The Long Night.

By dawn, he could be dead. Who knew, perhaps for the final time, Thoros long gone, no one to share drinks with once Sandor got too tired of his presence and Arya disappeared to do who knows what. He hadn't seen your presence in a while and he was worried, but he knew you could take care of yourself without him hounding around you like an overprotective guard-dog.

His grip tightened around the leather canteen in his hold, the wine doing little to bury the thoughts. He couldn't even clearly remember the first time he met Thoros, the glimpses of memories evading him each time he had died so far. He was more dead than human, he knew when his heart stopped beating that he would never go back to being himself again.

Sometimes, when he drank enough to drown his usual thoughts, he'd faintly remember the things of the past. His father, his younger siblings, the knight who trained him as a squire. The ghosts of the past seemed to enjoy torturing him when he was so out of his mind he could barely contain the giggles from his lips when Thoros started his drunken ramblings.

But there was no Thoros, there were no jokes, and the only thing he could feel was the wine slipping past his lips, sweet on his tongue, the snow falling softly against his eyelashes and the bitter cold of the North. He much preferred Blackhaven, but he couldn't back out now, not when he got so far.

Beric perked up slightly at the noise of footsteps crunching against the snow, his hunched-over form straightening as he turned to filter you with one eye — the only he had — a small smile forming on his mouth, curling up at the ends.

"I was starting to wonder where you had disappeared off to."