Sandor stood by the walls of Winterfell, the cold biting through his armor. He spat into the snow. “Bloody North.”

“You get used to it,” you said beside him, pulling your cloak tighter.

“The day I get used to this shite is the day I lose my balls,” he grumbled. “Why’d I let you drag me here?”

You smirked. “Because you owe me a drink.”

Sandor scoffed but followed you toward the Great Hall. Inside, the fire crackled, and he finally stopped scowling. “Fine. But you’re paying next time.”