SANSA

Gregor's eyes followed her as she made up the very last of the elderly, infirmed, women, and children to enter the crypts. Two Stark guards and Ser Gregor would be guarding the doors, allowing no one else down, though those below were free to come up, not that anyone would want to. The doors could not be sealed from either side, and so only those guarding them could prevent anyone or anything from breaching them.

As Lady of Winterfell, Sansa had a responsibility to go last down into the crypts and give the order to close the doors behind her, but she hesitated on the threshold, wondering if this was the last time she would see the sky and feeling a small sense of dismay that she couldn't see the stars under the overcast approaching storm.

"M'lady…" prompted one of the Stark guards, and determined not to look at the giant behind her, Sansa nodded as an order to close the doors behind her as she descended into the crypts. The majority of her fellow occupants had gathered somewhere in the middle, not quite at the end of the long tunnel, but nowhere near the entrance to allow them time to prepare themselves in case something came charging down after them. It was an accident waiting to happen in how everyone was crowded around one another, huddling for warmth but all giving Cersei and her party a wide berth.

Tyrion, Lord Varys, Missandei, and others had staked claim along the left wall, gathered in the alcove that housed the likeness of one of Sansa's ancestors whose name she could not recall just now and they all were doing their level best to not say anything provoking to Cersei who had only managed to procure Qyburn and Ser Preston Greenfield as her escorts and guards while the rest of the Queensguard had to remain above to fight. Privately, Sansa believed that Ser Preston would always be considered a coward for not volunteering to fight with the rest of his brethren, but there was not likely to be anyone who would give him that label by night's end.

Cersei was watching Sansa hungrily as if waiting for her to make some foolish final attempt to kill her, but Sansa had never been less motivated to want to spill her captor and enemy's blood. She wanted Cersei to use her final moments to reflect and try to find one shred of remorse. This life had taught Sansa that harboring such hatred for another human being took an inordinate amount of effort and she did not want to expend any energy hating Cersei tonight when she would need every ounce of strength and focus to survive. Even if peace was not to be had, Sansa would have it known that she tried her best and did not go to her grave as a selfish woman who could not set aside injustices done to her. She did not have it in her heart to ever forgive Cersei, but she did have the capacity to put the hurt aside in favor of preparing her soul for rest.

Ser Preston had the nerve to put his hand on his sword pommel at Sansa's approach as if she posed some imminent threat to the woman he guarded. Sansa was bigger than Cersei now, physically stronger, and had all but three people in the crypts at her back if she chose to attempt to throttle Cersei in this moment, but nothing could be further from her mind just now. Instead, she pulled up a crate and sat down opposite Cersei, silent and serene.

Cersei could only tolerate Sansa's gaze for so long before saying, "If you have come, expectant of some repentance on my part, I assure you that you will be–"

"I expect nothing from you," said Sansa simply. "You are predictable and I know that even if it meant sparing the lives of you, your child, and the man you love, you would not admit aloud to me that you regret anything you have ever done to me, my family, or the realm. You simply have too much of your father in you to do such a lowly thing as feel human emotions."

"You knew nothing about my father; do not presume to tell me how much I resemble him," said Cersei through her teeth.

"I knew very little about him, but I did have one conversation with him where any doubt that I may have had about who really sat the Iron Throne at the time was put to rest. He came to me the night before my wedding to remind me of my duty as a woman…"

It was an odd time to remember this conversation with the head of House Lannister, but one did not easily forget such an enormous presence of a man and as Sansa recalled that day, she wondered how very differently her life might have turned out if she had remained in King's Landing, if Tyrion had not killed his father.

Tywin Lannister stood on the threshold and Sansa would have been struck dumb by his appearance if she had not feared that Shae might say something likely to get her executed for not recognizing him. Sansa sank into a curtsy and then dismissed Shae who did the same and shut the door behind her.

"My lord," greeted Sansa with a curtsy and bow of her head, uncertain of whether Lord Tywin had come to hear her speak or to do the speaking himself.

"Lady Sansa, you are to wed my son on the morrow," said Lord Tywin curtly.

"Yes, my lord." It had not occurred to her until now that this man would become her lawful father and that notion was not in the least bit reassuring. Mace Tyrell might have been considered something of an oaf by the court but at least he did not give Sansa the impression that he would have her decapitated if she looked at him the wrong way. Lord Tywin's stern and unsympathetic glare made her straighten her spine but wish she could take up a shield against him.

She ought to tell the lord of Lannister how very pleased and honored she was to become Lord Tyrion's wife but somehow she knew that he, of all people, would see through the fabrication of her words and would not thank her for playing him the fool.

"Not the marriage you had hoped for by any means, I am sure."

"Not the marriage I had expected," said Sansa carefully.

"You would have preferred Ser Loras Tyrell, I know. It would have made you happier, you believe, but make no mistake that I care not for your happiness. I do care that you are not spoiled before you have given Tyrion a son. My daughter assures me that as of yet, your virtue has not been called into question. Therefore, in exchange for your cooperation, I will ensure that no harm will come to you."

This was the very last thing she had expected to be discussing with who was arguably the most powerful man in Westeros. For him to come to her and offer her assurance that she would not be made sport of ought to have been a great comfort but somehow, it sent fresh dread awash within her at the thought of what Joffrey would say when he heard that his grandfather had denied him access to his favorite plaything.

"His Grace–" she began.

"Will not touch you,"Lord Tywin finished. "I require from you offspring of sound mind, cunning, and fortitude, none of which applies to my grandson and so I cannot have him impregnating you. Surely between yourself and Tyrion, your child will be more than capable of handling the title of Warden of the North."

He had just paid her a compliment, a true compliment.

"I will see to it that you are left alone, given that your future husband is incapable of protecting you with his name alone. You will therefore do your duty to your husband and with luck you will bear him a son within the year."

It was not a question and more than a statement; it was a command, and one she took far more seriously than anything Joffrey or Cersei could delegate.

"Yes, my lord," she said obediently and then, for no other reason than that she genuinely felt gratitude for what he promised her, she added, "Thank you."

He said nothing else but gave her a sharp nod and she knew he would keep his word, that Joffrey would not be allowed to touch her. Then he was gone, and she never spoke another word to him.

It was this small consolation that made it possible for her to face her wedding day and not shudder outright at the prospect of her wedding night. It brought her hope despite Joffrey's insistence that he would plant a child in her belly after Tyrion had drank himself into a stupor, that he would have the Kingsguard hold her down as he violated her. She let Joffrey make her a promise to rape her all while holding in a triumphant smirk that even the King could not touch her so long as Tywin Lannister's promise held.

The only reason she had not been deflowered that night was because Tyrion refused. She had been willing, if not ready, to do as Lord Tywin bade her but without Tyrion's cooperation, she had leapt at the opportunity to tell him that she never wished to share his bed. Tyrion would state that it was his own refusal that kept the marriage unconsummated and not her reluctance and so she would not feel Lord Tywin's wrath.

But she often wondered how the Seven Kingdoms would now fare if Tywin Lannister had remained in power. Joffrey would have been poisoned all the same, but if Tyrion had escaped from King's Landing that night without murdering his father, would Tommen still sit the throne? Would he have made different, if not better, decisions than his mother? Would the realm be in as much peril as it was now? Would he have given in to Daenerys and surrendered the throne? And might help have come sooner, might more men have arrived on Winterfell's doorstep, if Cersei had never been allowed to come into power? How might the world be different if Tywin Lannister still lived to hold a leash on his daughter?

Sansa lamented a future that never would be, for Cersei as this so-called queen was the reality that she faced now, and one she had to accept. As she finished telling Cersei of this private exchange between her and Lord Tywin, Cersei's anger seemed to abate for a fraction of a moment before it was replaced with something akin to hurt.

"He offered you protection that he never extended toward me. While I procured the realm for him as Queen with him holding the title of the Queen's father, you were simply the means to secure the North, yet he afforded you a promise and a private audience that he could not be troubled to give me. He despised Tyrion, he tolerated me, and he loved Jaime. But you were nothing to him."

"I was nothing to him," Sansa agreed. "Women, it seemed, were nothing to him but a means to an end. Tyrion told me he did care for a woman once–"

"What would that little mongrel know? He murdered that woman as he came into the world."

"Something both you and your father blame him for despite him having no power or say over the matter. If you were to die birthing the child within you, would you wish for Ser Jaime to detest it, wish it dead? If Myrcella and Tommen were still alive, would you wish for them to hate their sibling?"

"You cannot sit there and speak of my children to me–"

"I can, and I will, because I do not speak ill of them and never wished harm upon them. They were always kind to me, good children who feared their brother and observed their hapless mother, yet managed to find happiness in their own right. They did not inherit such qualities from you, so if they were still alive, I do not believe that they would spurn their yet unborn sibling if it survived and you did not during childbirth. They did not have that sort of hatred in them."

"You really are just the perfect little dove, aren't you?" said Cersei scathingly. "Still trying to be worthy."

"I am far from worthy of a great many things, but if I am not, you most certainly are not. But at least I know what I am and no longer pretend to be otherwise. You pretend to be a queen when you never desired the position. I believe the only thing you ever sought to be and enjoyed being was a mother and now, you might not get that chance again, which I pity you for. I believe that, though it made you far more dangerous than it does now that your child is not yet of this world, being a mother brought out the few good qualities you have. I observed that you were only truly happy when you were with your children."

Cersei let out a hollow chuckle, but there was fondness and recollection to be seen there as her mind brought forth memories of her children in a place and a time many lifetimes ago. She had once told Sansa to never love anyone but her children, but also that the more people she loved, the weaker she would be. However, Sansa found that the more people Cersei loved, the more humane she was. Having no one left but Ser Jaime had made her more bitter, colder, and savage. Another child very well could remedy that, perhaps give her reason to stand down and surrender the throne to Daenerys.

"You know, I've spent so many years hating you that I've quite forgotten exactly why," said Cersei with a wry smile. "I'd like to think I had a valid reason but the truth of the matter is that I've never particularly liked anyone. At first, I disliked you because you were naive and air-headed to fall so hopelessly in love with Joffrey when even then, I knew what he would be. A mother can never truly cast away all hate she has for those individuals who will wed her children, take her children away from her. And when he set you aside and you were promised to my brother, I had no reason to continue hating you but I did because it was easy and I had no reason not to. When Joffrey died, it made sense to me that my brother who hated him and my brother's wife who hated him would have found it easy to poison him but in my heart, I knew neither of you had done it. I knew, but if I could condemn the both of you, I would. After that, it became second nature to hate you and blame you for all the misfortune that had befallen my family because I could not blame myself. So I did, and so I do."

Sansa was not sure what to make of this admittance that there was no true reason for Cersei's complete loathing of her other than the fact that the woman was born spiteful, distrusting, and nearly heartless.

"I suppose it is nice to know that in some miserable way, you aren't completely evil if your love for your children could lead you to do such horrible things. I wouldn't know what that love is, but I have done things for my family that I would do for no one else. When the time comes, I will fight for them. I have known that since my brother told me of the dead. But you," Sansa cast her eyes upon Cersei's fragile, unpracticed hands, "I don't know you well enough to know what you will do when the time comes. Will you fight? Or will you run? Will you use every last person you can to shield yourself, or will you possess the courage the rest of your family has to face your death? You always told me that you were the son your father should have had and with Ser Jaime mangled and Tyrion half the height of most men, the only thing standing between you and your true potential, between you and the child your father wanted, is the fact that you are a woman."

It was not exactly a compliment, an accusation, or an insult, but a question, and one that Cersei dodged by asking one suddenly of her own. "You speak so highly of Tyrion and for the life of me, I could never understand why, unless he did manage to make you fall in love with him during your time together. Do you love my brother?"

"I do, but not as you love yours, and he reciprocates the love of two very good friends. Something tells me you already knew that. Something tells me that you already know who has my true affection."

Another smirk and Sansa could not only confirm that Cersei knew that Sandor had bedded her, but that the true master of the assassin sent to burn Sandor alive was about to be revealed.

"I knew Sandor Clegane before you were even squirted into your mother's belly," said Cersei. "He was assigned to me by my father as a favor to his bannerman, House Clegane. My father had knighted Ser Gregor and promised the same to Sandor but Sandor did not want a knighthood. His lack of ambition drew my father's curiosity so he gave Sandor to me–the one selfless act he ever did for me–and Sandor served as my shield–unsworn, but still loyal–until Joffrey was born. I had never seen such blind devotion from a man before, which was how he came to earn his name the Hound. He had no love for me or for Joffrey, but he served, and I could not fathom why. He never faltered in his loyalty…until he met you. A woman can see when a man has eyes for another woman and I saw him pity you, knowing that you had no idea what sort of life was in store for you with Joffrey. I saw Sandor protect you to the extent that he could without invoking Joffrey's wrath, and I know he came to you the night of the Blackwater. I thought that would be the end of it when you did not go with him, but imagine my surprise when I saw him here in the North with you. I thought that surely now, he must have had his way with you, but he still showed restraint. Until I saw the way the two of you looked at each other when you parted at the gate."

"And that bothers you, to see me happy, as if I had stolen that from you," Sansa guessed. "For no other reason than being the malicious person you are, you cannot stand to see anything good come to House Stark. You must truly hate me now to have ordered attempts on the lives of both Sandor Clegane and Ser Bronn just for their affiliation with me."

"That sellsword is nothing more than a rat who flees from one sinking ship to the next," said Cersei indifferently.

"And yet he has been offered no pay for his part in this battle," Sansa pointed out. "He left your service because he disagreed with it, and since when have you ever known that man to have any moral compass? He has always done what has best benefited him, yet how would swearing himself to me benefit him more than paying allegiance to you? It would be in his best interest to flee, yet he didn't and he hasn't. He never made any vows, yet your hatred of me and your determination to have him kill me spurred him to turn his back on you, the person who paid him, and swear himself to me with no pay at all?"

"It must be that irresistible charm that comes from a Northern whore who has spread her legs often and loudly that drew him to you in the hope that you would open for him as well," said Cersei. Long ago, those words would have cut Sansa to her core, for she was endlessly hoping to please the Queen, yet Sansa had predicted such a rebuttal now, and was unmoved by it.

"Ser Bronn was in full awareness that I was with another man when he pledged himself to me. It was not what he saw in me that drove him from you, but rather what he saw in you, which was nothing. As part of the richest family in Westeros, I realize that this may be a difficult notion to understand, but at some point, coin can no longer pay for what you need and want and when the need for money is gone, the supplier is left without anyone to pay. That is why Ser Bronn serves me now. That is why Sandor Clegane came to be in Winterfell when he was once in your service. And you tried to have both of them killed for it."

Cersei did not even attempt to deny it, perhaps because she felt that no one could make her atone for the crime now, and so she was safe in revealing all of her misdeeds. "I must admit, I had hoped you would have accused Littlefinger of that treachery, since his jealousy does make him the most logical suspect for having ordered someone to burn the Hound alive. He was the one who told you of the Hound's fear; it would make sense for him to hire a man to kill his competition in such a manner."

"He was the logical choice, yet I know it was not him because he fought with Sandor and owes him his life. And as much of a turncloak he is, Littlefinger never lets a debt go unpaid, much like another family I might mention. By leaving Sandor alone when he desires me above all else, he is repaying that debt, so he would not harm Sandor. But you would, and you have."

Sansa stood up, sweeping her cloak aside to make room for her to turn from Cersei with finality. "I had hoped that there was some small inkling of remorse for something in your life, whether it be for the way you have lived in hatred of almost all others or your treatment of them, but the gods are not wasting miracles this night on you, it would seem. So if you have made peace with yourself and your decisions, we have nothing more to say to one another."

Promising Tyrion that she would return shortly, she headed back up the tunnel to the winding staircase, gave a brief knock and command to reopen the door, and stepped back out into the bitter night air. Breathing a small sigh of relief that her earlier glance at the sky had not been her last, she passed the first keep and the guard's hall to come upon the eastern gate which overlooked the greater bulk of the armies awaiting the arrival of the Night King's army.

No one spoke to her as she climbed the steps and once up on the wall, she saw several faces she recognized from the war council: Theon, Lord Commander Tollett, Jaime Lannister, Samwell Tarly, Ser Davos, Gendry, Podrick, and of course, Littlefinger, but Littlefinger had no idea she was there as he grasped his bow to his chest, wringing the wood in his hands with such nervousness that he was in danger of snapping it.

His watery blue eyes that were a result of his broken nose were as wide open as he could possibly make them, focused unblinkingly on the darkness in front of him. Sansa had never seen him look like this before, as a man so utterly and completely helpless in a situation he could not control. This was the breath before the plunge, so she could not say what he would look like or do at the first sight of the dead, but she had to admit that she thoroughly would have thought that he would be trembling, hunched over and hiding behind the battlements just now. But in everything apart from his hands and his eyes, he was calm. Sansa had sentenced this man to die and he was calm.

Ser Jaime passed behind Littlefinger and said something to him in a low voice which made Littlefinger nod and adjust his hands on his bow, relaxing his hold. He picked an arrow from the ground quiver between him and the archer to his left and as he made to fit the arrow to his bow, he glanced up to make direct eye contact with Sansa, who cursed herself for not doing her part to stay out of sight. She had hoped that her farewell in the courtyard earlier had been her last to him and was in no mood to dismiss him again once he left his post to come and speak to her.

But he held her gaze for a moment and then with a slight furrow of his brow, touched his hip where his dragonglass dagger hung, cocking his head to the side suggestively and without thinking, Sansa nodded and placed her hand at the same spot on the hip that he could not see to confirm that yes, she was armed. It was a simple, small question, but it struck her in a way that no interaction with Littlefinger ever had.

No words, no expression that suggested that he wanted anything from her or knew a secret she didn't or had some ulterior motive. Just concern that she had a weapon on her and then passive acknowledgement that she did. He wasn't running or pleading or trying to talk his way out of something; he was just there, focused on her long enough to alleviate his own worry. And then, in a move that left her stunned and speechless, he turned away from her, returning his attention to the as of yet calm battlefield.

She had always been the one to dismiss him, always the one to have the final word or gesture, but he had actively faced away from her because she was not at the forefront of his mind for once. He knew that to focus on anything besides what he was about to do would be a fatal distraction. Such a strange thing to consider that now she was a distraction to him. It should not have been something she should have given any thought to at all, as now was neither the time nor the place, but she had spent the past few years knowing that she was Littlefinger's main focus and to no longer be that to him was oddly liberating.

"Thought he would've made a run for it by now?" guessed Arya who appeared at her side.

"What are you doing up here? You're supposed to be with Bran," Sansa scolded.

"What are you doing up here? You're supposed to be twenty feet below the ground."

"I'm not supposed to be anywhere. I am where I want to be in this moment."

"Get back down below. They'll be at the walls soon."

"I will go when you go to Bran. I needed air. Sharing and breathing the same stale air as Cersei is suffocating."

"I was on my way," said Arya evasively.

Sansa cocked an eyebrow at her and then gave a reluctant grin. "You know, just because you're suddenly a master at detecting lies doesn't mean you're a master at telling them. You regret your decision to guard Bran just enough because you can't see what's happening out here from in there."

"I will go to him once there is need to go to him. There's no point in me standing around useless in the godswood when I can help out here."

"And what exactly have you done to help out here?"

"Stumbled across you."

"How very useful of you."

Sansa chanced another quick glance at Littlefinger who still had not turned back to look at her. "Do you think he will run?" she asked Arya.

"If there's no one else to stop him, yes, but I think he takes strength from having other fighters around him," Arya observed.

"You mean to have others die for him?"

"No, I mean not being alone to fight the dead. As long as there are others alongside him, he'll stand his ground."

Strange, for a man who worked well alone and preferred to be alone in all of his dealings, to be so reliant on the presence of others to grant him courage. Though it did make sense, to want companionship so near the end when fear of being alone, isolated, and lost in death was such an overwhelming factor to consider. Sansa hoped that if she died this night, it was not alone.

A horn sounded to the left, ringing out just once as a signal that who or whatever was approaching was friendly. Rushing to the ramparts to look down past the armies and the trench, Sansa and Arya peered out into the darkness to see a rider ambling toward the bridge that could be reassembled and deconstructed at the pull of a string from the defensive side.

"Who is that?" asked Arya, squinting hard at the figure who had come to the drawbridge.

"The Red Woman," said Ser Davos beside them through clenched teeth.

Sansa knew little of the woman, but she knew enough to know that Jon and Arya did not like her, but wondered at this moment why the woman was here when she knew Jon had banished her under pain of death. Grey Worm must have granted her permission to cross the bridge, for she was riding over the trench now, heading toward the gate, when three more horn blasts sounded in quick succession.

Arya glanced at Sansa and the visible gulp she saw from her sister was enough to send a shiver down Sansa's spine, for Arya had not shown such fear at the prospect of any danger yet, but now, she was afraid.

"Now we go?" she asked Sansa.

"Now we go," Sansa agreed.

/ /

SANDOR

If he was concerned that he might ever get the chance to use them again, he would have been upset that his balls had frozen to his leg inside his trousers. On all sides of him, every man and woman was shifting about in an endless wave of rustling to try and stay warm. Time was going by too quickly and not quickly enough; every second meant he was still alive, but every second standing out in the frigid cold without being able to see the wights coming for him infuriated him. He wanted the wait to be over. He wanted something to happen .

More than once he turned full around to squint at the wall above the gate and wonder if Sansa had come back up from the crypts to look for him. He tried to take mental stock of where Jon Snow had positioned all the fighters Sandor knew by name, but over and over, he kept repeating those whose positions he knew for certain: Mormont leading the Dothraki horde, Bronn with at least a third of the Lannister troops, Tormund and Beric on this same stretch of the battlefield as him, Littlefinger on the wall, the Stark girl in the godswood. And Ghost, somewhere around here. Initially, the wolf had gone with Sandor as he took over his command, but it had been at least half an hour since he had seen that albino fur, and as much comfort as he took from Ghost's presence, he half-hoped the wolf had gone back behind the walls to help guard the Stark boy since he was sure to be killed in the onslaught if and when the dead made it over the trenches.

When he had been standing out at the front of the Stark host long enough to have lost feeling in some of his toes, he noticed several heads turning to the left and though he could not see that far off, he knew something non-threatening had caught the attention of the Unsullied who made up the middle of their forces. He heard the command to reform the bridge, more rustling as those within sight craned their necks around to see what had prompted that command, and then the distant sound of the eastern gate opening to admit someone.

Then silence once again.

"They're close," said Tormund in a low voice that still sounded deafening in the wake of the silence.

"'Course they're close, otherwise we wouldn't be standing out here," said Sandor impatiently. "Just wish they'd fucking get on with it. The Night King's a patient fucker; likes to draw the wait out, doesn't he?"

"I don't think he has the capacity to feel such pettiness," said Beric. "Time doesn't exist for him as it does for us. He's patient because he knows we have no other option but to stand and fight and he's in no hurry. I suppose he can afford to have us wait here in anticipation as he observes our defenses."

"I'm sure you can ask him that in person in a few minutes," Sandor replied. "Just wait for him right there as he comes riding up–"

"He won't be riding, he'll be flying," Tormund pointed out.

Somehow, Sandor had blissfully forgotten that on top of having an undead dragon at their disposal, that dragon would be ridden by the Night King. Now, having been reminded of that fact, he was about to kick Tormund in the shin when he saw what appeared to be a white haze descending on them, not from above, but from the east, moving in a uniform line. It was like a white-out, a complete blinding act of snow that did not allow for them to see more than ten feet or so in front of them. This would prove to be dangerous because Sandor and Beric's soldiers stood only ten feet from the trenches and would need to be able to spot the dead before they made contact with the trap. Every battlefield commander had been given leave to signal the lighting of the trenches depending on who saw the dead first, for they could not be entirely sure who would spot the mass of corpses closing in and if they came from the far right with only the far left having that command, they would lose half of their forces before the other half ever knew what was happening.

"I can't fucking see," Sandor grumbled.

It was no fault of the lightly falling snow, but of the sheer drop in temperature as the frigid air grew to a nearly unbearable level of cold, stinging their eyes and blinding them to what was coming. Thousands of weighty breaths on the air made steam rise like fog from the ground. Sandor felt his lungs seizing in an effort to try and take in anything. His bare-handed grip on his sword was painful as his skin froze to the metal.

They're here.

Sandor heard them, a dull rasp that might have been mistaken for a sound echoing off the moors from leagues away, but it grew louder with every second, sounding more and more like a thousand bats screeching into the night until it was nearly unbearable.

"They'll be on us any moment now," said Tormund. "I'm going to give the signal–"

"Not yet," said Sandor, eyes streaming and straining as he fought to keep them open, to wait for the last possible second.

"Clegane, now is not the time to let your fear of fire overpower your judgment," Beric reprimanded.

"Not yet, dammit!"

If the dead saw the trenches lit before they were close enough, they would halt well before they reached the staked wall, effectively ruining the entire purpose of the trench. Not one moment too soon, or they would lose the battle before it had even begun. They had to wait.

"Clegane," said Beric pressingly, raising his arm.

Sandor lifted his own to deter Beric, asking him to let Sandor make the final call.

The sound of the dead was deafening now, thundering loud enough that they ought to be able to see the horde. From out of the night, the snow, and the fog, he saw an endless horizontal line of blue eyes as they charged in for the slaughter.

Now.

Sandor let his arm fall and the archer positioned to await his signal loosened an arrow into a graceful arc high above them. A lone flicker of fire in the pitch black night sky rose and fell, so small and insignificant—and then the dragons descended on the trenches and breathed life into the oil and kindling. A wall of flames erupted in front of Sandor, spreading out on either side of him as the entire trench grew high and fiery with fire that incinerated hundreds of the dead as they made that leap forward.

The heat was instant, both welcoming and painful, as it warmed his frozen body but instantly grew hot enough to become uncomfortable. He took a large step back, trodding on the foot of whoever stood behind him. More and more of the dead collided with their wall of fire, but they were slowing down now, wise to the barrier and the dangers it presented until they stopped altogether just short of where their brethren had gone up in flames. It was a vast sea of shapes in the darkness and thousands of blue eyes to watch and wait that stood on the other side of the trench.

Two roars from above announced the arrival of the dragons once again and though Sandor instinctively ducked, he kept his eyes open to see billowing waves of fire cut through the masses of wights standing almost docile out on the moors. Each pass from each dragon felled at least twenty wights apiece, but no sooner had Sandor begun calculating those numbers that the sound of solid collision from above shake the earth below. Mostly hidden by the low hanging clouds, it appeared that the dragons had turned on each other, but Sandor quickly realized that the dead dragon had engaged the larger black dragon. The sky battle continued upward and out of sight and like the loyal beast it was, the last dragon ridden by Jon Snow shot into the clouds to protect its mother and brother.

The absence of the sounds that came with the dragons expelling fire from their throats meant that only the howling wind could be heard. Sandor had no way of knowing what would happen next, but he knew that whatever it was, they would not have the assistance of the dragons and therefore, he held his sword out in front of him in a ready stance and sensed others doing the same up and down the Stark ranks. Beric's sword came to life with the flames of his god or whatever the hells it was that made the fire cling to the blade and as Sandor stepped sideways to give the sword a wide berth, he heard gasps and outcries of astonishment starting from far behind and working their way forward.

Whipping around in distraction, he saw pockets of fire bursting toward him and shouted out in alarm that he hadn't even begun to fight and already was about to die a fiery death when he took notice of the flames remaining stationary once they sprouted from thin air and finally, as they reached the line of wildlings just behind him, Sandor stuck his sword arm out as far away from his face as possible in anticipation of what was to come.

The dragonglass blade came alive with fire, burning bright as a torch and a weapon to be used against the darkness and all that came with it, and not a moment too soon, for there came a cry of, "They're coming over!" and only just had time to face east again to see wights running over one another and using the corpses on the bottom to launch themselves over the trenches. Some did not quite make the leap and landed amidst the burning stakes, but many cleared the landing and ran forward as mindlessly and endlessly as they had before.

Sandor matched blades with one of the forerunners and then sliced the deteriorating body in half, watching both halves smolder as the fire took to its rags with enthusiasm. Rusted steel clashed with dragonglass as wights overcame the barrier and met them head-on. It was not the sort of impact they might have had if the trenches hadn't stopped them, but it was enough to keep each and every fighter in the first three lines busy. If Sandor had thought they were an endless tide on that frozen lake with only Mormont, Beric, Tormund, and Jon Snow to fight alongside him, it was nothing to having hundreds of men and women battling alongside him now with no signs of making a dent in the Night King's numbers.

Fire was everywhere, scorching and searing, but it was just barely holding its own against the storm of ice and snow that fought to snuff out the flames. Sandor recalled the vision he had had of this very battlefield, of the impenetrable cold and the rotting, fighting corpses, of dragonfire and the burning, the burning. How he hoped he would not die of fire tonight. It required a monumental amount of focus and self-control to not flee from the scene as he had the night of the Blackwater.

He could not go to pieces here and retreat, steal away into Sansa's chambers with the offer to save her and flee to a better place. Even if he could find a horse to outrun the dead, he was just prolonging the inevitable. There would be no one to save him and safeguard him in his moments of weakness as there had been during the siege of King's Landing. Bronn had saved him that night, but it was only against men that they fought. Tonight, no one would be willing to come to the aid of a man diminished to the size of a child in the face of fire. If ever he were to conquer his fear, it would have to be tonight.

Already, he saw allies falling and failing, overcome by the sheer numbers of the dead, but they could not press back to the castle just yet. They had to hold for however long they could, for once the castle was their last defense and if those walls were breached, they had nothing left to put between themselves and the dead but sheer willpower and determination to not die.

What they needed just now was more assistance from the dragons, but if the dead dragon hadn't killed its living brothers yet, it was certainly keeping them occupied, so they would have to rely on their next best option.

"Give the signal for the horn!" he bellowed to anyone that might be able to hear and obey, but even now, that signal might never be seen or heard, and if that was the case, Sandor just had to hope that Mormont had a sense of urgency.