Five men sat around the fire, mugs of ale in their hands. The silence was heavy between them, weighed down by the memory of those they'd left behind.
"They were good men," Beric finally said. "Thoros and Jon both. May the Lord guide them to the light."
"Your lord is what got them killed," the hound growled. "I think we could all do with a little less guiding from him."
"I do not always understand the Lord's will, but I still must serve him as best I can. As Thoros did. As Jon Snow did, though he may not have known it."
"For fucks sake, Dondarrion, do you ever shut up?"
"I-"
"Be quiet, the both of you," Davos snapped. "They were our friends, and now they're dead. Can you not leave the rest of us to mourn in peace?"
They were quiet for a long while, each wrapped up in his own memories. Eventually, Gendry broke the silence.
"How did he die?" He asked quietly. "Jon, I mean."
"The way he lived," Tormund said. "Being a stupid, brave fucker who tried to save everyone but himself."
"He thought he left the Night's Watch, but he never truly did," Davos sighed. "The shield that guards the realms of men. That was him, right up to the very end."
"And now his watch is ended," Jorah said quietly.
"And now his watch is ended," the others repeated, and drank deeply from their mugs. The fire crackled before them, and outside the wind howled. Gendry shivered, and wondered if he'd ever be warm again.
The horn shattered the silence. One blast. For a heartbeat, no one moved, waiting to see if a second would come.
"One blast," Gendry finally said. "What does that mean?"
"Rangers returning," Tormund said, and was across the room and out the door before anyone could say a word.
"The Watch hasn't sent out any rangings, not since Hardhome," Davos said slowly.
"They must have," Jorah said. "Who else could be coming back?" They stared at each other for a long moment. There was only one conclusion to be made, and they all seemed to come to it at the exact same time. They were up out of their chairs and through the door in a heartbeat, and emerged into the courtyard just in time to see one lone horse plod exhaustedly in through the gate. The rider, limp in the saddle, didn't move.
Tormund and a few other wildlings pulled the rider down and laid him on the ground. It was Jon Snow.
"Get him inside," Tormund ordered. "Now!"
As the men carried Jon inside, Gendry got his first clear look at him. If it weren't for the urgency in the wildling's voice, Gendry would have thought Jon was dead: he was pale and cold, unmoving beneath his frozen furs.
"Crazy fucker needs to stop coming back from the dead, or no one will believe him next time he gets himself killed." Gendry turned around to see the hound standing behind him, taking a swig from his flask.
"You could at least pretend to be glad he's alive," Gendry snapped.
"I could," the hound agreed. "But the thing is, I don't give a fuck."
Shaking his head, Gendry followed the wildlings inside, leaving the hound to drink alone in the cold. Not even Sandor Clegane's bitterness was enough to hurt him now. He hadn't lost a friend, and for that he was grateful. The wind howled, but just for a moment, Gendry was warm.