown.
"No lock that can't be unlocked," said Bronn smartly, tapping his nose.
Deciding he wanted no part in whatever misdeed Bronn was about to get himself into, Jorah made to excuse himself yet again and continue his mindless walk about the castle, but he found himself being dragged along by Tormund who insisted that Jorah partake in the search for something stronger than water to drown out the cold and sense of impending doom.
/ /
SANDOR
Years of sleeping out in the open, alert to the sounds around him, had trained him to force himself awake at the slightest interference and as he felt sudden movement beside him, he sat up, reaching for a sword that was on the other side of the room along with his breeches. He had a brief moment during which he wondered why he was naked and unarmed but then saw the faint outline beside him and heard a rapid breath in the near darkness.
"What is it?" he asked urgently.
"Only a dream," came her voice. "I dreamt that they were here."
"Not yet," he assured her. Fumbling by light of the single candle, he reached a hand across her chest to find a bare shoulder and pulled her to him, enveloping her body with his to warm her and let her heartbeat return to a normal cadence. He should not have been as calm as he was, laying abed mere hours before the Night King's army was due to arrive, but his body would not respond to the panic that plagued almost every other person within the castle. His reactions were delayed and he suspected that Sansa Stark was the reason for that.
It was difficult to come to terms with the fact that they could be dead in a few short hours when Sandor had lived the last day in the most fulfilling state he could imagine. He was not stupid enough to be drunk on bliss but the primal need to claim Sansa as his in that corridor had been overwhelming and she had finally given him the sign he was waiting for. He had tried to be gentle with her up until he had seen her asking through expression alone that she wanted more from him and he would be lying if he had said that wasn't exactly what he had been hoping for.
Taking her in that broom cupboard would have been enough. If he had to live his life a hundred times over and every time go through every painstaking second of it just to end up fucking Sansa against the wall, he figured it just might be worth it. Those sticky, fumbling moments were part of the very few things in his life that could be considered worth being alive for. As a man with so little happiness, so few good memories, the good ones tended to count for more. Was it too little, too late, or did life have more to offer him?
With the dead on their doorstep, he was inclined to think not, but he had taken her again in her room just hours before. They had received news the night prior that the Night King was close and when Sandor came to her quarters, she had requested that he lay beside her, hold her, and try to sleep. Neither of them could, whiling away the night until the pale dawn–-their last-–brought their final opportunity to attend to last minute deeds. Sansa had spent the day at her archery post and Sandor had found himself in the company of those men who he had shared a battlefield with and crossed paths with Mormont more than anyone else several times throughout the day.
After their spat the previous day, Sandor was grateful that Mormont had nothing new to say to him other than a word here or there in asking his opinion. He did, however, catch the knight regarding him closely when he thought Sandor wasn't looking as if he expected Sandor to suddenly burst into flames. The seventh or eighth time Sandor saw this, he offered to mount Mormont's eyeballs on a wind vane atop the Broken Tower and Mormont desisted.
The hours both dragged on and passed in seconds and as darkness fell, Sandor became all too aware that his only source of light for the remainder of his life would be fire. He would not live to see daylight again but what he would see would only be visible by firelight. Fire was the greatest weapon they had and as Sandor retreated to Sansa's bedchamber, he recalled his vision of a battlefield wreathed in flames, of the castle alight and burning.
He could not shake the feeling of cold dread that only fire could stir within him and upon finding Sansa waiting for him, he had stripped himself bare, gone to her, and as she bared herself to him as well, he climbed atop her and entered her with a fierce need to drown out all thoughts of his demise by fire or ice. There should have been a great deal more care that had gone into this raw coupling, but they had run out of time to be patient. The belittling feeling that came with any mention of fire needed to be stamped out and Sandor needed to replace it with the feeling that he was indeed a man and there was no better way to do so than to fuck a woman.
Unlike last time, he had not tried to stifle the gasping noises she made as he worked himself into her, but rather encouraged her. Fuck it, she was the Lady of Winterfell and she could bed whomever she pleased and they were all about to die anyway so what point was served in trying to hide any of it? She seemed to be thinking along the same lines, for she was clenching herself around him as she had done before and he could tell that she enjoyed hearing him moan for her. It was almost intoxicating, seeing her take charge and claim ownership over him and wanting the whole castle to know it.
Hells, if her brother could fuck the Targaryen woman and not have anyone say one word against it (at least to his face), she could fuck the Hound, couldn't she? Apparently she could, for she was holding him down to her as he drove into her to be in contact with as much of his flesh as possible at once and he could feel several half-moon shaped indents in his skin as her fingernails dug into him with her impending climax upon her. When she crashed over the edge, her shout of ecstasy sent him into his own completion but this time he didn't think or worry about the possible consequences of spilling inside of her.
After, he had fallen asleep almost immediately and she must have as well to now awake in fear that the dead had come and she had been caught naked and unprepared. The thought made Sandor brave the cold to steal across the frigid stone floor to where his clothes lay in a heap where he had dropped them. He did not want to hear the scout's horn and lose precious time in hopping about the room trying to jam his uncooperative limbs back into his clothes. With his sword belt in hand, he returned to the bed and sat down at the foot.
Sansa let the coverlets drop but did not appear shamed at her nakedness and for the first time, he took in the sight of her. Before, he had only seconds to appreciate the milky white color of her skin and how it tinted pink with blush but now he could see marks across her entire body, souvenirs of Ramsay Bolton's sadism. Once again, a flash of fury coursed through him, but as both Sansa and Mormont had told him, there was nothing he could do when he did not have the right. Lingering on thoughts of what he would liked to have done to both Bolton and Littlefinger would only be an unaffordable distraction now and gods knew tonight, of all nights, he needed his wits about him.
If his inner demons were to be believed, it wouldn't matter in a few short hours anyway whether or not he ever got the chance to kill Littlefinger. The dead would most likely do that for him.
"Are you frightened?" Sansa asked him as she reached for her nightgown.
"Depends," he answered vaguely. "Of dying? No, but I'm afraid of how it might happen. I'm no stranger to pain, but I've always wished for a quick death. Sword through the heart, knife across the throat, beheading. Not being torn apart or burning alive."
Slipping out of bed to don the specially made outfit that matched her sister's and allowed for easier range of movement, Sansa held up her trousers as if she had never seen a pair before. Sandor helped her identify each piece of clothing and found her confusion somewhat entertaining but he could not deny that the look suited her. As she watched her reflection in her looking glass to pin her hair up out of her face, she rubbed at her throat.
"I've thought about my death every day since Joffrey beheaded my father. I've wondered how it might happen, how quickly it would take, and how much pain there would be. In fact, I would say that I have thought more about my death than I have focused on staying alive, but now that I know I am about to die, I'm not ready."
"You don't know you will," Sandor corrected. "You expect you might and hope you don't. It's a warrior's way of thinking."
"But you think we will," she protested. "You told me as much several times. You are certain we will."
"I'm prepared for if we do, doesn't mean I hope for it. I don't wish for death. Not anymore."
Sansa shot his reflection a knowing grin. "I can't be your only reason for wanting to stay alive."
"You're not."
And she wasn't, but she was a large part of his newfound desire to keep breathing. There were other reasons, mainly because he just didn't want to fucking die this way. He wanted to die when and how by his choice but now he had no say in either.
A nail dropped into the melted pool of wax that had collected at the bottom of the candle holder. Sandor counted four nails at the base of the candle. Only four hours had passed since they had lit the candle. It had to be past midnight now and though he was certain he and Sansa were not the only ones awake, Sandor knew no one would be making merry at this hour.
He did not want to spend those final hours before battle in bed, no matter who his companion was, and so he suggested they walk about in the courtyard if only to give them something to do. Waiting for death could be mind-numbingly boring at times. As they left the lady's quarters, Sandor had a foreboding feeling that he would not be returning to this room that had been home for all of some thirty-odd hours.
They had not gotten far when they came upon the other Stark girl who was clearly on her way to Sansa's quarters to look for him, though how she knew to find him there, Sandor didn't want to know. He didn't like how she discovered her information nowadays; it reminded him too much of the sort of fuckery that Littlefinger used to deal in.
"I'd like a word with you," the girl told Sandor.
"Do you want me to leave?" asked Sansa, taking a measured step aside to walk on ahead of Sandor if her sister wanted privacy with him, which he hoped she did not.
"You might not like what I have to say."
"There's nothing you could say that would make me feel worse than I already have at many points in my life."
The girl unbuckled the dagger at her waist and held it forth to Sandor who recognized it by the single ruby inlaid in its handle to be of Valyrian steel make. From what little Sandor had asked around about it, that dagger had changed many hands in recent years and had come to be in the girl's possession because it had been gifted to her by her crippled brother who had been given it by Littlefinger who likely stole it, thieving little shit that he was.
"What?" Sandor asked the girl somewhat rudely with a nonplussed look at the dagger.
"I want you to take this for the battle."
"I don't want it," said Sandor.
"Liar. You've been eyeing everyone with a Valyrian steel weapon since you found out that they're effective against White Walkers."
"I don't want it," Sandor repeated. "I don't want any gifts–"
"It's not a gift. A gift would imply that I am asking you to take it. I'm telling you to take it. The chances of you happening upon a White Walker are higher than mine, and you'll need it. I want to make sure it goes to good use and if luck is so kind, I won't be needing it if I'm to be in the godswood with Bran."
"Bran gave it to you, though," Sansa pointed out. "If he did, he must have seen that you might need it."
"I asked him the real reason why he gave it to me. He told us that it was because it was wasted on a cripple, but he told me privately that someone else might need it more than me, but he wouldn't tell me who, so I chose someone to give it to. I would give it to you, but you aren't supposed to be anywhere near battle either, if you can help it. And you haven't been practicing with a dagger. Sandor knows how to use one."
He was not expecting to hear his name fall from the girl's lips. They had never called each other by name whilst in each other's company. They were known as "you" and "girl" and an occasional false name they made up to conceal their true identities, and many more unkind words said under their breaths. Now, he did not like hearing her say his name at all, no matter the context.
"I don't need it, and I'll not be taking it or any orders from you," Sandor told her firmly.
"The man who's bedding my sister can at least promise me to use this to defend her if he plans to continue bedding her when this is all over. Take the fucking dagger, Sandor."
He more or less allowed her to place it in his hand, but he was not going to bow and obey. She knew that to get him to comply, she needed to be as harsh and blunt with him as he had ever been with her. This was how they always interacted with each other and it would be odd and uncomfortable if they started acting differently now. There were several choice words he could give her now, but for once, he decided not to have a rebuttal, telling himself she would be apologetic if they both survived and he would relish seeing her squirm and hate him for having to say sorry for being such a bitch to him at times.
Despite the majority of the castle's inhabitants being awake and alert, a stony silence that could only precede battle had fallen upon all and Sandor felt that his footsteps were magnified tenfold in sound as he and Sansa made their way outside. It still amazed Sandor to this day how a person's senses seemed to increase in strength when the end was near, for he suddenly became aware of the sights, sounds, and sensations around him as if he were experiencing them for the first time. The cold air felt colder, the silence was heavier, the pit fire embers glowed brighter, and Sandor felt slightly overwhelmed by his body's reaction to its final hours.
Groups of soldiers, commonfolk, lords, ladies, and every mixture in between were huddled together to preserve warmth, not saying much but drawing comfort in human contact. For once, no one cared to stare at Sandor as he passed, as they were all immersed in their own miserable thoughts. Not even his close proximity to Sansa Stark could rouse them, which was all well and good for him.
Presently, Sansa made a hard turn and picked her way between several packs of shivering families before arriving at a table that hosted Mormont, Bronn, Theon Greyjoy, and Tyrion Lannister. Sandor had seen stranger companions and had been one of those strange companions himself, so he did not question what had brought these four together. He pulled up a seat beside Mormont and glared at him in an open dare to say one word about who Sandor had crossed the courtyard with. Shrugging indifferently, Mormont pushed two wooden goblets at Sandor and Sansa.
"What is this?" asked Sansa as she peered down at the dark amber liquid.
"Mead," said the Imp, eyes slightly unfocused. Despite his size, he was renowned for being able to put away at least seven goblets of wine before starting to succumb to drunkenness, so he must have had a fair share of mead already to only start to show the signs.
"Where did you acquire mead?" Sansa demanded, bristling. "I made it clear that no one was to be influenced by any substance tonight, of all nights. Everyone must have their wits about them. I gave the maester strict orders to–"
"Aye, but he caved when Lord Tyrion here claimed to be bringin' it to Her Grace," said Bronn, drinking deeply from his own goblet.
"And I suppose you assisted?" asked Sansa in a would-be disapproving voice if not for her chewing on the inside of her lip to hide a grin.
"Only in carryin' the barrel, m'lady," Bronn admitted.
"As my sworn shield, you cannot be doing things like that," Sansa reprimanded.
"I'll not go to my death in the company of lies," said Mormont, interjecting with a deep scowl reserved for the sellsword. "Ser Bronn more or less liberated the barrel himself with the help of of Tormund and Lord Tyrion was there to vouch for his thievery when the maester caught him."
"And you stood watch, so you're just as much t'blame for this's I am, y'two-faced cunt," snapped Bronn, though with no real conviction in his words. "It's a wonder you've made it this far if you're the sort've wanker who went about tattling as you did just now."
"Only where you're concerned, if it puts my honor in question," responded Mormont.
"And how did you get roped into this?" Sansa asked the Greyjoy boy.
"I was coerced, more or less," Greyjoy answered.
"He looked dismal enough passing by and I invited him to partake," said Tyrion, clinking his goblet against Greyjoy's. "Just because our death awaits us doesn't mean we cannot spend what few moments remain taking joy in the simple things. Though it may not be wine, mead is a much needed remedy for despair."
The howl that answered the half-lord's statement seemed to state otherwise. Sandor had grown accustomed to the wolf's cries to the point where he could block them out, but now with the howl being the only sound to be heard, Sandor could detect the sorrow behind the voice.
"He's been howling in there for almost two days now," observed Mormont. "I don't know much about wolves, but I would wager that he can sense the end as much as we can and he longs for his own kin before he dies."
"That would be an accurate assumption," said Sansa. "All but one of his littermates are dead. There were six pups to begin with and Ghost was the smallest. My siblings and I all took a pup and were bonded to them but only Ghost and my sister Arya's wolf survived. Where Arya's wolf is now, no one knows, but Arya encountered her before returning to Winterfell, so it is certain that she is alive and I believe Ghost can sense that. He's calling for her, wherever she is."
"Wanting to be with kin when you die is understandable, though those of us who have kin left in this world might not be on speaking terms with them or like them enough to want to spend our last moments together," said Tyrion sagely. "I believe Lady Sansa is the only one amongst us here at this table who gets on well with the last of her kin. Please feel free to correct me if I am wrong in that assumption."
No one did. Mormont's little cousin held some disdain for him and didn't know him, Greyjoy's sister was twice the man he was and boasted about it loudly and his uncle was a bug-eyed twat, Tyrion's siblings hated him for killing their father, Bronn had no family, and Sandor's brother was more or less a wight with slightly more intelligence. Sansa was the only one here who could relate to the wolf's longing to be with family, but she seemed well aware of that fact and attempted to remedy it.
"Some family is forced upon you, others you choose for yourself," she said kindly. "Wolves do not live solely with kin. Ghost has lived longer in the company of men than the company of other wolves and as such, he has formed his own pack. My brother Jon belongs to him, as does Samwell Tarly and Lord Commander Tollett of the Night's Watch. And I suppose Tormund as well. And the rest of the Starks."
Here, she paused and regarded Sandor, then Mormont, then Bronn in a meaningful look that told them that they had been chosen as well, which told Sandor that the wolf had also taken Beric and Littlefinger into his human pack and though Sandor could tolerate Beric, the fact that Littlefinger had made it into the wolf's good graces infuriated him. As a direwolf, it was supposed to protect the Starks against those who sought to hurt them and those who had wronged them and Littlefinger had done both at one point, so why hadn't the wolf ripped his throat out?
"That'd be somethin' t'tell the grandchildren, if I'd been a bit luckier and smarter in avoidin' the North t'live a life long enough t'have grandchildren," said Bronn wistfully. "They'd be rightly in awe've their grandfather for befriendin' a direwolf an' bein' chosen t'be part've its pack."
Sansa reached across the table and gave the sellsword's wrist a meaningful squeeze that he looked as uncomfortable with it as Sandor had been when Sansa first touched him in that manner. "You chose to become a part of this pack when you spat in the face of the lions. You became a part of House Stark the very night you came to this castle and decided that you would protect me instead of kill me as you were ordered. If you die tonight, Ser Bronn, it shall be as a wolf."
Ever the people pleaser, Sansa would know it meant something to this man with no house, no family, to belong to someone, even if it was here at the end. The sellsword had never cared for much in this world, but he and Sandor were alike in a handful of ways, one of which was the underlying longing to be acknowledged for something other than existing. Bronn was a nameless man who chose his own fate and family by going against his usual tendencies for Sansa's sake, because it was the right thing to do, not the easy thing.
"And if you die, it might possibly be as a dragon as well," said Tyrion, raising his goblet to Bronn in a toast. "To the dragon-wolves. And bears," he added with a respectful nod to Mormont. "And a handful of krakens." Another toast to the Greyjoy boy.
"And perhaps a lion or two," said Greyjoy in agreement with the first small grin Sandor had seen out of him. "And dogs."
"Fuck off," said Sandor.
Sansa let out a small but unguarded chuckle and swallowed a large amount of mead to conceal her amusement at Sandor's vulgar comment. Under the table, her hand found his and she folded her fingers into his palm to absorb some of his warmth. Such a small hand, delicate, but now calloused from the hours of archery practice she had put in every day.
As Bronn and Tyrion reminisced about a drinking game they had played long ago on the eve of battle and the Greyjoy boy's gaze drifted, Sandor found himself watching Mormont who was subconsciously rubbing at a patch of skin on his left forearm where Sandor knew there was heavy scarring from greyscale. Sandor had caught Mormont doing this many times over the course of the last few weeks and had seen the bare skin twice, the last time being when he set Mormont's shoulder, and he knew the skin there was already raw from the knight's unintentional ministrations.
"I'm sayin' we can't play that game now because we're not s'posed t'be drunk an' because we know too much about each other t'make it any fun," Bronn was telling Tyrion.
"We don't all know so much about one another that there are no statements left to make and guess upon," Tyrion argued, but then after looking around at his drinking companions, raised his eyebrows in apparent surprise that they all did, in fact, know quite a lot about each other for having only been together for a few weeks. "I stand corrected. I think all of us have indeed shared much about our disgustingly dreary and troubled pasts. I believe only Lady Sansa and Ser Jorah might be able to play this game and both of them are the ones who could least be counted upon to play properly, as they are not overly fond of the drink as the rest of us are."
Sandor had been watching Sansa smirk and slightly blush at this statement, but as he turned his gaze to Mormont, he saw the knight's eyebrows knit together in oblivious pain, Sandor slapped his hand over the latter's forearm in a clear message to stop. Mormont seemed to realize that he had been causing himself the discomfort and nodded in silent gratitude to Sandor.
Both of them along with Bronn all suddenly and simultaneously turned their heads to the east not a moment later as they heard the sound that would decide the fate of mankind.
A scout's horn, a warning horn, blasting three times.
Sandor stood up first, pulling Sansa with him. He spared half a moment to shift his gaze from her, to Mormont, to Bronn.
The Long Night was here.
/ /
There was order to the chaos within the castle walls. Everyone knew their assignments but were taking slight detours to bid farewell and good luck to loved ones before heading to their posts. Those deemed incapable of fighting were being ushered into the crypts and Sandor saw Cersei leading up that procession with Qyburn (though Sandor was pleased to see that Gregor was to be stationed outside the crypts). Men flooded out of the castle in droves, criss-crossing with those attending the walls until the entire courtyard was like an undecided storm over the sea with waves of movement going back and forth.
Sandor kept a firm hold on Sansa's hand as they wended through the throngs of people merging around them. He knew he would have to let go in just a few short minutes, but until then, he would not lose sight of her for even a moment. It seemed incredibly morbid, escorting her to the crypts as if he were delivering her corpse to its final resting place, but that was where she had agreed to go until or unless the worst came for her.
There was a momentary lapse in all activity as the two dragons flew low over the castle with the Dragon Queen and Jon Snow astride them. Seeing their massive scaled bodies overhead reminded Sandor of what he had conveniently been able to ignore up until now–they had a dead dragon to contend with. The fight already seemed impossible with the given odds but throwing a dead dragon into the mix almost assured that the fight was theirs to lose. Now seemed as good of a time as any to curse about that fact, so he did.
"What is it?" asked Sansa.
"It's shite, all of it, but that's nothing new," said Sandor as they arrived beside the steps leading up to the wall above the east gate.
Sansa took one of his hands in both of hers, pressing her lips to his glove. He could feel her trembling at this parting, uncertain of when or if they would be reunited whereas he knew they would not. And yet, for her, he was calm. He had to be, or she would not go to the crypts and have to be dragged, sending the women and children into a mass panic. She would need to remain the strong, stark wolf that her people needed until the end.
"Sandor—"
He handed her the dragonglass dagger he had intended to use until the other Stark girl had given him the Valyrian steel one. "For whatever comes."
And in that, he meant that he knew they both were going to die and she could use his last gift to her to defend herself to the end or choose her own way out before she could be ripped apart by the dead. There would be no third option this night and right here was where they would say their final goodbyes. Once the crypt doors closed, he would not see this woman— his woman—again.
"If the battle goes ill—"
"No," he said sharply. He did not want to hear her departing words, did not want to say farewell to her once more.
"If the battle goes ill," she insisted. "If we are nearing the end, where will I find you?"
"Nowhere, because you're not going to come out of those crypts unless your brother or your sister are with you. You stay there, you hide, and you forget about anything that isn't happening right in front of you. Don't you come looking for me." Please.
She would have further argued the point if not for the arrival of the man she had condemned to death in the most noble of demises that he did not deserve. Littlefinger was dressed for both battle and the weather, but had a green expression on his face that suggested he was about to be sick. The coloring clashed horribly with his broken nose and bruising. He had a bow tucked under his arm, a half-sword on his belt, and a sheen of sweat across his brow.
"Up on your wall then, archer," growled Sandor.
"I would say my farewells to Lady Sansa."
"Farewell, Lord Baelish," said Sansa shortly.
"Are you armed, my lady?"
"She is now," said Sandor, then shoved Littlefinger toward the steps leading to the allure. He turned back for Sansa's sake more than his, but told her that he would not accept a token, no matter how small or meaningful. If she allowed herself to say that final farewell to him in the form of a touch, a kiss, a word or two, she would never regain her composure that was so crucial to maintain right now.
She nodded to him, chin lifted, head high. No tears, no trembling lip or eyes cast downward. His little bird had learned to face the inevitable with the stone-cold expression her house was renowned for. She was more Stark now than she had ever been.
Not for the first time, Sandor cursed himself for being such a stubborn arse and not taking advantage of the opportunity to be with her sooner. He had kept her and everyone else out because he had convinced himself long ago that it was the sensible thing to do, but he was heading into this battle in full regret for having never learned to just accept kindness when it was offered freely to him. Sansa, Mormont, Beric, the Stark girl, and even Bronn to some extent had tried to convince him that there was more to life than waiting to die and now that he was about to, he wanted to live it all over again and live it better than he had the first time. He would endure every moment of pain if it meant he could undo his faults and make more fulfilling decisions this time and it sickened him to think that he was now brimming with the want to live. He had obviously been spending far too much time with Beric and his fucking Lord of Light.
Sandor turned away from her and followed Littlefinger up the steps, dragging him to the center of the allure where there were two enormous ground quivers for the other four archers chosen to defend the gate. Below and to the left, the Unsullied were pouring out the east gate onto the battlefield in uniform lines as the wildlings trickled out wherever they could find space. Lastly came Stark and Lannister soldiers on foot as Dothraki riders hurried out ahead to find their hundreds of steeds.
Littlefinger was being violently sick over the side of the wall and when the man went to wipe at his mouth, Sandor yanked him upright by the collar, planting him firmly beside one of the ground quivers.
"You stand your ground, hear me, you little twat? Don't make any other man die for your cowardice. You stay here, right fucking here until you hear the command to leave the wall."
"Who has command of the wall here?"
"That would be me," said Ser Jaime. "See to your command, Clegane, I have the wall—and I'll make sure this one doesn't go anywhere," he added with a jerk of his head at Littlefinger.
Back down the steps Sandor went, finding the wolf, Mormont, and Bronn waiting for him at the gate.
"If I don't make it back inside the gates, one of you two get to that wall and make sure that prick doesn't leave his spot for anything," snarled Sandor as he gestured at the gate above where Littlefinger was once again vomiting over the ramparts.
"Glad to see you have your priorities set," said Bronn in a failed attempt at humor.
Sandor, however, ignored the comment as he saw that Mormont did not have the dragonglass sword that had hung at his hip earlier that day, but a steel sword that caught every flicker of firelight on its blade in the same manner that Sandor's new dagger did.
"Where the fuck did you get that?" asked Sandor.
"It was a gift from the man who saved my life, as he believes that I will put it to better use than he could," said Mormont. "It was his father's."
"Lucky bastard," said Bronn with envy.
There were four Valyrian steel swords and one knife currently in Westeros and all were present at this battle, wielded by Jon Snow, Jaime Lannister, Brienne of Tarth, Jorah Mormont, and Sandor Clegane. The biggest of them had the smallest weapon, not that he had ever found much use in daggers, but the Stark girl had insisted that he take it, so he had, if only to shut her up about it. For Bronn not to have one as one of the battlefield commanders, it would have been an upsetting thing indeed.
Just outside the gate, the three of them and the wolf stood abreast to watch soldiers migrating to their assigned commands. The trebuchets had several torches lit around them, but that light was not enough to penetrate the surrounding darkness. The dead lingered just beyond, lost in the trees to the east.
"Well, lads, I'm fuckin' terrified but I'm not goin' nowhere so this's it, I s'pose," said Bronn.
"We'll be seeing you," said Sandor without looking at the sellsword.
"Confident about that, eh?"
"You don't fucking die. We'll be seeing you."
"Clegane."
Mormont held out his hand in a gesture of good faith, friendship, and farewell. Sandor took it, careful to not crush Mormont's fingers in his own.
"Don't trample me when you come 'round or it's you I'm coming after once the Night King raises me."
"Even on a battlefield, you're hard to miss. Good luck."
Mormont broke right to follow the last lingering Dothraki, leaving Sandor and Bronn to find their charges. Sandor had command of the center flank of Knights of the Vale while Bronn separated from him to join Euron Greyjoy and the Queensguard in charge of the Lannister army. Halfway onto the battlefield, Bronn once again bade Sandor goodbye, knocking his fist against Sandor's with an imaginary tankard and the words, "One more drink before the war."
The last words the sellsword had said to him the last time they were in a great battle together, and a reminder of how far they had come since then, how far they could still go.
Sandor trudged through the snow and slush to the front of his command, half of the Stark soldiers. It had been years since he had had others to command and he had quite forgotten what it felt like to have so many men looking to him for leadership. As ill-equipped as he felt to be in charge once again, he had to harbor a certain amount of pride to have been given this rank of battlefield commander by Jon Snow without hesitation simply because Snow trusted him after seeing him fight on that frozen lake.
That reminded him that he was one of just a handful of men who had fought these things before and that they alone knew the true terror of what was coming for them.