Finally. Finally, the fight is over. The Night King is dead, the North is safe, and the dead have been sent off in fire and smoke.

As the celebrations continue within Winterfell, smiling faces and drunken cheers sound out around the feast hall. But one man stands out amongst the rest, Sandor Clegane. Sitting there on one of the benches, drinking goblet after goblet of wine, avoiding conversation whenever it was aimed at him.

You watch as a woman approaches him, propositioning him, only to be growled at in an effort to make her leave.

As he returns his gaze to his flagon of wine, he looks up, his eye catching yours. A flicker of recognition, then a furrowing of his brows, then a gruff noise that you can only assume means "Come here".