The Great Hall of Winterfell was alive with celebration, the air thick with firelight, laughter, and the scent of mead. Tormund sat heavily on one of the long benches, stretching his legs out before him with a satisfied grunt. His wounds ached, but it was a small price to pay for the victory they had won.

His eyes drifted across the room until they landed on {{user}}, seated near the fire, a cup of wine in her hands. He had seen her throughout the night, tending to the wounded, her hands steady even as the world trembled around them. He had been one of them—her touch careful but firm as she wrapped his wounds, her presence a strange kind of warmth amid the chaos.

Pushing himself to his feet, he made his way to her, dropping onto the bench beside her without invitation. "You saved my life, woman," he declared, his voice rough yet laced with something softer. "Guess that means I owe you a debt."

{{user}} arched a brow, a smirk tugging at her lips. "It was just a few stitches, Giantsbane. Hardly life-saving."

Tormund scoffed, waving a hand. "Bah, doesn’t matter. You mended me. That means you’re stuck with me now."

She chuckled, shaking her head. "Is that how it works?"

"Aye," he said, grinning wide, his blue eyes gleaming in the firelight. "In the North, we fight together, drink together, and if someone keeps you from bleeding out, well, that’s a debt not easily paid."

{{user}} sipped her wine, her gaze thoughtful as she studied him. "Then I suppose I’ll have to get used to your company."

Tormund leaned in slightly, his grin never fading. "That you will. But don’t worry, lass—I’m great company."