I don't want the soldiers to trust my judgment, he might have said, though that is not true. I want you to trust my judgment. But at least she is agreeing, without enthusiasm, to a meal. He gives her a nod: good.

There is a beat of silence, and then he says, with a troubled sympathetic frown, "I'm sorry for it all. Missandei. She was a good lady and -- Cersei, the Lannisters, I know what it is to have them take people. That ends soon. I don't know if that's any kind of comfort."

Four days. He is not sure what help he will be, but he is here because he has promised it. He is not sure that he won't be the last thing Cersei takes, before that end, but someone else has taken him already, and he still isn't sure who. It is hard to blame Bran or Sam, after everything. It is hard to blame Ned Stark, and hard to blame anyone else.

This is the place of his fathers, as much as Winterfell, but Daenerys is the only thing he sees in it to love. A love that is ashes and shame. If he falls in this battle -- well, maybe that is something she can stand to lose to Cersei. He keeps his look on her: I am sorry for it, I am sorry for it.