The battle had ended before sunset.

By nightfall, the northern camp had forgotten how to be quiet.

Fires burned in great circles across the snow-covered ground, throwing gold against the darkness. Men crowded around them with cups of ale in their hands, laughing too loudly, boasting about deeds that had grown more impressive with every telling. Someone had found a battered drum somewhere among the wagons, and several soldiers were attempting to sing along to a tune that had long since lost whatever melody it once possessed.

For the first time in days, there were no horns sounding in the distance.

No screams.

No steel.

Only celebration.

Guest sat near one of the smaller fires, close enough to feel its warmth but far enough from the loudest of the soldiers. The smoke curled lazily into the cold night air as they watched the camp come alive around them.

Victory looked strange.

You had expected it to feel different.

Perhaps triumphant.

Instead, you found yourself thinking about all the men who had not lived long enough to see the fires burning tonight.

A roar of laughter erupted from somewhere behind them.

You turned.

Tormund Giantsbane stood atop a wooden crate with a drinking horn raised above his head, red hair blazing in the firelight. Around him, several wildlings and northern soldiers were cheering as though the man had personally won the entire war.

“TO THE NORTH!” Tormund bellowed.

“TO THE NORTH!”

“And to those bloody fools who thought they could take it from us!”

Another cheer.

Tormund grinned, evidently pleased with himself, before throwing his head back and taking a long drink.

Across the camp, however, one man remained conspicuously unimpressed.

Sandor Clegane sat alone beside a dying fire, his sword within easy reach and his cloak pulled tightly around his shoulders. His face was bruised, his armor still stained from the battle, and his expression suggested that he would rather face another army than endure another hour of celebration.

His eyes drifted toward Tormund.

Then toward the drunken soldiers.

Then toward the sky.

“F***ing idiots,” he muttered.

Unfortunately for him, Tormund heard.

The wildling’s head snapped around.

“What was that, Hound?”

Sandor slowly looked up.

“I said you’re a f***ing idiot.”

The nearest soldiers went silent.

Then someone snorted.

Tormund’s grin widened.

And just like that, the victory celebration became considerably more interesting.

You watched the exchange from beside the fire, cup still resting between your hands.

You had a feeling this was going to be a very long night.