He sat there up on the battlements, in the dark, and took another large draught of wine. Until he heard soft footsteps echo on the stone stairs, and then the creak of wood and hinges as the heavy door opened. She didn't notice him right away.
"What brings you here, Sandor Clegane, looking so somber," she asked, when she saw him.
"Hello, Little Bird," he muttered. "I hoped you'd come." He remembered she had told him how much she liked coming up to the battlements at Winterfell, and at Kings Landing too. To get away, to think.
It was a familiar situation, from another war, another time. He had needed courage then, and he needed it now.
"I remember," she said. To hear him call her that again, after all these years, now sounded like an endearment, softening her heart after all she had been through, and still gave her a sense of calm and safety.
"I'm glad to see you," she continued. "There hasn't been much of a chance, with everything . . ." and her voice trailed off.
"Look at you," he said, in a voice low and fierce. "You survived."
He rose and came toward her, and she slipped her arm in his in the cold night. They walked together to look over the edge, the frozen landscape, the stars overhead so clear. The horizon safe, for now.
"They'll be here soon," she whispered to him.
"I wanted to see you, a happy memory to keep with me . . .
"Thank you," she said, and as she looked up at him, her eyes glistened in the darkness - with tears, he thought - of happiness and sorrow, and of gratitude, and then she kissed his cheek.