Sansa

The sounds of battle and the raging winds of the blizzard created a chaos of noise in the cold sky. Sansa could barely think against everything around her, barely reacting in time when a window for Viserion to dive down and burn the dead presented itself or when a lance of ice was thrown at them.

Her face was stinging from the cold and her strength to keep hold was fading. Sansa could only imagine what her exhaustion was compared to everything Viserion was exerting since the start of the battle. The great bronze dragon was reaching his limits, that much she knew. His flames were not as prominent anymore, and his movements were sluggish. They couldn't stay in the sky any longer.

"Viserion!" Sansa shouted, "you need to land! Go back to the castle!"

A guttural roar came from the dragon in response and he backed away from the battle below, catching a gust of wind that he had been fighting against. His golden wings stretched open as the rooftops of Winterfell came closer and closer.

It was only when Winterfell came so close that Sansa could see just how grim the situation had become. The dead were in the castle grounds fighting in the thousands.

Viserion roared and spewed out his fires into the courtyard filled with many of the dead grouping together on their way to attack the scattered formations of soldiers - banners ignored, men of all nations fighting together - defending their positions with everything they had. The courtyard erupted in flames when Viserion landed, but even as his fires consumed the bodies of wights, endless reinforcements poured in.

Dozens upon dozens of wights rushed in where hundreds of their kin had just burned, running through the gaps of flames and ignoring their own damage when set alight themselves. They all charged at Viserion. The bronze dragon swiped his wings and his tail at all who rushed towards him.

Sansa was beginning to panic, realizing how foolish it was to have brought her dragon here. "Viserion, fly away!" She called out, but the great breaths she felt underneath her saddle showed just how exhausted the dragon truly was. Viserion sent forth another breath of fire out at the wights, but there were those that he missed, and they were starting to climb over him.

Heart beating out of her chest, Sansa locked eyes with a wight coming straight for her. Shenearly yelped in distress as she reached for her dagger and quickly swiped down at the wight as soon as she had become within arm's reach of it. The blade of her dagger glowed brightly and the moment the edge cut into the wight's rotted skin, the wight screeched out as set fire so fast that it immediately turned into ash.

As triumphant as incredible as the moment was, not a second could be spared to calm down and collect. More wights were climbing up onto Viserion and while he did not have the strength to fly against this storm, he could still move about.

Sansa grunted as another wight came for her and she barely had any room to dodge an axe swung down at her. The axe missed and planted into her saddle instead, cutting off the left grip. Without wasting a second, Sansa stabbed her dagger up into the wight and it too ignited fast before turning to ash.

She started to panic as Viserion began to evade the wights by climbing up and over one of the keeps. Without having her grip, she felt herself start to slip off. She yelled out as she lost her seat and fell from Viserion into the roof of the keep. The panic made her keep a tight grip over her dagger as she landed on the straw thatching that cushioned her fall. With her free hand, she found her grip on the top and held herself from sliding off into the fire and death below.

Pulling herself up, Sansa watched as Viserion struggled to shake off the many wights that continued to latch onto him. Fear for her dragon's life took over before she noticed that several wights had fallen onto the roof with her.

She pulled herself up with all her strength and carefully got to her feet. She was no climber like Bran used to be. One slip on the snow and she would fall to her death but if she did not go fast enough then the wights would be able to catch her. Jon and Arya had shown her a few moves with her dagger that she practiced well enough, but she was not a fighter trained enough to do battle on such narrow footing in these conditions.

Moving quickly and carefully, Sansa retreated across the roof from the wights coming after her. She dared not to look back until she could afford to. Her heart raced and fear was overtaking her to the point of whimpers in every step. Battle was not a place she could conquer or fight.

Finally reaching the end of the roof where a wall leading up to the next keep was, Sansa latched onto the loose and protruding sections that her mind best judged to grab in the seconds she had. It was hard to do so with her dagger in hand, but she was too scared to sheath it. The sounds of the wights got closer and closer, but then her grip on the wall failed and she fell. Her feet slipped on the snow and she screamed out when the edge of the roof disappeared underneath her. Finally her grip lost her dagger, but in that same moment found hold onto the head of a stone direwolf overlooking the courtyard below. Tears streamed down her face as she held on for dear life and saw her dagger's light fade away as it fell below.

Suddenly a wight squealed above her. She looked up and saw one of her pursuers slip and fall adjacent to her but miss grabbing hold of her. Sansa cried, begging that someone would come and save her. Jon, Daenerys, Theon, anybody. She looked near her and saw a window underneath the stone direwolf. It could be her only chance, one that she had to take as the wights were getting closer to her.

Taking in a deep breath through her sobs, Sansa swung her legs and let go. Even though the window was not far away, the drop felt too long. Her hands caught the ledge tight and she screamed in panic again. She tried to find a place in the wall her feet could stand on, a loose stone, a crack, anything, but there was nothing as she began to slip away.

"No!" she cried out, but then an arm reached out and latched onto her.

"Sansa!" cried Rickon as his other hand reached and grabbed her as he began pulling her up.

Once her waist had reached the windowsill, Rickon's strength pulled her completely inside, both of them tumbling down on the floor. Without a second's hesitation, Sansa practically tackled her baby brother, holding him tight as she cried in her temporal relief.

"It's okay," Rickon said, holding onto her. "We're safer here."

Still in a great state of alertness, Sansa scanned the room in which she had retreated into and realized it was the Lord's Solar. The door was barricaded and over on the bed was Bran, his eyes paler as the clouds in his state of magic. "Just you two?" she tumbled out, still shaking from it all. "What happened to everyone?" She almost cried out, "where are they?" Tears filled her eyes as she already began to imagine the faces of those she saw ready for battle laying dead somewhere on the grounds or risen up as a puppet of the Night King.

Knowing the worst would be the case for many.

"We were overwhelmed, Sansa." Rickon said, sharing her terror but also guilt of the state of things. "No matter where we ran, they swarmed all around." He gripped his dagger of dragonglass tightly, but even then his hands were shaking. "What happened out there?" Rickon asked.

Tears continued to flow down Sansa's face. "I lost them all!" She covered her face with her hands, fighting a scream into her palms. "I couldn't see them and then we fell and I lost them!" Sansa could barely get any other words out past her sobs as her brother helped her sit up. "I can't do this, Rickon." She was so scared, so helpless, and so angry. She felt like she had just lost her position to do any good for the battle. Without her dagger, without Viserion, why was she even there now?

Rickon led her by the hand over to the bedside next to Bran.

"Don't worry," he told her, "I'll keep us safe." she let go of her hand and picked up a shield that had been laying on the floor. He turned to keep a hard watch on the barricaded door, occasionally glancing over at the window as well. But the fear was just as evident in him as well.

Sansa wiped at the stinging on her cheeks and took in a breath before looking over to Bran and reaching down to take his hand in hers. He looked so peaceful, almost oblivious to the destruction around. She couldn't even think straight to wonder where his mind was in this battle, what he was seeing or fighting. The noises coming from outside never gave her a moment to collect herself. Everytime the wights screamed, it was another reminder of the nightmare she was trapped in.

Her body almost collapsed completely as she slid down to the floor, sitting by Bran's side and clutching his hand tight, begging with all her heart that a miracle would save them.

And then, through the echoes of death and battle, she heard a cry of bravery.

"Forward unto dawn!" a collection of voices bellowed out but it was hardly more than a whisper's volume. And yet it impacted Sansa so deeply.

Even in such despair and death, there were those that still held on to hope and were fighting as hard as they could.

"I want to be brave," she whispered through her shivers to anyone who could be listening. Her father, her mother, Robb, the Old Gods, the Lord of Light, anyone, "please…"

"Sansa."

A cold feeling tingled at her fingertips, one that was familiar from the day that Bran had brought her and the others into his magic to listen to their father's final prayer to them. She opened her eyes and found herself exactly where she had been, but the noises of war had silenced, the light of day poured in through the window, and her brothers her gone. Instead, standing where Rickon had been was her father.

"Did that frighten you?" Her father asked as he came and knelt down in front of her. Sansa then noticed that her hands were different, smaller. She was a child, hiding away after seeing two of the horses in the stables almost go berserk at one another. It had been one of the scariest things she had ever seen.

Her father took her hands in his, his touch was so warm and comforting. "It's alright to be afraid, Sansa. If we didn't have that, then we wouldn't be able to learn what it means to be brave."

"How can I be?" Sansa whispered, knowing full well her father wouldn't hear her. Her father's words would be cut off any second now with her mother storming in and hugging her tight and singing softly to calm her.

"Hope, Sansa."

Her breath hitched. What?

"As long as you don't give up hope, nothing is lost. They need you to hope for them. Not just your brothers, Arya, and Daenerys. They all need you." He leaned in and kissed her on the forehead and a feeling came over her, a warmth that fell upon her.

Sansa blinked and the peace around was gone as was her father. She was back in the midst of the battle but her arms and back felt like a warm hug was wrapping over and filling her with a light of hope that had nearly been extinguished. Her grip softened on Bran's hand, now holding it with both of hers as she closed her eyes and began whispering the faith she had in her heart for everyone who was fighting. Jon, Dany, Theon, Brienne, Arya, everyone.

Bran

Ripping and tearing. Each of the direwolves had only one instinct coursing through their minds and their blood as the battle raged on. Nymeria had lost two from her pack and she had taken several injuries. Shaggydog was proving to be the great fighter amongst all the wolves as he wild and viscous nature tore through every wight that came his way. Summer and Ghost were just as fierce, but the numbers were great as they were, and the godswood would soon be overwhelmed and the wolves with it. Their strength had been great when Bran had first entered their minds, but it was weaning away.

Bran could barely keep up with them. Using his powers of the sight and warging was the only way he was able to keep the direwolves alive for so long, coordinating and watching out for them as best he could. But the storm was growing stronger and it carried the Night's King's dark power in it. It was all becoming too much.

But then, he felt something, something familiar and powerful coursing through him that helped his mind stand up against the Night King's magic. In fact he could feel it seep into the direwolves, giving them newfound energy and vigor. It was like a veil had been lifting from his eyes and he could see more clearly than ever before. He knew this power, he felt it when he brought his family into the sight to hear their father's prayer for them.

He didn't even need to leave the minds of the wolves to project himself to his body. He was in the Lord's Solar with Rickon and.. Sansa? How and when did she get there with them? She was holding his hand at his bedside all the while muttering something under her breath. Rickon stood vigil to the door where just outside of it was Theon, fighting off wight after wight.

Sansa… the power she had with Jon and Daenerys, it was as if she had the same effect of a weirwood but far greater to him. Somehow she was sharing to him and he needed to use it, however he could, any way and every way possible to help them win this battle.

He could feel his power reach over the whole of the castle, seeing every man and woman who was still fighting for their lives, and the dragon that was fending off attackers for his life…

Pain. Terrible, terrible pain. Focusing the power surging through him, it almost wasn't enough. A dragon's mind was altogether different from that of a simple beast, or even a man. Warging into Viserion almost overwhelmed Bran completely. Just the mere presence shared was incredible, just as Bearded Bran once said.

More than that, he could feel Viserion become aware of Bran's presence before the invigorating began to fill him.

A great roar broke over the castle followed by a burning breath of flames across the battlements overflowing with the dead.

This power that allowed Bran to be so much more, the same power that manifested him and his family in vision to their father through the dry ink of history, was this what it was to be chosen by a god?

Focusing himself further, Bran found the coursing darkness of the Night King's magic, the forces that drove the winds and snows against them as hard as they could. He reached out with every one of his senses and pushed back against it and a great crashing sound came heavily from within the storm.

Jon

The blizzard was it's strongest here. Jon had to pierce Longclaw into the ground and hold on just to withstand the force of the wind. Were it not for his armor helping weigh him down, he may just well have been picked up and thrown about.

Squinting his eyes, Jon could barely see ahead without the cold forcing him to close them shut. The Night King was commanding all his power to this one spot, into a twister of snow that trapped him inside and kept everyone else out. The Dragons couldn't get any closer than they were, and even then, they were busy burning the hundreds of wights that were trying to aid their commander.

Daenerys had sought cover behind a boulder, but she was suffering just as much from the cold as Jon was.

The sky suddenly erupted with powerful noises that Jon had only heard as far away echoes that announced the arrival of the Night King's army. The powerful winds and the snow began to lighten so suddenly but were not gone.

A feeling swept over Jon, the same one as the day he held Daenerys in his arms and prayed unto the Lord of Light for help. Someone was there helping him for one final chance.

"I believe in you," came a soft voice that spoke into Jon's mind.

Jon almost froze at the surprise of hearing Sansa's voice. Where was it coming from, and how? He was able to find his breath and stand.

Warmth filled him, pooling through his soul. Not the hot, scorching feel of his blood, but something altogether gentle. Comforting. Healing.

The warmth gave him energy. Filled him with strength. Words echoing in his mind and heart, Jon narrowed his eyes and gripped Longclaw tightly as he lifted it. Holding it aloft as the veins of the patterned steel glowed bright. He looked at the Night King who looked back with pure fury focused directly at Jon. "And now… it ends," he breathed.

The Night King slowly drew Dark Sister and the blade immediately became covered in a film of frost.

Jon took the first step forward, what could possibly be one of his last, slowly at first but then picking up the pace and soon he was charging, finally able to close. Both warriors of life and death came together and met steel against steel, beginning the epic duel that would determine the fate of time and life itself.

The moment Longclaw's blade met Dark Sister's, Jon felt it, that moment every true fighter instinctually has in a duel when they realize the full capacity of the person they are fighting, whether or not victory is theirs or is out of reach. Against the Night King, victory seemed lost.

Jon was immediately set on the defense blocking three consecutive strikes to his torso and a fourth aimed at his legs to which he parried and stepped aside, gaining ground at the Night King's back and spinning to strike at the neck, but Dark Sister was already there to defend.

That one set of attacks between them was stronger and faster than any fight Jon had ever faced both in his first life and in this one. This was the strength that threw a lance hundreds of feet to fell a dragon, the strength that commanded the most terrifying army in history.

It was good that Jon did not carry Blackfyre with him to dual wield his swords. Repelling the strength of the Night King was hard enough as it was and without the right leverage of using both hands on Longclaw's handle, a battle like that might have ended then and there.

Jumping back, Jon retreated from getting Longclaw caught by the crossguard of Dark Sister in a strong swipe that would have left him open for the Night King to reach out and grab him, either to be frozen by the cold touch or strangled by the strength.

A strike came from above and Jon was barely fast enough to parry it. He tried going on the advance, relentlessly unleashing a flurry of strikes in more perfect form than he had ever been in his life followed by a faint thrust that transitioned into an upwards strike that almost got the Night King in the chin.

But the look on the Night King's face, it was blank, almost as if he was bored. It fueled Jon's anger and battle spirit seeing him like this. Even White Walkers showed emotion of effort and aggression in fights.

The Night King fought back, countering Jon's advance with his own blows quicker and harder. Jon knew that the only thing that was giving him any chance of survival was in fact that he had accumulated years of skill in a stronger body. Were he as he was at this age in skill, or his older body, he would have met his end.

As such, Jon's footing in the snow faltered, forcing him back into a kneel while catching the next blow. His reaction was impeccable and urgent, turning the angle of the blade so that Dark Sister's momentum slid down further enough that the Night King was off balance for a second that Jon needed to get back up and catch the next strike and parry away while ducking under the sword that nearly cut into his neck.

This fight wasn't fair. It was a joke to expect that it would be, but it was a fact. The Night King was not human, therefore not held back by the human weaknesses such as fatigue from such energy any man would have been drained after their fight so far, or pain from the shocks and vibrations sent throughout the sword into the hands.

Yelling out a vicious warcry, Jon did not allow himself to feel weakened by anything, he couldn't until the fight was won. He focused everything within him to shut out every distraction, every bite of the cold, every pulse in his hands - the memories of two lifetimes - all of it except the opponent in front of him. And finally, he earned a hint of stress from the Night King's face. His opponent bared his teeth at the attacks thrown at him by Jon.

It went back and forth for what felt like a dozen minutes but in reality was not even a single one. Jon's armor protected him once when he had to use it to catch Dark Sister's blade when he had been parried so hard that Longclaw was almost thrown from his hands.

In one last attempt at an opening, Jon swung Longclaw up, trying to at least scratch at the Night King's arm or body. But he missed. The Night King was too fast. Or he was getting slower. A hard kick came to his chest and had it not been for the strength of his armor protecting him, his rib cage would have been broken into just like that.

Jon fell back in the snow and immediately rolled over to dodge a piercing thrust down, scrambling to his knees and then his feet. And for one brief second in the fight, when the Night King had turned to look at him with eyes filled with annoyance, Jon saw past him. Daenerys was still here, behind the rock instead of running as far as she could. She stayed with him this whole time.

The Night King swung at him, Jon raising Longclaw to block. Jon tried to shove the Night King back, but he merely took a step and twirled his blade, meeting Jon again without tiring. His arms ached, nearly breaking from the strain, but he held.

Again he broke blades and tried to thrust at the Night King, but this time the monster smashed his fist into Jon's chest. Sending him to the ground, grunting in pain.

Time seemed to still, only the howl of the wind breaking a silence between the three of them. The Night King didn't budge, didn't move, simply standing there waiting, facing Jon with Dark Sister. But behind his enemy was Daenerys, scrambling frantically through the snow but unable to find Dragon's Breath. She locked eyes with him in despair and defeat. Jon could hear the voice of Daenerys' heart at the edge of accepting the dark loss of this war.

Jon stood there, his mind whirring as fast as the blizzard around him. His eyes drifted from her, to Longclaw's blade, to the Night King. His grip tightened after he got over the urge to let his arms collapse.

He roared out and charged at the Night King, coming in high with a feint and yet he was still caught by Dark Sister's blade. Each clash gave off the sound of glass shattering. The Night King hissed and smirked the longer they fought. Until finally, Jon's lunge was parried and Longclaw slipped from his fingers. His sword was flung into the air, spinning fast. Before the sword landed in the snow, the Night King's blade impaled Jon in the left side of his belly.

Jon gasped and felt his entire body freeze. Dark Sister was ripped from his flesh and he fell to his hands and knees, gasping for air and coughing up blood. He felt a hard kick on the side of his chest, rolling him onto his back with the Night King standing over him with a satisfied smile.

Dark Sister was flipped in the Night King's hands, raised up to impale Jon one more time straight through the heart.

But when the sword reached its peak, it stopped, and the icy smirk faded slightly when Jon smiled and chuckled at his enemy.

"You lose…"

Sansa (Future)

The last of the defenses were broken. A White Walker forced its way through followed by another. Screaming, Pebble managed to shove a spear into the first, crumbling it like an ice sculpture. The other was not so unlucky, spear wielded with the skill of an expert.

Pebble was pierced through her chest and neck cracked for more pain. She was tossed aside like rubbish. That was it, there was nothing more. They lost.

The White Walker snarled at them as he lept forth, lunging at them with his cold lance of ice. Sansa's tears froze on her cheeks as she embraced Jon's body, taking in the last moment she….

Jon

A sound of cracking ice silenced every other sensation as the brightly glowing Valyrian Steel blade of Longclaw pierced into the Night King's back and through his chest. The monster looked down at the blade and back to Jon. The moment they shared in shock was the same as Jon had shared with a White Walker at Hardhome upon witnessing Longclaw's blade holding true against the lance of ice. Daenerys cried out as she tore Longclaw through the side of the Night King's body.

Like broken glass, cracks of light originating from the wound and traveled quickly throughout the Night King. The second his entire body was broken, the Night King shattered instantly and a faint ghost of light remained in his place before fading away.

Jon fell back in the snow, clutching weakly at his own wound and gasping air that bit his lungs with the cold.

The snow around them suddenly stopped and the clouds parted ways with great rapid haste. The air was still cold, but not that of freezing to death. Now, it was inviting as every breath was a memory of better days in winter at Winterfell. The stars made themselves appear, shining brighter than ever before. There had never been such a night as clear and beautiful as this one had become.

Everything began to blur, as if it was all becoming a dream just before waking up.

What came to Jon's mind were the final words of Qhorin Halfhand, the first life of man he had ever taken. "We are… the watchers on the Wall…" Those words meant everything to him, the driving force of his very being from that day onward whether he knew it or not. A reminder, a promise, an oath, all of those things finally fulfilled. To swear the oath, to take the black, to die at the Wall, it was all for a brighter sunrise he would not get to see. That is what he fought for, what he was dying for.

And now, he was alone again, in the cold, bleeding out, waiting to die. Only now, he wasn't afraid. They won. Daenerys, Sansa, all of them would live free. He was happy at first and nothing could have prepared him for how sad he was now. He will never see his children, they will never know him, it was the greatest pain he ever knew. "Aemon…" the words escaped his lips as a whisper to his late uncle, "I wish… I wish I could have… grown old with them…"

Rickon

The wights at the window were relentless, clawing bone and rotting flesh to squeeze through. But then, suddenly, their terrifying noises and efforts just stopped all at once. They went limp and slipped out of sight from view.

There was a sudden quiet air in the room and from outside, nothing but the wind and faintest of sounds of battle, but the latter was also dying off. A sudden uproar of cheer and victory arose.

Could it be? Did they win? He pulled a nightstand over to the window and climbed on top, peering out to see with his own eyes, half expecting a wight to reach up and take him, but he gave himself the benefit of the doubt. He peered out and could see the living raising their weapons up cheering loudly, embracing one another in joy and glory for victory.

"It's over," Rickon said, "It's over!" He hopped down and hugged Bran and Sansa as tight as he could. "We won!" He howled out his joy as loud as he could, feeling the greatest of euphoria's he ever felt.

Sansa burst into tears of joy as she hugged Bran and kissed him on his cheeks.

Rickon looked at the door. There hadn't been a single disturbance ever since Theon locked them in. The dead must have backed off their attacks. Rickon ran to the door, opening through the lock and peering out. "Theon?" He was overjoyed with the victory, so much that he had no room for his anger.

The scene displayed was one that took Rickon's breath away. There were dozens of wights in the hallway, all piled atop one another, but none of them got near the door. They had all been stopped by the lone guard.

Theon was on his knees, leaning on Ice for support. Even in the dark, Rickon could see there was much blood on Theon's armor and hair. He moved forward. "Theon?" His arm outstretched and brushed against one of Theon's pauldrons. Immediately, Theon's body collapsed on the floor and rolled facing up.

It was now that Rickon could see all of the injuries Theon had taken. The armor was cracked and pierced, the left sleeve of the shirt was ripped and a great gash eight inches long was on the arm. There was a puncture in his left leg too, and then there were many bite marks.

But not one wight broke past Theon though. He stayed and protected them to the very end like he promised.

Well then, that was that. Rickon would consider this and Theon's death as the atonement for his crimes. He said he'd spit on Theon's grave, and he still would… he said it and meant it. He meant all of the hate he let out on the man who betrayed them. He should have felt at peace with the outcome. Traitors like Theon didn't deserve life. So why couldn't he fight this great loss that clawed at his heart?

Rickon sniffed and fell on his knees next to his sister. Sansa saw and wrapped him about the shoulder, pulling him close as he began crying deeply. First father, then Robb and Mother, and now Theon. They were brothers once. No matter how hard he tried to fight this, there was still a bit of that bond left and the pain of losing him felt all the same.

Daenerys

Daenerys had been knocked on her back by the powerful force of wind that burst all around when she had sliced through the icy body of the Night King. She groaned, clutching at the back of her head from falling on something hard, it felt like wood, or maybe a shield or a log.

Her senses were collected when she saw the brightness of the night sky appearing before her… but it meant nothing when her attention turned to her husband who had been stabbed and kicked into the snow, bleeding to death.

"Jon!" She scrambled to her feet and rushed over to Jon's side, falling to him and on the verge of weeping. "Jon!" His eyes were shut, the snow around him was turning crimson… but he was still breathing. It was faint, but he was. "Help!" Daenerys cried out as loud as she could to Winterfell, but the castle was a mile away. Who would hear them? "Help us! Please!"

It was not a man who answered, but a dragon.

Arya

She couldn't slow her breathing down. Even as the wights all suddenly collapsed around her, Arya's grip over Needle did not loosen a single bit. She couldn't believe things at first. She kept questioning what was happening. Was this a ploy? Some trick by the Night King to catch them off guard?

But then the snow stopped and the clouds parted ways for the divine light of the stars.

"They did it…" She muttered. "They did it." her words grew in volume to those around her. But even then, a part of her still couldn't believe it. The parts that did finally relaxed after so much fighting. Needle slipped from her fingers and her knees buckled from the lack of strength to stay standing. She slumped back against the wall, catching her breath and almost felt herself pass out.

She had almost given up. A duel was nothing compared to battle, and after losing her eye, blood, and her hope, she heard Sansa's voice from somewhere and she found it to keep fighting until the very end. And she did. Everyone did.

A pair of soldiers nearby looked up to the sky and then at each other before embracing in a hug.

"We made it!" Someone else shouted.

"Arya," Sandor said as he knelt down next to her. "Are you alright?"

"I lost an eye in case you hadn't noticed," she said with a smirk. "Apart from that, I think I'll live." She didn't even finish the sentence when Sandor reached under his armor and ripped off a large piece of his shirt. He folded it over a couple times before gently placing it over the wound of Arya's right eye. "Don't worry," she told him, taking hold of the cloth, "believe it or not but I've had worse before."

"I believe it," he said back and to Arya's surprise he was smiling at her, but it was almost hidden in the shadows. "You wait here now. I'm getting the raven to Cerwyn and then I'll be back."

Arya smiled but felt the pinch of her wound stinging when she did. Regardless, she couldn't stop herself, she didn't want to. Seeing Sandor like this was a lovely thing. Instead of that great prick she was forced to put up with in her travels, it was like he had become a faithful brother to her.

By the time Sandor was gone, Arya had sat herself up against a wall and took in the beautiful sky above her. She never knew just how beautiful the stars could be.

Her attention was drawn to the men in the courtyard. Already the bodies of the fallen were being looked at to find those still holding onto life. But in this sight, she also saw her uncle Benjen staring up at the stars. For the first time since she saw him as he was, he looked relieved and happy.

Finding her strength, Arya got up on her feet and walked over to her uncle. "Uncle Benjen," she said to him but he continued to look up at the stars.

"My task… my oath… I am finally fulfilled." Benjen then looked at her with a somber but happy expression. "It's finally over, Arya."

A sudden cry of sadness took Arya's attention to see a man weeping over the body of another man who died in battle. Her thoughts turned outward to beyond the castle. "Do you think Jon and Sansa made it?"

"Do you need to ask?"

No, she didn't. In her heart she could feel it that she would see them again.

"Don't worry about Jon," Benjen said, "he made a promise to see you all again." Suddenly, Uncle Benjen wrapped his arms gently around Arya. And then without a word, started to walk away, leaving Arya behind.

"Uncle?"

Benjen held his chain off to the side and dropped it. After a few more steps, he pulled off his Night's Watch cloak and dropped it too. By the time he reached the eastern gate, the first light of the sun was pouring over the horizon.

Benjen brought a hand to his chest and struggled with something. Suddenly, his hand tore away, clutching a piece of dragonglass, before he fell to the ground.

Arya was frozen in place. She didn't know what to think of what she just saw at first. Why would Uncle Benjen do that? The battle was over and the war was won. He could have lived on… No, he couldn't. He wasn't alive and neither was he dead. His oath was fulfilled and he could finally rest without regret.

"Goodbye, Uncle." Arya said, feeling a tear cold on her left cheek. Her sadness at the loss of her uncle was accompanied by joy for him that he was finally free of his curse.

A sliver of golden light cracked over the horizon. The sun rose.

Dawn had come.