SANSA

There were strict instructions to not allow anyone through after Sansa unless it be Jon or Daenerys—or Sandor, but from the sounds of mayhem she heard from above, she privately believed that no guards remained to enforce that rule. It had been maddening, listening to the sounds of battle grow stronger without being able to see what was happening. She had begun to pace, something she was certain Cersei would take issue with, but it seemed that even Cersei was past the point of caring about such trivial things. It was difficult to interpret what the shouts from above meant, to guess at what stage the battle was progressing and wonder if they were about to be met with swarms of wights plundering down into the crypts.

Ser Gregor had been stationed outside and for the first and only time, Sansa hoped that he was still there, for if he had fallen or been driven away, nothing would remain to guard the doors. She knew the Stark guards would hold as long as they could, but a man's bravery only went so far in this life. Sooner or later, those doors would come down, no matter who stood in front of them.

She tried not to think of all those people she knew, her friends, her family, her loved ones, lying dead all across the castle grounds. She could not bear the thought of stumbling across their unmoving bodies, leaving her alone to face the darkness one last time.

Tyrion would not pace with her, but he did catch her hand and tell her over the heightening sounds from above, "Your best chance when they come through is to run."

"Can you run?" Sansa asked. It was not meant to be an insult, but both of them knew that Tyrion's legs would not carry him very far very fast and she was loathe to leave him behind if she had to sprint for safety.

"Of course I can, but you weren't really asking that, were you?"

"I won't go without you."

"Yes, you will," said Tyrion sternly, and there were tears brimming in his eyes at her stout devotion to him.

"We're no longer wed and you cannot give me orders."

"No, but I can ask you as my friend to not wait for me."

"I am not leaving you, not again."

Her life had gone to seven hells the last time she had abandoned him to save herself and though her life would not last much longer regardless of whether or not she stayed with him, he might be all that she had left in this world at this very moment. If she could do nothing else for him to make up for how she had left him to fend for himself in the wake of Joffrey's murder, she could stay with him in their last moments.

Squeezing her hand for a brief moment, he brought her fingertips to his mouth. "Dearest, I know you don't want to die like this, and I do not begrudge you the chance to run when you have the legs to do it. Please, do not stay on my account. I love you, but I cannot die knowing that I killed you because you refused to leave me due to my misfortune of being born without long legs."

"I'm going to die because this is the end, not because of how long your legs are," Sansa argued.

Tyrion would have said more if they had not, for the briefest moment, heard all the commotion from above as if it had grown louder, but then it was slightly muffled again and disguised by the sound of uneven footfalls as someone or something came staggering down the steps.

Sansa tightened her hold in Tyrion's hand and whispered, "Don't let go of me." Drawing her dagger with her free hand, she wheeled around to face the direction of the footsteps as all those behind her fell silent in anticipation of what was coming. In the dimly lit light of the torches, she saw the haggard, bloodied face of–

"You coward," seethed Tyrion, stepping forward in anger to greet Petyr Baelish.

Every time she had seen Littlefinger since Sandor's attack on him, Sansa had forgotten that he had a broken nose and every time, it never failed to startle her. Before, it had put him on the edge of taking on some ghoulish appearance, but now, with blood splatters all over him, his face coated in soot, his hair dusted with ash, his hollowed out eyes and the swelling and bruising around his nose made him look positively deranged to the point that Sansa took an ungainly step back in fear that he might have gone rabid.

At Tyrion's accusation, she could see Littlefinger bristle and when he spoke, he sounded quite sane, if not far angrier than she had ever seen or heard him before. "You'll not call me coward when you have been down here for the course of the entire battle—"

Tyrion held his hand at eye level to emphasize the minor complication of his height. "I was commanded to stay down here because I can barely see over the fucking battlements!"

"How did you get past Ser Gregor and the Stark guards?" asked Cersei, now truly fearing what his answer might be if the last of her Queensguard had abandoned her.

"He wasn't there. No one is guarding the door," answered Littlefinger. "The dead are swarming the castle and it won't be much longer before they break through those doors."

"Or you lured Ser Gregor away so that you could come crawling down here to hide behind women and children," Cersei accused.

"If I had wanted to hide, I would have found a less obvious place with actual options to hide, not a wide-open tunnel packed with statues that offer no protection whatsoever."

"How many died so that you could come to give us this warning?" asked Missandei who obviously disliked Littlefinger on principle and was holding him personally responsible for the fact that Daenerys, Ser Jorah, and Grey Worm might be dead.

"I suppose you forfeited your position on the wall due to our soldiers losing ground on that front?" guessed Lord Varys.

"Yes, I did," said Littlefinger and Sansa noticed that his arms were laden with four quivers, two bows, and a small handful of close-combat weapons. "Ser Bronn dismissed me from the walls not long before they were overrun. The dead are inside now, and they'll continue scaling the walls and we cannot hold them back. Our options are to let death come for us or meet it."

He handed Sansa a quiver and bow and then gave Tyrion a dragonglass axe already bloodied. His hand was coated in red and as he stepped Sansa saw his boot leave a bloody print from a wound in his side.

Conflicting emotions surged through her. She had branded this man a coward and yet he was still alive, not because he had had other men die for him but because he had taken up weapons to fight. Somehow, she knew that he had not willingly left the wall, but been ordered to retreat as he claimed. He had been told to go where he would be most useful, which was where he had room to use the one weapon in which he excelled. He had brought them weapons and warning, not come running to them trembling in fear. This was not a man beaten by the horrors he had seen outside; this was a man still ready and willing to fight. And a man willing to fight and die was not the Petyr Baelish she knew.

Nearly everyone was regarding him with disgust for not standing to fight above because even though he had run from battle to bring them weapons and warning, he had still fled. But Sansa knew better. He had come for her. After he had exhausted his efforts and no one was left to hold him accountable at his post, he had come to find her as one final demonstration to her that when called upon, he could do the right thing.

"Sansa," he said heavily and she saw red stains on his teeth. He was wounded, possibly dying, and strangely, eerily, calm. He was looking for her validation now, more than ever. He needed her to believe him for her own sake, to help defend her when the dead came for them.

"Those who are able to fight, take up arms," commanded Sansa. "All others retreat to the back of the crypts. Hold this line." She saw Cersei cradle her swelling womb and against better judgment, handed her a dragonglass blade from the meager supply at their disposal. "If they make it past us, you fight until your last breath for your child. That child deserves a chance."

She was thoroughly prepared to have to kill the woman right there if Cersei was stupid enough to try and run Sansa through with the weapon that had just been given to her, but instead Cersei gave her a long, lingering look of–something Sansa could not place, but it was contemplative. This was likely the last time the two of them would ever see each other alive and while Cersei could very well have brought the heavens down on them in a dramatically uncharacteristic change of heart, Sansa had no more time to waste on the other woman.

Standing up beside Sansa and Littlefinger came young Ned Stark, just slightly taller than Tyrion, still a boy, and still limping from the injury he had sustained when he rode to collect his people. He was deemed unfit for fighting when other boys his age were given leave to make up the last defenses but now, he was the first to contribute his sword.

A small collection of women and elderly men divided their weapons among them and spread out on either side of Sansa. Sticking the four quiverfulls of arrows into the soft earth before them, Littlefinger took center stance, nocked an arrow to his bow, and looked to Sansa. "Don't wait for the last arrow," he told her, and then to Tyrion and Ned added, "All of you start running at fifth to last arrow."

"And where do you suggest we run to?" asked Tyrion.

"Wherever you can, but not back."

Sansa heard the door give an almighty shudder on its hinges as something knocked against it, trying to get in.

"They're coming," said Lord Varys, who Sansa was surprised to see had a dragonglass cleaver in hand. Apparently he had just enough shame to not want to die as an able-bodied if inexperienced man while the crippled and the incapable fought in his stead.

Another terrifying tremble of the door made all but Littlefinger jump and nearly drop their weapons. Sansa's unsteady fingers tried to fit an arrow into her bow. Her teeth were chattering as the cold from above descended upon them and it was all she could do to keep her knees from knocking together.

She was going to die. In another few moments, in an hour, but soon. They were coming for her. Death was coming and Sansa could not command her damned fingers to remain still to at least have some control in how quickly she met death.

Littlefinger's hand touched hers, bloodied, quivering, but warm. "Steady," he told her.

He was no fool; he feared death, as did every man and even his passive expression could not disguise that, but he was trying to be the strength she needed when she had none here. There were no bigger and better men to protect her. There was no one to protect her; her luck on that front had finally run out. No Jon, no Arya, no Theon, no Sandor—only Petyr Baelish. Again.

Sansa grasped his hand, needing to feel the pressure there, to know she was still alive—about to die, but still alive.

"Steady," he said again as they heard the door finally give in, its heavy timbers crumbling away under the force of a thousand wights pressing against it. Their rattling noise flooded the crypts, their thunderous footsteps pounding down the stairs.

"Tyrion, stay with me," she choked out, realizing that she and Littlefinger were all that stood between all of these people and whatever was about to come flooding toward them. Her own abysmal skill with the bow was all that could save her people and she prayed, for accuracy, for speed, for courage.

She wanted to think of Jon and Arya above, fighting still, the last among the survivors; of Bran awaiting the Night King in the godswood; of Sandor…Sandor…

But she could spare no thought for anything but the swarm breaking into the halls of her ancestors to destroy the last of her house.

The flickering lantern light deceived her perception of depth as they came in packs of three or four. Littlefinger drew his bow taut, waiting for a clear shot, and then let his arrow fly. Sansa took aim and released her first arrow and though it missed her initial target, it did hit a wight behind.

She drew faster than she ever had, releasing each arrow as she marked eyes, noses, and ears, recalling Ser Bronn's instructions to aim for a small target to make the margin for mistake smaller in turn. Her fingers were blistering with the speed of drawing her arrows and she was rewarded each time with a wight toppling and sending its brethren sprawling over its twice-fallen body, buying them all time.

Her brain was not working, not allowing her to count the number of arrows left, but as she reached for one, Littlefinger shoved her hand away and ordered her to drop her bow, draw her knife, and run .

But run where?

"Tyrion!" she cried, and felt his fingers clutching her wrist for a second to let her know he was there. Dagger in hand, she prepared to run, but remembered that she was supposed to hold the line. She had given the order and would be a damn sorry excuse for a Lady of Winterfell, a Stark, and a Northerner if she ran to leave her people to the wights.

There were too many, though, and she had no close combat skills.

"Sansa!" Littlefinger was staring at her with urgency, wondering why she had frozen. She shook her head and held her dagger forward, preparing to stab whatever she could before she went down. She saw the look of exasperation come over Littlefinger as he realized what she was doing and found recognition there. There was the Littlefinger she knew, who protected himself first and then her, and held no regard for anyone else. He had told her to run to avoid this exact situation, but since she wouldn't, he had a choice to flee yet again, or stand with her.

And in another display of irregularity, he half-stepped in front of her in preparation to meet the horde that was almost upon them–

A snarl, a flash of white, and then a howl—a call to arms.

It was Ghost, but he was not alone. Another wolf, speckled grey but matching him in size came barreling down the steps, leading a pack at least a dozen and a half strong. And some of them were enormous, not regular wolves, but direwolves, pups born of a mother as fearless as the human who named her.

Nymeria, thought Sansa in bewilderment.

Taking advantage of the wolves' arrival, Sansa called over her shoulder for those hidden at the back of the crypts to run and then began to fight her way forward. She hardly needed to lift her dagger, as the wolves were doing an admirable job in holding back the horde, but wights were still slipping through the ranks, enough to make the hidden survivors scatter. She found herself being shoved from behind as the women, children, and elderly used their combined weight to push the dead back.

Sansa saw a young girl, no more than five being crushed underfoot and dropped her guard. Then Two pairs of hands grabbed her and shoved her aside into one of the recesses that housed the empty tomb of Rickard Stark. Shielded from view, she saw that Tyrion and Littlefinger had both joined her and were now waiting for a clear path to the steps leading back up above. Knowing that her people were dying just on the other side of the statue of her grandfather, Sansa made to move, but Littlefinger held her down.

"You can't. You've done all for them that you can. You have to think of yourself now," he told her.

"That sort of thinking helped me become Joffrey's prisoner for years," Sansa shot back.

"Then think of your brother," urged Tyrion. "Think of Bran. If the castle is overrun, the dead will be drawn to him. You can help him if you make it to him in time."

But would she? Could she? She had not thought that Bran would become her responsibility, not when Jon, Arya, Theon, and others had promised to protect him. It should not have fallen on her to be the final say between Bran and the Night King, yet for all she knew, she was the final say. She was only in such a position because she was able-bodied, unlike Bran. Had he still had the use of his legs, he would be just as deadly as Jon with a sword, she was certain. He would be swift and accurate like Arya…but he wasn't, and he could never be, so Sansa was all that he had left.

Listening to the massacre happening behind her, Sansa bit her lip and said somewhat helplessly, "We won't make it."

"Not if we stay here."

Littlefinger pressed a finger to his lips and crawled on all fours around the side of the tomb where he came face to face with a snarling white face. Sansa would have screamed, except it was only from being startled, not from what met them. Ghost, splattered in blood and heaving, licked at Littlefinger's ear and then faced outward.

That was as clear of a signal as any. Resting one hand on Littlefinger's back to let him know she was behind him and taking Tyrion's hand in her other, Sansa hauled him to his feet and the three of them bolted, following behind Ghost who was clearing the way for them. The horde did not seem as dense now, but Sansa dared not look down at the many bodies laying at her feet. The toes of her boots collided with the first step and she hurried up them as quickly as she could without letting go of Tyrion. Then, after passing through near darkness, she felt fresh air break onto her skin and saw the carnage around her.

Struggling to focus, she turned right toward the entrance to the godswood, hugging the wall and hoping to go unnoticed. Not far from the crypt doors, she saw a sight that pulled her up short and despite herself, she had to stop and watch.

Cersei and Qyburn had been backed into a corner and though Cersei was still armed, her Hand was not. As intelligent, wily, and murderous as he was, Qyburn was useless in the field of battle. He gave a shriek as a wight sliced out at him, opening him from hip to hip and spilling his innards out over his knees. Cersei backed away from her last line of defense, grasping her dagger with both hands. She was glowing, the light of Lannister gold shining behind her eyes as she prepared to die. She looked like her twin brother, like her father, Lion-hearted at the end, she side-stepped a wight's attack and stabbed it in its exposed side.

Sansa could not help admire this woman who she had once envied, adored, and worshipped. Truly, a Lannister through and through in how she put every ounce of knowledge she had into the fight even as a woman who likely had never been allowed to wield a weapon of any sort in combat or practice. She had spent her entire life watching Ser Jaime and though she could not spar alongside him, she had committed his defensive movements to memory and it served her now.

In that moment, Sansa did not want Cersei to die, as Cersei was now a soldier whether she intended to be or not. Even knowing that if they survived, she would eventually have to face this woman again on opposing sides, Sansa had no desire to see her enemy slain, but she did feel a sense of purpose in knowing that it was this battle to end all battles that had brought out the very best in such a horrid, despicable, hateful woman. As Sansa had ordered her to, she was fighting for her child, and such bravery was to be commended, but it was not to last, as Sansa knew it wouldn't.

A wight's axe cut her across the abdomen and she staggered back, clutching a hand to her womb.

Then, Tyrion was gone from Sansa's side, ducking beneath battling duos to reach his sister. After everything, after how Cersei had tried to have her baby brother killed multiple times, scorned him, hated him, and blamed him, Tyrion still ran to her. Her life meant just as much as his did even though he had allied himself with a woman who wanted to unseat and possibly execute his sister. Seeing death come for what could very well be his last sibling, Tyrion put aside every wrongdoing he had ever suffered at Cersei's hands.

Sansa called for him to come back while also moving to follow him, but Littlefinger caught her around the wrist.

"You go after him and you'll die," he promised. Sansa tried to pull herself away, but Littlefinger urged, "Your brother, Sansa. We have to get to your brother."

Bran, still in the godswood, still a main target for the Night King. He would have Arya defending him–or they both would be dead, because Sansa knew Arya would not allow any harm to come to their brother while she yet lived.

And Littlefinger, still beside her, still trying to keep her alive when her mind was ready to make decisions for her that would get her killed. He could have fled by now, as a man who valued his own life so highly was wont to do, but he stayed with her. Surely, his selflessness had to mean something?

Crying for Tyrion, as she could no longer see him once another mass of wights had gone by, Sansa allowed Littlefinger to guide her now that they had also lost Ghost in the confusion. This time she kept her eyes down, not willing to see what was happening around her and instead watching the bloody footprints Littlefinger was leaving just ahead of her. At one point, a hulking mass towered over them and Littlefinger squashed her against the wall to wait for it to pass and amazingly, it did not notice them, but Sansa could not even fathom what it had been when he was pulling her along again.

Into the godswood they went where they found a trail of bodies leading them to the weirwood tree. The deceased wore Stark colors, had fallen Stark banners, failures all to protect Bran, and Sansa's heart thumped madly against her chest at the thought of what she was about to see. She clasped her hands in front of her, preparing to let out an unearthly scream.

There was Bran's wheeled chair, but he was not in it. Clapping her hand to her mouth to stifle a rising scream, Sansa searched about wildly for him in the bodies surrounding his chair of both Stark men and wights alike. Arya's body was not to be found here, leaving Sansa terribly confused because she knew that Arya would not have left Bran's side for anything. Had she carried him away? Had she hidden him somewhere?

What had happened here? Where were her siblings?

Littlefinger was checking for survivors when suddenly a pile of bodies began to stir and he leaped back in alarm. Sansa prepared to stab whatever reanimated cadaver was about to sit up when she saw the baleful brown eyes of her brother blinking up at her. Bran's lower body was concealed and pinned beneath a wight which had driven its sword into his leg, but he could not feel it. In turn, he had stuck his dragonglass dagger in the wight's skull and now lay panting, squirming to wriggle out from underneath the dead weight.

Sansa dropped to her knees behind him, placed her hands under his armpits, and pulled him free with some difficulty. She set his back against the weirwood tree and took his face in her hands, feeling his warmth to reassure herself that he was still alive. "Bran, where's Arya?"

"She didn't come back," said Bran, and his voice broke. This was the most human he had sounded since he had returned to Winterfell from years in the far North. At this moment, he was not the Three-Eyed Raven, not Brandon Stark, but Bran, the little boy she had last seen the night of the King's welcoming banquet. This was her little brother, human, and frightened. "They breached the godswood and she went to hold them off but she didn't come back."

Sansa refused to think of her sister lying dead somewhere nearby. All that mattered in the moment was protecting her brother.

"Can you ride?" asked Littlefinger, and he had a horse by the reins, though Sansa could not even begin to fathom where he had stashed the beast during this whole time to protect it from the wights.

"I-I'm not sure–"

"The Night King will come for you, wherever you are. If you are in here, he will drive his army inward. We need him out in the open, so you have to lead him out."

"But once he's out in the open, who will protect him?" asked Sansa.

"There will be someone," said Bran distantly, his eyes far and away once again as his voice changed to that octave she hated, the one that meant he was not completely human. "If you can help me into the saddle, I can ride. I remember how without the use of my legs."

At the sight of the horse beside her and how her head barely came up over its side, Sansa knew she could not do it. Two, maybe three or four strong men were needed to lift Bran, but there was only her.

"I can't lift him," said Sansa desperately, turning to Littlefinger. "I can't do it alone. Petyr, please…"

Littlefinger blinked at being addressed by name, something he had been trying and failing to make her do for years. She never had, because it would suggest familiarity that she did not acknowledge between the two of them. It invited friendship and trust and something more, which he had not earned. But now, somehow, it did not seem appropriate to call him by his family name or the name given to him by her mother. If nothing else, he would heed her if she called him by his name.

He was wounded, spent, and dying, but somehow, he found strength reserves within him to take half of Bran's weight while she took the other and heave him into the saddle. His legs shook, his face strained, and he nearly fell twice. With his back turned, he did not see the wight rushing his blind side.

Sansa snatched up a sword from a dead Stark guard and brought it down through the wight's spear, cleaving the shaft in half. She turned the blade inward and stuck the wight in the stomach, which was a lucky stroke in and of itself since the sword did more of the work than she did, but she had surprised herself all the same.

"Let them know where I've gone," said Bran, bringing Sansa out of her daze just now. "Jon, the Hound, Ser Jorah, anyone you know. Let them know."

"Why? Bran, how does this end? Will there be anyone left to save you?" pleaded Sansa.

Bran cast his eyes down on her with fondness and sympathy, tearing her heart in two as she realized that he knew what was about to happen and could not tell her, or else it might not happen the way it needed to.

"I love you, Sansa. Whatever happens next, be strong. Mother and Father are with you."

His eyes flickered toward Littlefinger and centered on him for a solid five seconds during which Sansa did not turn around to see the latter's reaction, then Bran veered the horse to the east, his eyes glazed over momentarily in white. The horse charged back toward the entrance to the godswood, leaving Sansa and Littlefinger behind in a film of fog. Exhausted, Sansa longed to just take one precious moment and scream out her frustrations, but she couldn't.

The night was far from over, and she had to spread the word that Bran had gone back out to the moors. He would likely take the hunter's gate or the northern gate since the east was still swollen with waves of wights coming in. He would come around the dead and once the Night King realized that his objective was no longer inside the castle, he would turn his attention back out onto the moor, giving the defenders one last chance to turn the tides.

Littlefinger slumped against the weirwood tree behind her, clutching his side as he stood in a puddle of his own blood. Sansa pulled apart his armor and tunic to see the thin slice that had opened up a continuously bleeding wound. Ripping a bit of cloth from a fallen soldier, she tied it around Littlefinger's waist as tightly as possible to keep it in place and staunch the flow of blood, but even that might have been too little, too late, for Littlefinger was green in the torchlight.

She meant to ask him how they could accomplish this feat in alerting the whole castle to Bran's new position, but the time for turning to Petyr Baelish for answers was gone. This was her decision now and he could either choose to follow her or stay behind though this time, with good reason. She fully expected him to promise to kill anything that came back into the godswood looking for Bran as she armed herself with a new bow and a half-full quiver and pressed another on him.

"If you can't run, climb," she invited half-heartedly with a nod at the trees around them.

"I can't do either, but I can walk, so long as you can lead," he told her.

"You don't have to–"

"You don't know that."

It wasn't an admission that he wanted to or even had to, but an indication that he knew something that she didn't. Had Bran showed Littlefinger something that he could not show his own sister? Did Littlefinger have some greater part to play? Littlefinger, of all people?

"What did he show you?" Sansa demanded, knowing he could not tell her.

"Only what I needed to know."

Offering out her hand, Sansa told him because she wanted to die knowing that there was a human beside her, even if it was Petyr Baelish, "Stay close to me."

/ /

JORAH

His head had finally stopped spinning just in time to see the eastern gate cave in as a giant battered it down with its fists.

He could not fight just yet on his own. He needed assistance, some way to wend quickly through the throngs of battling pairs. And there, he found a horse eerily similar to the one he had seen Baelish ride off on, for he recalled his vision being distorted by the flames, but it had been a pale horse with a distinctive moon-shaped mark on its muzzle. If this was Baelish's horse, Baelish had been pulled from it.

Jorah could not say what he felt just then. He had been betrayed by the man once already, but his life had also been saved by the man. Was he permitted to feel that betrayal after telling Baelish to hold the wall? He could not fully blame the man for standing his ground when most others had fled, only to finally flee at the sight of White Walkers.

Many others had fled once the giant crashed through the gate and allowed the Walkers unobstructed access to the entire castle. The defenders could not decide which was the bigger threat and instead scattered in a mass panic. Trying to make sense of the battle around him, Jorah thought he saw the enormous shape of Ser Gregor, now dwarfed in comparison to the giant, driving his sword into the giant's leg. He thought he saw Jon rushing in to match blades with a White Walker as Lady Brienne led a charge down from the wall to confront another and on her heels was Ser Jaime Lannister to challenge a third.

Which left him.

There were four swords and one dagger made of Valyrian steel in this castle and though Clegane could not possibly win a fight against an ice crystalized javelin with a dagger, Jorah had no excuse to not be picking out his own White Walker to duel. This was what his sword was made for, why it had come halfway across the world just to be in his hands.

Climbing shakily into the saddle and willing the throbbing ache in his head to subside, he aligned his horse with the gate where the giant wight was picking off soldiers with laughable ease. His inner thighs tightened around the horse's sides, but he never got the chance to charge.

A small, feminine voice broke through the clangor of steel and dragonglass.

Lyanna's guard was faltering, and the girl had her sword out, as fierce a bear as her mother ever was, preparing to die roaring. Jorah dug his heels into his horse's sides and it plowed through the dead. Leaning sideways off the saddle, Jorah stuck out his arm until he felt his hand collide with the strapping along the back of Lyanna's armor and hoisted. He pulled her into the saddle in front of him as the rest of her guard were swarmed.

The horse carried them into an alcove where the chaos of battle could be held at bay for a few moments. Slipping out of the saddle, Jorah pulled Lyanna down, but no sooner had her feet touched ground that she shoved at him with a bear's fury in her eyes.

"You tell me that you do not doubt my skills and then remove me from battle the second those skills are called to action. Are you a liar as well as a traitor, Ser Jorah?"

He couldn't decide whether to adopt a strict, understanding, or pleading tone with her, so he hurriedly settled on a combination of all three. "I'm not your father and nothing I tell you will make you heed me but please, please my young cousin, do not leave this spot."

"I will not die a coward while my people fight for me," she snarled with tears threatening to fall from her hardened eyes.

"You are not and never have been a coward, nor would anyone call you so when there are men who flee this night. But you are a child still and while yet I have breath within me, I cannot watch you fall to a wight's sword. If you must fight, let it be here where you have some small measure of cover, but promise me that you will not venture out there."

"Why does it matter so much to you what happens to me? You don't know me."

"No, I don't, and that is my fault for dishonoring our house. Nonetheless, you are kin, and the only kin I have left. There are men twice your size being slaughtered out there without ever getting to lift their swords and you would be cut down needlessly in the thick of it. Choose your kills from here. If ever you trusted me, let it be now. Lyanna, my cousin, please…"

He knew it was foolish to care for such trivial things as the survival of a great house, but there were precious few in this world who Jorah felt connected to, whether by duty or concern, and this bold, fearless girl was one of them. She had to understand that.

Rushed by some seven or so wights, Jorah had no time to hear her response as he matched blades with one wight and felt his brain rattle in his skull with the impact. He saw stars winking at him in the orange glow of the fires. The wight toppled where it stood as Lyanna withdrew her sword from its belly.

Warm, overpowering pride spread through Jorah's extremities at the sight of his child cousin making a stand alongside him. How proud her mother would have been, how proud his father would have been to see their children take up arms against the worst, last enemy. If nothing else, Lyanna Mormont had earned her place among their ancestors.

The wights came for Jorah and Lyanna was entirely ignored, allowing her to stab each one while their attention was on Jorah. They repeated this technique for countless minutes until finally, one wight broke for her first and Jorah darted in front of her, ramming his side against it to throw it off balance. His distraction meant that he caught a war hammer in the breast plate and went flying backward, severely bruised and winded as it felt as if his chest were caving in on itself.

Gasping for breath, he saw that it had been a large wildling wight that had blindsided him and as he scrambled to his feet, he saw Lyanna lift her sword to deflect a blow from another smaller, faster wight.

"Lyanna!" he cried, even as he knew he would be too late and that death had come for the last heir of House Mormont. As the wight swung overhead, she dropped low to buy herself time and distance and stabbed low–and therefore did not see the wight Thenn coming up on her exposed side. Its spear took her completely through her small chest and Jorah could hear her tiny gasp of pain as she staggered backward. The wight tried to yank the spear back out, but her hands held onto the shaft and pulled the Thenn corpse closer until their faces were less than five inches apart. Then she stabbed the wight in the throat and fell to her knees with the spear still impaling her.

Jorah snatched her out of the way of battling pairs and pulled her into the alcove once again, cradling her head in his arm as the other tried to stem the flow of blood from her mortal wound.

Lyanna's intent brown eyes struggled to focus on him and with much blinking and choking, she managed to hold his gaze. Her bloodied mouth whispered, "Cousin…?"

"I'm here," he assured her. Though her body could not take the weight on her own two feet, Jorah planted them upon the ground and stood up beside her, holding her upright.

Here we stand .

Her head inclined just a fraction of an inch in gratitude for giving her such last rights and as a final command, request, plea to him to finish the fight, to not let her death have been for naught. Then, though the numerous courtyard fires illuminated her eyes, the fire behind them snuffed out and he felt her small, fierce soul take flight from her body.

Planting a tender kiss upon the last of his kin, Jorah lay his cousin's body in the alcove and piled three wights in front of it to protect her from coming to any further harm. His own body felt weighted down, sluggish, and unresponsive. Time moved slowly but he could not catch up with it. He knew his face was awash in tears of frustration and loss and exhaustion and he struggled to breathe from the hit he had taken to his chest. With every inhale, he was reminded of what it had cost him.

How many more? How many lifeless eyes would he have to see of those he knew and cared for? How could he possibly bear that weight of seeing so many, of knowing that he had to go on despite their deaths? It was impossible for any one man.

He felt something nudge against his arm and turned his neck sideways in delayed arm, only to stare into a set of bright red eyes.

"Ghost…"

He heard his father's words come to him as he gazed into those red eyes, the eyes of the North. The last of us, the voice said like a blanket of warm furs and a roaring fire dousing him in the comforts of home as winter raged on just outside.

I am the last. He had not thought to be in this situation. The last Mormont, the only Mormont.