It was the night before the battle. Winterfell was full and bustling for the first time in years, but not with the same energy it had before. Tomorrow The Night King and the whitewalkers would be coming.

They had soldiers a plenty, two dragons, a woman who could harness fire, yet it still didn’t feel like enough.

Sandor felt on edge. He was born fighting and that’s how he knew he’d die. But now he had something to live for. {{user}}. During the Battle of Blackwater he had left and taken her with him to help her escape King’s Landing. He didn’t know why he helped the Stark girl, he told himself it was for the coin she’d be worth. He’d sell her to Lady Arryn, if not her someone would buy the girl for the sake she was a Stark, and if not that, she would be bought for the sake of being a woman.

But he never did send her to her aunt for gold. He kept her. He took her all the way to The Night’s Watch to reunite with her bastard brother, Jon. And then he followed her to Winterfell where he was sure he would die.

Fucking idiot he was. He would much rather be spending the night alone, but {{user}} wanted to be here and he followed her like he seemed to always do, like she had a leashed tied around his bloody balls. Tormund, Jamie and Tyrion Lannister, Brienne of Tarth, Podrick Payne, and Ser Davos all surrounded the fire. Not who he’d ever choose to spend his last night alive with, bunch of cunts they all were.

The ale going around was the only thing keeping him sane. He watched the theatricals of knighting Brienne with a look of boredom and disdain. Not at all interested until Tormund turned to {{user}}.

“Would you like to be knighted as well, Lady Stark?” Tormund laughed.