JORAH

It was maddening, hearing the sounds of battle and not being able to see it. It was one of the major flaws in their planning, but to get the momentum needed to level the swarms of wights as they came charging through, the Dothraki needed enough of a head start. They would wait for the horn that signaled the start of their charge, but Jorah was constantly plagued by the nagging thought that perhaps the individual assigned to that task might be killed or those who were to give the signal might be killed, or everyone might be killed without Jorah ever being aware of it. He relied on his intuition if it seemed that the battle had been going on too long without calling for the Dothraki.

Initially when he had taken his place at the front of the Dothraki horde, he had had a sense of isolation, a feeling that he was going into this battle alone despite the thousands of riders at his back. It was not a foreign feeling, for he had fought many times with only his own skills to aid him, but the feeling that the dead brought, the despair that preceded them as the long night set in, it was a terrible feeling. Somewhere high above his queen would protect him as best she could and out there on the field, every man and woman would fight to their last breath, but still, Jorah could not shake the feeling that he would die alone this night.

It seemed he was doomed to be alone in life from the start, ever wanting after a woman who did not want him, ever shunning the few men who attempted to befriend him thanks to his surly manner. He had driven away those who sought to know him better, not intentionally, but because he had been too focused on the one thing he could never have: his queen. Was he like Sandor Clegane in that regard, lusting and wanting the unattainable to the point where he could never find happiness in the simple things? He would have liked to believe that he had done his best in these last days to make more of his life, that he had made an effort to find more meaning, but had he done it out of necessity or want?

Had he allowed Baelish to trust him and offered the man advice in return because he felt the need to redeem himself through Baelish when their situations were very similar? Had he tolerated Bronn because he was trying to get along with the sellsword or because he pitied Bronn's position as Cersei's property? Had he come to Clegane's aid during his moments of vulnerability as a friend would or had he hoped for reciprocity that Clegane would be there for him when he most needed it? Had he tried to make ammends with his cousin for the honor of his house and all those who were no longer here or was he trying to ease his own worries that in whatever afterlife there was, he would be accepted by his kin?

Was he just like all those individuals he despised, who used people for his own gain and giving nothing in return? Had he spent all this time earning back his place at his queen's side, only to commit other sins against those few who he could consider to be his friends?

No, he stoutly held faith in the belief that he was trying to be to Lyanna what he had been to Daenerys from the beginning when she had been handed the burden of her house at such a young age. The only difference was that Daenerys had blindly accepted him because she did not know him and Lyanna rejected him because she did. Even after she had come to him and admitted that she was trying to forgive him of past transgressions against their house, she was still a child, and one he intended to help if he could. His commitment to her was not bound by duty, but by pity as the girl was left alone in the world.

As for the others, he had established with himself from the beginning that Petyr Baelish was no friend of his, but he had offered his words of wisdom as someone who could empathize with the lord's predicament. Even if he had openly declared his disdain for him now, Jorah had still given him the means to defend himself. He did not have to like Bronn to understand him or to trust him and by his normal standards, he considered his dealings with Bronn to be positively amicable. And Clegane was a larger, surlier, angrier, more damaged version of Jorah, which would explain why Jorah found himself drawn to Clegane. He did not know the man well, he had known the man for long, but he trusted him with his life, which was something he could not say of most men who stood ready to fight the dead alongside him.

Clegane, Bronn, and the rest had fought and survived together and that bound them to each other in a way that nothing else could. Battling against a tireless, endless enemy did establish a connection between men that could not be severed, so no matter how anyone viewed it, Jorah was tied to these men. For all his distrust in the gods, he did still believe that a higher power had brought him here, not just for Daenerys, but for Clegane, for Lady Sansa, for Ghost and Beric and Bronn and he supposed for Baelish as well. Escaping Westeros when Ned Stark wanted his head, surviving greyscale, living to tell the tale of falling from a flying dragon–these were not just strokes of luck. He firmly believed that he had a greater purpose to play and that tonight he would understand what that purpose was, as would several others.

Beric had been brought back multiple times from numerous deaths, and for what? Why had Clegane been saved after being left for dead? How was it possible that Jon Snow had returned after being stabbed in the heart? These were not fortunate happenings, but the work of something greater, and that was something Jorah had to believe in. He had to believe that there was something greater, that his life, however small, had some significance and purpose, even if it was to die here before the walls of Winterfell.

He had to believe that he had not done too little, too late.

Shaking his head as if bothered by a fly, he drummed the heel of his hand against his temple, for these were not the thoughts to be having just now when it was imperative that he remain vigilant. Still, he held a small hope that one of those men he knew, had fought with, considered a friend or ally, would still be alive at the end or at least, die alongside him.

Movement ahead had caused the horses to stir and Ghost came padding along, his large paws making no sound at all, muffled in the heavy falling snow. Jorah's horse did not rear at Ghost's approach, as it and the others had traveled in the presence of dragons and were not so easily scared. Perhaps the wolf knew that Jorah was separated from the rest of his pack and wanted to be with him during the charge. Jorah would not put it past the wolf to have such intelligent thoughts, and he was greatly comforted by Ghost's presence, leaning sideways to place his hand upon the wolf's head and feel the heat through his glove.

He had heard a great murmuring then from around the eastern side of the castle and called out to the sparsely placed archers some couple hundred feet away atop the southern wall what they saw. Word had spread that a woman in red had crossed the drawbridge. It was her arrival that Jorah had spent the next several moments thinking about before he heard the dragons come barreling down out of the sky, breathing life to the fire that set the trenches aflame, which meant the dead were here. The clashing of steel followed and then the horses began to grow restless at the promise of battle. Jorah shared a mind with them; what was happening out there? How quickly were the dead burning through their resources, how quickly were the defenders being slaughtered, how soon would Jorah hear the call that summoned him to move in?

Suddenly, in a rippling wave of glowing red, orange, yellow, and white, flames came to life across the moor as every unsheathed weapon caught fire. Jorah's newly acquired sword, Heartsbane, did not catch a flame, but he already had Valyrian steel at his disposal and fire would hardly help make it more deadly. With the heat of thousands of flaming arakhs behind him, Jorah knew the time was nearly upon them, only there was no horn call…

Surely, he should have heard something by now. He was never one for being overly optimistic, as it made one reckless, so he knew that this was not a case of his allies and fellow soldiers putting up a strong front and simply not requiring the Dothraki's assistance. Something had gone wrong. Something prevented the battlefield commanders from raising the signal for them.

Jorah lifted his sword high and sensed rather than saw Ghost's hackles raise, felt his horse scuff the ground in response to his action.

"Dothrakh ajjin ma anna!"

Thousands upon thousands of whoops and battle cries rose in a deafening roar behind him and digging his thighs into his horse's sides, he urged it forward into a gallop, leading the charge whether the defenders were ready for them or not. A few moments of riding blind and then he saw the fiery wall of stakes and the thousands of dark shapes leaping over it as the dead used their fellow corpses to launch themselves over the fire. The defenders were losing ground as catapults fired dozens of flaming chunks of debris, hay, and oil into the approaching darkness.

Pulling on the reins to make his horse hug the left, he urged the beast forward as several Dothraki riders drew level with him to make up the front line. Jorah could not hear his own thoughts as the war cries all around him came to a peak. Bracing for impact, Jorah held his sword outright like a spear and allowed his horse to carve a path through the dead.

Ghost kept pace with him, falling in line just to his left and knocking aside any wight that did not immediately go down when Jorah's horse made contact with it. The rasping, guttural sounds of the dead, the terrified shrieking of the horses, the shouts of thousands of men as they fought or died, all combined into a meaningless din in Jorah's ears that no single command could penetrate. He had no way to summon order amidst the mayhem happening on all sides of him.

The Dothraki were scattered now, he had lost sight of Ghost, and Jorah veered his destrier toward the right to summon enough riders for another charge. A new sound made what few riders he had gathered scatter as an undead giant stomped its way toward the trenches and came to a halt just out of reach of the fingers of fire, allowing its smaller brethren to use it as an easier and quicker means to leap over the stakes.

Jorah raised the cry to cut the giant's legs out from under it, but no sooner had he given the command that the giant swiped out with both arms and sent at least seven riders and their mounts flying apiece. After that, none of the Dothraki wanted to venture in close enough to dispatch the giant. Calling for riders to distract the giant as best they could while he chose to do the bravest–or perhaps most reckless–thing, Jorah urged his horse forward and leaned back until he was almost flat in the saddle. The giant snatched out at him, but for all of its strength and size, it was still slow and uncoordinated and Jorah stabbed Heartsbane deep into the side of its thigh.

It would not have been a mortal blow on a giant if it were alive, but direct penetrative contact with Valyrian steel was enough to fell White Walkers, and so it was more than enough to fell a wight, even if that wight happened to be a giant. The giant crumpled where it stood, flattening a handful of wights as it did.

As accomplished as Jorah felt after defeating such a devastating foe, his heart sank as he saw the shapes of more giants that had yet to come to the forefront. The number of wights pouring over into the amassed defenders was overwhelming, even with the Dothraki doing their best to delay and intercept them. No matter how many corpses he struck down, it made no difference. His arm grew tired, his offense sloppier, his mind less alert. His horse was now having to step over mounds of bodies and at any moment, Jorah feared it would twist a leg and send him sprawling.

Through it all, he did not once hear Drogon or Rhaegal circling above and he feared for his queen, but something told him that he would know if she was dead. If anything had happened to their mother, one or the other dragon would have made a sound that could be heard above all else. They had cried for their brother when the Night King felled Viserion beyond the Wall and they would surely make the same cries if either of them came to the same fate. No, somewhere, Daenerys and the dragons were still alive, likely engaged with the cadaver of their brother and the Night King.

Following his lead, Dothraki riders began employing the same technique to fell the giants that were coming in close to the trenches, but at the sacrifice of several riders, one giant fell forward across the trench, effectively creating a bridge and allowing wights to swamp the defenders. Jorah heard the call to retreat and repeated the word in the Dothraki tongue. Those who had been thrown from their horses were now climbing atop fellow riders' horses in full retreat with orders to regroup at the hunter's gate and continue the battle on foot inside the walls.

Calling for any stragglers to hurry, Jorah forced himself not to look back into the pitch black horizon. His horse was about ready to collapse underneath him and so with a firm word but a gentle touch to the back of its neck, he rode for the hunter's gate. To his right, he saw those who were not quick enough to withdraw from the battlefield being cut down as if they had never existed.

A wolf's howl alerted him to the sight of Ghost with blood splattered across his coat, running just ahead toward a lone figure whose silhouette was eerily outlined in the trench fires that raged on. The man stumbled about, sword held loosely at his side and Jorah knew before getting a better look that it was Clegane. The fire was too much for him, surrounded by flaming weapons and catapults and trenches all burning brightly and drowning him in everlasting heat. Jorah was surprised the man had made it this far into battle before going to pieces, but the manner in which he was staggering toward the hunter's gate made Jorah think that he was still somewhat sane, if reluctant to remain where the fire burned bright.

"Clegane!" he hollered and was relieved to see the man veer around to bring him into focus with his face awash in sweat and fear, but very much alive and present. Jorah held out his arm without slowing his horse but as he did so, he wondered if he was strong enough to pull a man of Clegane's size up onto the saddle. For one horrible moment, he thought Clegane had frozen, but then the bigger man threw himself up onto the horse's back, clinging to Jorah's shoulder straps with a grip that pinched. Ignoring his discomfort, Jorah hollered to the guard above the hunter's gate, warning Clegane to lean over as they passed through the doorway, the last of the riders.

Once inside, Jorah watched guards begin to seal the gate shut. Inwardly, he had dark thoughts that one good strike from a giant's fist would cave the gate in on impact. He guided his horse to a hitching post, securing the reins and giving Ghost a grateful pat on his hindquarters but found that Clegane was refusing to slide out of the saddle, gasping like some great winded animal, fingers balled into fists that shielded his eyes from an unseen enemy. Jorah knew what it was, but the only fire inside the castle was controlled in pits or torches. Nothing burned as brightly on the inside as it did in the trenches outside.

"We're needed on the walls," Jorah told Clegane in an attempt to rouse him, but he might as well have been pressing the issue to the gate from which they had just come through for all the good it did. He set a cautionary hand on Clegane's knee and tried again with a different approach. "This battle is far from over and your men need their commander. They will take heart from you if you lead them."

Still with no response, Jorah nudged Clegane a little harder but when that proved just as fruitless, he grabbed one of his wrists as Ghost took a mouthful of Clegane's faulds and pulled him straight out of the saddle. Clegane landed with firmly planted feet, but now that his hands had come away from his eyes, Jorah saw the wildness there, the recollection and terror of what the fire had done to him and why even now, he could not face his greatest fear.

Jorah had seen this look on the faces of men who had slipped right over the edge and passed into the realms of insanity but he was hoping to high seven heavens that Clegane was not there yet.

"Get your fucking hands off've me," Clegane growled with a feeble attempt to swat Jorah's hands away.

"Come to your senses, man. I know you are thinking of those memories of fire, but this battle is greater than you and the fire. Your men–"

"I won't fucking tell you again, let go of me!"

Jorah released him, then scooped up a handful of snow from the ground and pelted Clegane full on in the face with it which had the desired effect of bringing him out of his stupor, though now he looked capable of murder and not in the way Jorah wanted or needed.

"Look at me, Sandor," he demanded. "I know I am asking the world of you in this moment to swallow your fear, bury it deep down, and continue to fight, but you must do it. I know you are afraid, as am I, but you have someone to fight for and someone to live for, so if not for you, do it for her. And if you already believe you won't see her again, then see me now and do it for me. I am afraid of that darkness out there, seeping in, but I am going up onto the wall to keep the darkness back and I ask you to do the same and fight beside me. If you cannot do that, I need you to hide."

The mere mention alluding to the fact that Sandor Clegane could not muster the courage to do what was necessary, that he was a coward who could not face his fears, had the desired effect in driving out any doubts remaining on Clegane's face. He drew his sword, staring hard at Jorah through those maddened brown eyes, but with the familiarity of anger that Jorah now knew well. The man was still holding on.

"Don't you call me coward, Mormont."

"Don't give me a reason to. Are you with me?"

"Got my fucking sword in my hand, don't I?"

"No, are you here with me?" asked Jorah pointedly.

Clegane worked through another moment of painful recollection, shook out his head, and ran his fingers through Ghost's fur as the wolf stood loyally beside him to reassure him. "I'm trying to be," he said at last.

"Then come on."

/ /

BRONN

Given the limited room for horses behind the trenches, Bronn had opted to stay afoot beside a banner and do his best to stay near it so his men would know where he was, but he had had to abandon that idea almost instantly once the wights began to jump over the fiery stakes. They came steadily, never allowing for a moment of respite, but Bronn took enormous pride that these Lannister men held their ground to fight beside him. They took courage from him, he was certain, for they had seen him in battle and knew his capabilities, knew he would not abandon them.

The same could not be said for the Queensguard who allowed several rows of men to be cut down as the knights tried to throw others forward to protect their own arses. Bronn was willing to bet heavily on finding the Queensguard battering down the door to the crypts later on, begging to be let in to hide as if that would stop the dead. What he wouldn't pay to see the Mountain split those men in half to prevent them from having access to the crypts.

But there were more important things to worry about just now, namely how he and his men were about to be overrun. He had tried to signal for one of the horn blowers to summon the Dothraki, but no matter how loudly he shouted, his voice could not carry. The Dothraki came all the same, though, thanks to Mormont's good senses. It was enormously satisfying to see the Dothraki about to lay an army low when Bronn was allies with the savages rather than enemies of them and though Bronn allowed himself a few moments to marvel at the dead being trampled underfoot by the tidal wave of riders, his relief was short lived.

Almost instantly, the dead pressed back and Bronn saw hundreds of flaming arakhs extinguished as their riders were swallowed by the vast ocean of unending death. Through it all, Bronn could have sworn he saw a vivid streak of white, a set of red eyes when nearly everything he saw was blue. He hoped the wolf would make it, almost longing for his warmth and his company as he had had when he last saw the dead at Last Hearth.

The speed at which the dead overwhelmed them was unlike anything Bronn had ever seen. Soldiers had been set aflame and scattered to the wind against dragons, which was understandable, but the sheer mountain of corpses setting upon them in waves was incredible. He lost twenty men in five seconds and another twenty the following four seconds. The Unsullied had spread out in front of the Stark and Lannister soldiers, creating a wall to hold off the wights as those behind the line dealt with stragglers and tried to catch their breath.

The Dothraki had made a small dent in the onslaught, but the numbers piled against them were still too great. They needed the upper hand, a vantage point, a barrier.

"Fall back! Fall back inside!"

His instincts were telling him to run for it now and be the first through the gates to temporary safety, but then he remembered that he was a commander and that his men would be looking to him, taking their cues on whether they should panic or withdraw orderly to the courtyard. He took up the chant to retreat, pushing men past him, watching his own back as wights slipped through the faltering Unsullied lines.

For every wight he killed, there was a hundred to take its place and his arms began to tire despite his best efforts to pace himself. He had been in enough duels, skirmishes, and battles to know that fatigue was the first thing to kill a man, followed closely by arrogance and stupidity, but it was taking all of his effort to stay alive when his enemy refused to tire or to die.

He held for as long as he could, as long as was sensible, which was more than he could say for Euron Greyjoy who was still pushing his men to fight long after the horn sounded to retreat. Bronn would say this for the black kraken: he had some of the largest balls ever known to man and it was a wonder that his horse's legs didn't buckle under the sheer weight of them. He and his men were almost solely responsible for defending the retreat as all others fell back behind the catapults. As mad as the fucker was, as despicable and irritating, he was still a vital asset and Bronn did not want to lose him as a fighter if he didn't have to, so he called out to the black kraken when he and his men were moments away from being consumed by the horde.

"Fall back now, you bastards!"

The Dothraki crossed in another charge that allowed Greyjoy to usher his men to the final fallback line, bring up the rear, and then signal for the drawbridge to collapse behind him. It was a biting sort of finality that they all heard when Grey Worm gave the tug that cut off any retreat from the eastern side. Those individuals still caught out on the field who were not part of the Dothraki stood next to no chance unless they managed to grab onto one of the horses and swing themselves up onto the backs of the beasts. They could try to run, but they would never make it. Anyone on foot out there was as good as dead, and Bronn knew dozens, if not hundreds of fighters had not made it to the gate.

"Close the gate!" came the fierce voice of little Lyanna Mormont and Bronn backed away, allowing the shadow of the stone archway to cast over him as he felt-not for the first time in his life-helpless. It was not a feeling he enjoyed, for it meant that he gave a shit about someone other than himself, but he did not like feeling as if he had no control over his own fate and watching how easily experienced fighters were murdered by the Night King's army gave him little hope that he would fare any differently.

Bronn was one of the last ones through the gate, something that he would not have done if he had just been Bronn the sellsword who looked out for his own arse before others, but he had many lives under his command this night and could not afford to be selfish, for their survival meant his. He saw the Dothraki still crisscrossing, their flaming arakhs swooping and slicing as they caught the dead in their crossfire. They had not yet been given their own call to retreat but when they did, they would ride around to the hunter's gate. There was still over half of the Dothraki force in fighting condition, but the dead were greater and the occupants of the castle could not rely on the Dothraki to be the final barrier for much longer.

Somewhere out there, he hoped Mormont was still alive.

Beric, Tormund, Lady Brienne, and Euron Greyjoy stood beside him, ushering the last of the fighters in. It was then that Bronn came to the realization that any commander worth his salt should be standing there with the quintet, which told him that Clegane and Sers Arys, Balon, and Boros were too wounded to retreat, had fled in fear, or were already dead. He didn't give two shits about the Queensguard knights, but he knew the soldiers who looked to those men as their commanders would now be running around leaderless.

Grabbing at a Stark man, Bronn asked loudly, "Clegane?" but the soldier shook his head to signify that he didn't know.

They watched in solemn silence as the dead hacked away at the last of those left between the trenches and the wall. None of them had time to speak a word to each other as they took command once again. Already falling into the next part of the fallback plan, they separated to their respective secondary positions which meant Bronn was in charge of splitting his forces between the courtyard and the walls.

To make it easier to separate the Lannister army into divisions under each battlefield commander, the soldiers had been given a fallen Lannister tribute they were assigned to and Bronn's division had been given to the late Princess Myrcella. He called out her name to rally his troops. "All Myrcella soldiers t'me! On the eastern walls, behind the archers! All Myrcella soldiers follow me t'the eastern wall! The rest've you lot, shift yerselves to the south and south western walls!"

He took the stairs two at a time, arriving beside Ser Jaime who was overseeing the archers and directing the runners when to refill the ground quivers. The next wall commander was several hundred feet to the left, being Theon Greyjoy. Bronn helped spread out his soldiers to wait for the command to relieve the archers and then sheathing his sword, took up a bow and arrow and elbowed his way in between Littlefinger and another archer.

Littlefinger paid him almost no mind at all as he continued to fit arrows into his bow, take careful aim, and make almost every one of his shots count. Given a few months to perfect his craft, he might have put Bronn to shame with his accuracy, but neither of them would live to see that marvel. He was a man who thrived in his element when pushed to the absolute limit and apparently, seeing a massive wall of undead fuckers coming at him was enough to bring out the best in him. Pity his skills had been wasted all these years in running brothels and starting the war that decimated the entire country.

Yet, Bronn could tell that his courage was failing as the wights came in closer. "Are you afraid t'die, Baelish?" he asked almost playfully but with a touch of insult.

"I am terrified," Littlefinger answered in his indifferent tone as he let another arrow fly.

"You'd be an idiot if you weren't. Keep on it, then."

Bronn moved down the line, taking a shot wherever he could, anticipating where their defenses would be weakest. He had just nocked another arrow when an ungodsly screech made him drop to his knees and cover his head. He felt the presence of the archer beside him–and then he didn't. When he looked up, the archer was gone, and Bronn saw his body toppling from the dead dragon's claws some hundred yards out onto the battlefield. He had no time to even consider what had happened when the dragon doubled back and he shouted for anyone to hear to take cover.

It became a battle of timing their shots just so to avoid becoming a victim of the dead dragon but keeping up the defense of the walls. Even those who completely flattened themselves to present less of a target for the beast were at risk and if it wasn't bodies being picked from the ramparts, it was chunks of castle wall being damaged from the deadly whip of the dragon's tail. They could not keep up this pattern forever without losing significant numbers.

Another telltale shriek and Bronn clapped his hands over his ears, swearing to the skies as the dead dragon's shadow passed over them yet again. It swooped low and closed its claws around another two defenders, tossing them out into the sea of wights below. Another few passes like that and there would be no one left to defend the walls, inviting room for the wights to come right up over the battlements.

Where the hells were the other dragons right now? Could they not sense or hear their dead brother wreaking havoc on the castle? The Dragon Queen and Jon Snow ought to have some control over them to make them enter the fray again, unless the dragon riders were dead. Somehow, Bronn knew they weren't. The dragons would be roaring up a storm and going into a murderous rage if their mother was dead, if their connection to the Targaryen woman was to be believed so she, at least, was still alive. What, then, was she doing? She had chosen one hells of a time to play coy when her armies needed her.

A stiff hand rested upon his shoulder, heavier than most, and as Bronn turned to see the golden reflection on the hand, he knew why.

"Get to one of Qyburn's scorpions," yelled Ser Jaime.

"An' do what?" Bronn responded, certain that Ser Jaime didn't intend for Bronn to pick out a target in a fog of smoke, snow, and darkness.

"Shoot the dead dragon! You managed to shoot a live one before; a dead one shouldn't be much more difficult. The scorpion is fitted with dragonglass shafts so go shoot the damned thing!"

"You go shoot at it!" Bronn bit back. Ser Jaime held up his golden hand and Bronn cursed him. "That's gettin' real fuckin' old, that is. Do I have t'do fuckin' everythin'?"

It was meant as a rhetorical question, but Ser Jaime shrugged almost as if he pitied Bronn. "Once more, I'm afraid, my friend."

"I get killed tryin' t'do this, I'm comin' right back here for you. If I die, you do too," he promised, and then started shoving his way through the congregation of men preparing to take over for those who had been snatched off the walls. "Clear the way! Fuck off, the lot've you, out've me fuckin' way!" He grabbed the first man he came into contact with who wasn't currently wielding a sword and wheeled him around to come face to face with Littlefinger who had drawn his bow on Bronn, though this time with good reason. He let the bow string go slack as he saw that he had been grabbed by an ally and not a wight, but his smeared, sooty face was still wide-eyed and terrified.

"You, with me," Bronn told him. "I need someone t'guard me back as I try t'shoot that giant fuckin' dead dragon down."

Littlefinger blinked once as if he had not heard Bronn correctly. "And you think I'm the best man for the job?"

"No, I don't, but those wights will be over the wall any moment an' you're the only person I saw who's shit with a sword an' fair with a bow which means you're all I've got, so you'll come with me all the same or it's off the wall y'go."

Shooting Bronn a look of disdain at this backhanded compliment and his recent promotion, Littlefinger grabbed a handful of arrows from the ground quiver, stuck them into the quiver on his back, and ran alongside Bronn, fighting through the throng of defenders to get to the nearest bastion with a scorpion that had so far survived being smashed by the trail of destruction the dead dragon was leaving behind with every pass.

Arriving at the scorpion, Bronn instructed Littlefinger to keep back the wights at any cost if they managed to scale the wall and then set about to making final preparations to fire a bolt. He made certain that the sling was pulled taut, the bolt was in place, and the rotating platform was unlocked and then positioned himself in front of the lever to launch once he could manage a clear shot. The thought was laughable: a clear shot, in these conditions.

Littlefinger nervously stepped from foot to foot, unsure of which direction to face as he continuously glanced over his shoulder at Bronn who was raking his eyes over the skies in search of his target. It had been difficult enough finding the live dragon in a haze of smoke with the sunlight nearly blinding him, but just how the fuck was he supposed to even know which direction the dead dragon was coming from? He could see fuck-all right now and the sheer impossible weight of being tasked with shooting the damn thing made him kick at the scorpion in frustration, earning him only a sore toe and a near misfire which would have meant a wasted bolt and several precious seconds of time reloading that he did not have.

He felt a shadow fall over him, felt the air grow closer as if something large and impenetrable had come between him and the sky above. It was not much to go on, but it was enough to give him a warning.

"Down!" he called, dropping to his knees, and just in time, for the dead dragon's claws scraped the open wall top between him and Littlefinger and Bronn just had time to stand back up and shoot. His bolt narrowly missed the dragon's underbelly.

Godsdammit.

"Oi, where're the living ones of you fuckers?" he yelled in indignation, actively searching and hoping for the dragons on his side to put in an appearance just to appease his shout of indignation at their deliberate lack of helpfulness. They hadn't been seen since the Night King joined the battle and that greatly worried him. If they'd lost the use of the living dragons and still had the dead one to contend with, he may as well call the beast down to him now and invite it to throw him from the walls because it would be a far better and quicker death than the one in store for him otherwise.

He had just started to reposition the scorpion's aim when he heard the dreaded cry from one of the defenders, "They're at the walls!"

"Don't you fuckin' do it!" Bronn hollered at Littlefinger who was already positioned to flee from his post. "Guard my back, y'twat, or it's you that dragon will swipe up next. You leave me to do this on my own now an' I'll pitch you off the wall meself an' laugh as the dead eat you alive."

Littlefinger chanced a look down at the base of the wall and whatever he saw put him in full flight mode again. "They're coming up," he told Bronn with a definite note of panic in his voice.

"Baelish, I need you!" Bronn could not chance leaving this exact spot to give chase to Littlefinger, but he needed to make his point absolutely clear or risk everything. The gods were having a good laugh over the fate of humanity resting on Petyr Baelish's shoulders. "I'm the best shot with this thing we've got an' that dragon's gotta come down, but I can't defend meself an' look for a clear shot at the same time. I need you."

His tone was pleading, but the look he was giving Littlefinger told him, If you run, I'll kill you.

Littlefinger was having a silent battle with himself as his instincts willed him to save himself but his inner purpose told him to stay and do something useful for once in his miserable life. Even though it was time and effort he could not afford to waste, Bronn prepared to run the little shit through with his sword if he so much as took one step away from his post but incredibly, amazingly, he held firm.

Bronn dared to look away from Littlefinger and set about to adjusting the winches on either side of the scorpion. He loaded another bolt into place and hurried back around to get into position.

"They're over the wall!" came the shout from somewhere to their right.

Bronn's eyes were streaming to make sense of the shapes of the clouds and pick out the dead dragon among them, but he yelled without tearing his gaze away, "Hold, Baelish! Even if they come up onto this bit've wall, keep 'em off've me!"

He was rewarded with the sound of a wight falling to its second death as Littlefinger shot it mid-leap while it tried to scale the wall. His accuracy must have surprised him, for he was standing there with a slack bow when the second wight emerged from below.

"Fuckin' move, y'stupid cunt!"

Jerking his head as if coming out of a daze, Littlefinger grasped an arrow shaft close to the point and drove it into the wight's empty eye socket. Immediately on contact, the wight toppled out of sight, leaving Littlefinger once again in a state of disbelief that he had killed something in such close proximity to him. This time, however, he got a hold of himself and restrung an arrow into his bow, leaning over the battlements to shoot straight down.

"Put the bow down, use your sword," Bronn advised. "When one gets high enough, stab it."

Looking none too thrilled with the idea of taking away the distance between himself and the enemy and thereby placing him more directly in harm's way, Littlefinger tucked his bow into his quiver and drew his dragonglass sword, lifting it into an offensive position. Without the shield he had become reliant on, he looked even smaller than usual and Bronn saw him reposition his feet, widening his stance and crouching slightly with a bend in his knees as he ran through the steps to get into position.

"Steady," Bronn told him, listening intently for the sound of open air to suddenly become denser, as it was the only sign he could rely on to tell him the dragon was coming. He would only have one more shot at this, he was certain, for the Night King had surely seen what the scorpion was designed to do and would make it his mission to destroy the contraption. Bronn would have to shoot before the dragon passed by, essentially staring it down as he had done before with the living dragon.

"Fucking come on then, you fucker," he muttered under his breath as he felt the closeness of the air once again. He wheeled the scorpion around and saw the icy blue fire brimming in the dead dragon's throat as it prepared to incinerate him but determinedly looked no higher than its eyes, as he knew what nerve he had left would fail him if he stared into the face of the Night King. Hoping for accuracy, expecting a miss, Bronn released the bolt but as soon as he did, he lost sight of it and instead saw the dead dragon falter in mid-air as if it had suddenly run into an invisible solid object.

If he thought the screeching had been bad before, it was nothing compared to the teeth-grinding, ear-splitting wail that came out of the dead dragon's mouth this time. It nose-dived and Bronn threw himself from the scorpion post just before the claws smashed into the woodwork. A great, shuddering crash announced that something incredibly large and heavy had collided with a snowbank out on the moor and when the world stopped shaking, Bronn stood up and ran to the battlements to see what he only dared hope for.

"Did you get it?" asked Baelish, emerging from the snow and debris beside him with his arms still positioned to protect his head.

"Fuck me, I did," said Bronn more in shock than relief. No man alive could have claimed to have hit an airborne dragon with a bolt before but no one in history could lay claim to having hit a dead airborne dragon and Bronn had done both. He had no way of knowing if he had actually killed the thing, though, and judging by the sounds of the dead continuing to scale the walls, he would not have time to find out.