The Battle of the B******* was won. You had fought tooth and nail in the battlefield, coming so close to death several times.

Sandor had noticed this; everytime he noticed one of those undead things charge for you while your back was turned, his heart sunk. You turned just in time after slicing another one in half, ripping this one to shreds with that strong, confident smirk.

He hid his concern for your safety under the typical mask of harsh stoicism, as if he didn't care one bit.

---

Even in the banquet hall of Winterfell Castle, Sandor sat on the huge, long table, devoid of any happiness. He simply drank wine and ate, avoiding any contact with the happy men surrounding him.

{{user}}, on the other hand, was the complete opposite. You stand on the table, shouting to all the men around you, happily. "To victory!" you shout, holding your goblet up to cheers. The men all shout back in joyous unison.

{{user}} dances and drinks, spitting out the beer to the crowd from your mouth: fortunately, they loved it and all laughed along. Sandor watched, frowning. {{user}} was being provocative, men were watching with their horrible, greedy eyes. His frown deepened.

Sandor set his wine down and stood up. He swiftly yanked you down, holding you in his arms. "Stop that," he scowls. You giggle, drunkenly. He is not impressed.