Of course, more importantly, Viserys considered the Hound one of the finest fighters in Westeros. He had seen mountains of corpses and seas of blood, and was nothing like those noble knights whose knees would buckle at the mere sight of an Other.
After all, he intended to face the coming Long Night without sacrificing the strength of his own forces. He needed local factions like these, and people willing to fight hard and risk their lives, to help him.
Otherwise, keeping watch over the Night's King and the Cold God alongside the Lord of Light would be the limit of what he could manage alone. Most of the nobles of Westeros were useless fools, with few genuinely capable people among them. How could he trust them to deal with the Others?
King Ghidorah soon spread her wings again and launched herself into the air with a powerful beat.
Loose stones and ashes scattered across the ground, while the hides covering the battered tents snapped and rattled.
This time, the Hound stood his ground. He neither stepped back nor raised a hand against the fierce gust hitting his face. He merely narrowed his eyes and looked up as the golden figure rose swiftly and vanished into the night sky.
A faint night breeze blew past, settling the hair that King Ghidorah's wingbeats had tossed into disarray.
He glanced down at the half-charred stick beside his feet, bent to pick it up, and tossed it into the fire. Then he turned toward the spot where his tent had stood, ready to gather his pitifully few belongings.
But just as he began, he straightened and headed toward the camp's former leader instead, his hand resting firmly on his longsword.
He had initially intended to join Viserys alone. After all, if he took