Wilting ♞ Sandor Clegane

ғoυr-αɴd-ғιғтy

SQUADRONS OF UNSULLIED were marching out of the gates of Winterfell. The Dothraki had already ridden out onto the field. They were to lead the charge and flank the enemy's sides while dragonfire rained from above. An inevitable failure given the number of the undead and that the Dothraki did not carry dragonglass weapons.

The Whent girl hadn't fully supported the strategy in the meeting, but her voice had been drowned out by more seasoned commanders. The trebuchets should have been within the castle walls. The trench should have been wider. She'd read enough historical accounts to know that leading with the cavalry wasn't a sensible decision either. It was a flawed plan but one that had to be carried out regardless.

Anya fell in stride with Beric and Sandor. She meant to fight on the frontlines. The Hound saw her before they made it out of the gates and pulled her aside. His face twisted in aggravation and ire. "Don't fucking do this."

"I'm going with you," she told him, not backing down. Sandor gritted his teeth together and tried to ignore the fear and desperation in her voice. She wanted to be with him and would die at his side if fate willed it.

"No," he spat -unwilling to argue or compromise, "you're not. You're going to keep your arse here." His gaze turned upward to the ramparts, where Arya and Sansa stood. Anya turned and glimpsed her nieces, they were both staring down at her. Then she knew he was right. She had to stay within the castle walls. She had to protect them. I promised Ned I would.

He stepped back, rejoining the men marching forward. She stood, strong and stern as steel, watching him march out of the gates before turning to climb the wooden stairs to join her nieces on the wall. Both Sansa and Arya appeared grateful as she came to stand between them. Grave and thoughtful was her glance, as she looked on the living with cool pity in her eyes.

A solitary rider came from the darkness and thousands of arakhs went up in flames. Thousands of torches to chase away the darkness. Sansa looked at her sister and aunt, feeling hope swell. Anya Whent would not allow herself the luxury of hope as she stared into the darkness across the field. It was dread that filled Anya's gut as the cavalry began their charge.

Anya could feel the thudding of the hooves in her chest as the Dothraki rushed into the abyss. The trebuchets launched stones wrapped in flaming cloth. Streaks of light against the night that ebbed before impacting the enemy.

One by one the burning swords were extinguished against a wall of darkness. A storm was creeping forward. Both Sansa and Arya looked up to her, gauging her reaction. She could not claim to be surprised by the Dothraki's failure but for the sake of her nieces, she would not appear afraid. Fear cuts deeper than swords Arya had once said while polishing Needle.

Dragonfire lit up the undead. Drogon and Rhaegal spewed lines of fire across the field, burning hundreds of wights at a time. Anya watched in awe. She'd never thought a day would come when she saw a dragon in flight, now she had seen not one, but two in battle. There was something beautiful about the destruction.

The spark of elation faded when she finally took in the army, illuminated by the fire. Despite Drogon and Rhaegal's assault, it was hardly enough to make a dent in the enemy's numbers. The dead stretched for as far as the eye could see, an endless horde.

A storm was rising on the dark horizon. Wind and snow and the frigid cold. The Night King was near. Even dragonfire could not endure the cold wind. Darkness claimed the open field as the flames died. A cold shiver crept down Anya's spine upon hearing grinding ice and low snarls growing louder, closer. The dead were coming. Time was running out.

Both Anya and Arya turned to Sansa. Arya pressed a dragonglass knife in her sister's hand, telling her to get down to the crypts. Sansa looked around, shaking her head. She did not wish to abandon her people.