Quietude was not his forte, had never been. He was Thoros of Myr, he was never known to be quiet, but here he was, staring so intently into the fire he could swear he saw the Lord of Light mocking him in the flames, a flask of wine they had just sacked half-full on his hands and his eyes narrowing as if the light could speak to him.

Had he not resurrected Beric more than once — six times, he reminded himself — he could swear that the 'one and true god' wasn't really the 'one and true god'.

Doubts and doubts, he'd fill his head with them before any hints of sobriety left his mind, soul and body. Perhaps the only way that he'd ever get to feel as if he was more than just a drunkard warrior or a wannabe priest who somehow revived Beric Dondarrion as if it was the simplest thing in life.

When he snapped out of his daze it was as if something nagged inside of him, and then he turned on his seat to face you, irking a silent eyebrow as if he expected you to read his mind. When you said nothing, he cleared his throat and finally opened his mouth to speak.

"You're awfully quiet."