LORI

It was the dead of night, and you could not sleep.

You lay still beneath your blankets, your child pressed tight against your chest. The boy's small body rose and fell with shallow breaths, but your own refused to calm.

Outside, the air was too quiet, unnaturally so. Not even the wind dared blow tonight. It wasn’t just any night. This was the night that Stannis Baratheon marched on King’s Landing.

Your small village, a mere a day and a half walk from the city walls, had been restless for weeks. Rumors spread like wildfire. Stannis would come by sea, by land, with dragons, with demons. No one truly knew anything, but all agreed on one thing: death was coming.

You had family in the city. Your brother, Brenn, served with the city watch. He’d come to you quietly just two days before, pressed a kiss to your son's forehead, and said, “don’t go to the Red Keep. no matter what you hear.”

You blinked at him. “They're opening the gates. The Queen herself said so…-”

“It’s a trap,” Brenn interrupted. “She’ll pack the people in and use them as a human shield. She’ll dare Stannis to burn them, she’ll force him to defy his morals to save her own skin.”

Now, as you stared into the dark, you held your son tighter, your heartbeat pounding like war drums. Could your small house, tucked at the edge of a nearly forgotten village, truly be safer than the Red Keep? Safer than stone walls and soldiers?

Earlier that day, you had overheard the men at the market speak as if they knew war like they knew their tools. Stannis would strike by dawn, they said, or maybe hold back and starve the city.

You didn’t pretend to understand the minds of lords or kings. All you knew was fear, and tonight; it crept in like smoke through cracks, impossible to ignore.

You looked down at your little boy again, brushing a stray curl from his cheek. The stillness of the air, the absence of any sounds… Had you made a mistake by staying? When the whispers of war began, when the sailors in the harbor started sailing west instead of toward the city... should you have packed what little owned and ran?

But run where?

You had no coin, no kin beyond your brother. You had lost everything when war took your husband two years past. If he were here now, he’d be fighting beside Brenn, sword in hand, doing his duty for a king neither of them believed in.

A noise broke your thoughts.

It came from outside, something heavy crashing down, the sound muffled by grass and earth, but the metallic clank was clear. could still hear the metallic clank. You sat upright in an instant, your breath caught in your throat. For a moment, you told yourself it was nothing. Just your nerves. Just the wind.

Maegin stirred but didn’t wake.

Heart hammering, you slipped from the bed, laying your son gently on the mattress. You crept to the window, careful not to let the boards creak beneath your feet. With one finger, you nudged the curtain aside.

Darkness, nothing but it. The moon hung pale and high, casting just enough light to make shadows long and shapes uncertain. No firelight. No torches. No village sounds. No one was foolish enough to light a lamp tonight.

You squinted, eyes adjusting slowly.

There was something. A shape.

Lying in the grass right on top of your herb patch. It looked like a heap of furs or a forgotten sack. But then it moved. Shifted. Groaned.

A man. A large man sprawled on his side as though he’d simply collapsed there.

You held your breath. He wasn’t moving now, just breathing. You could see the slow rise and fall of his chest in the moonlight.

Drunk? Wounded? Dangerous?

You stared a while longer, debating. You could shut the curtain, crawl back into bed, and pretend you had seen nothing. A stranger’s life was no concern of yours, not with Maegin under your roof.

But what if he died out there? What if it was someone fleeing the city? A soldier left behind, or even an outlaw?

You could be saving someone’s life... or ending your own. And your son’s.

You stepped back from the window, heart thudding in your chest. Could it be your brother, or a friend of his? You felt your hands sweaty, and wiped them on your skirt, stepping away from the window. Whoever was that man in your yard, it was a soldier. It was obvious he was wearing armor by the clank when he fell. 

You thought of your husband, Sam. You wondered if he had been through anything like this in his final moments, when he went to war and never returned home. No matter what side that man was fighting for, you had to do something, anything. You knew most soldiers weren’t fighting for ideals, you knew most of them didn’t agree with their kings and lords, they just did it for a living. Just like Sam. Just like Brenn. So you decided to go outside, to check on that stranger. 

Despite your fear, you couldn’t bring yourself to shut the curtains and pretend. You would go out. Just long enough to see if he was still breathing. Just long enough to know what to do next.

First, you moved Maegin to his crib in the smaller room. You kissed his hair and shut the door softly behind yourself.  Then you knelt at the chest that held what was left of Sam’s things, the things you were never brave enough to sell or throw away, things you hadn’t touched in two years. A dagger and a sword. You hid the dagger on the waistband of your skirts. The sword was too heavy, and you wouldn’t know how to use it anyway. Not that you planned on using those weapons, you just knew you had to be careful. 

You weren’t planning to use it, but being careful wasn’t the same as being cruel.

One last glance at the closed bedroom door. One last steadying breath.

Then you opened the front door and stepped into the night. The air was colder than you expected.

You stepped barefoot onto the packed earth of the yard, the worn hem of your nightdress brushing against your ankles. Your fingers hovered near the hidden dagger.

The figure hadn’t moved since you last looked. Still a lump of dark cloth and armor sprawled in your herbs, boots muddy and arms open. A faint snore—or maybe a groan—rose from his throat.

You circled wide around him at first, scanning the edges of your property. No signs of any others. No glint of metal. No shuffle of boots. Just the steady croak of frogs by the creek and the distant moan of wind over the hills.

You crept closer.

The man reeked of wine. Stale sweat. Horses. And blood.

His sword was still belted at his side, heavy and long. Not a cheap blade either. you could see the workmanship in the moonlight. His armor was scorched and dirty, the remnants of an undershirt still clinging to one shoulder, too stained to even make out a color.

And he was huge. Gods, bigger than any man you had ever seen.

You knelt slowly near his side, every breath sharp in your throat. Your hand hovered above your dagger, but you hadn’t drawn it. Not yet. Your eyes flicked to the sword. It would be foolish to leave it on him. If he woke and panicked, you wouldn’t stand a chance.

Careful, slowly, you reached for the hilt, and his hand clamped around your wrist like a bear trap. You gasped, nearly falling backwards. His grip was like iron. His filthy fingers caked in dried blood and dirt, but damn strong.

His eyes cracked open, just a sliver. One was nearly swollen shut. The other glinted dully in the moonlight, full of confusion and threat.

“Touch it again,” he growled, voice thick with drink and hate, “and I’ll open yer throat.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Your hand trembled now. But after a long, tense beat, his grip loosened and his eyes shut close again.

And just like that, he passed out. Fully, this time.

You sat there beside him, heart pounding, skin cold.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t stab him. You should’ve done either, but instead, you sat in the grass, staring at that giant of a man passed out in your herb garden and realized you had just made your choice.

There was no running back inside now, so you stared at the man for almost a full minute, your hands shaky, your heart thumping, waiting to see if he’d move, talk, say anything. He didn’t. Your gaze lingered on his face, on the half you could make sense of, slack with sleep. The other half was twisted in a mess of old burn scars. Puckered skin was pulled tightly over bone, shiny and raw even in the moonlight. One ear was half gone, melted like wax.

You looked down at his body, looking for wounds, but the armor didn’t show scratches. Still, there was a bunch of blood. Even his hair was stained. You touched his arm, then his chest, prodding here and there to see if he’d wake up. 

You couldn't move him. Couldn’t leave him. Couldn’t quite convince yourself he was harmless either.

He was too big. Too armed. Too unknown.

But he was also alone. Hurt. Left out in the dark like something the gods forgot.

You stared at him a little longer, the cool night air curling around your bare ankles, your mind racing with all the reasons she should turn back… but your feet didn’t move.

It felt wrong leaving him like this. Whatever he’d done, wherever he came from, he was still a man bleeding in your yard. A soldier. Like Sam. Like Brenn.

You stood slowly, knees stiff, and brushed the dirt from your skirts. “All right, then,” you muttered to yourself, voice low. “If you’re not dead, you better prove it.”

You stepped closer, leaned down, and gave his shoulder a firm shake. Nothing. You shook him harder. “You’re bleeding all over my mint!”

Still nothing. Just the slow rise and fall of his chest and the faint stink of wine and blood.

You sighed, eyeing the edge of his armor. If he was bleeding under all that, he’d rot through the night. You couldn't carry him. You couldn't lift him. But maybe you could get the armor off and check for wounds hiding underneath….and pray to the gods he wouldn’t wake angry.

You stepped around behind him, careful not to jostle him too much, and began working at the buckles on his chest plate. They were stiff, grimy with dried blood, and obviously made for a man with larger and more skilled hands than yours.

“Stupid thing,” you muttered, yanking one loose with more force than grace. As you pulled at the second buckle, he stirred. Not fully, but his head rolled slightly, and his breath hitched. A low groan rose from his throat.

You froze, dagger suddenly too far from your reach.

His arm twitched. His brow furrowed, as if caught in some nightmare, but he didn’t wake. You swallowed and waited, body tight with tension, but after a moment he went still again.

You let out a breath and returned to the buckles, faster this time. You unfastened the last strap, then gently lifted the armor from his chest and set it aside on the grass. It hit the earth with a dull thud.

Beneath, his tunic was soaked through. The blood was thick and drying across his ribs, the fabric stiff and clinging to his skin. But when you pressed gently along his side, you found no obvious wound. No gash, no arrowhead, no broken rib poking through.

“Whose blood is this?” you whispered to yourself.

You looked down at your fingers, stained red. Blood didn't scare you, since you grew up in a family of soldiers and married one years later. 

You stood slowly.

He needed a blanket. Something to keep him from freezing. Something to give you time to think.

And I definitely, you thought as you turned around towards your house, need a drink.

…

The fire in the hearth had long since died down, but you hadn’t gone back inside. Instead, while wrapped in your husband’s old cloak, knees pulled close to your chest,  you sat a short distance from the stranger. A worn wool blanket now covered the stranger, barely enough for a man his size, but better than nothing.

You didn’t know what you were waiting for. Maybe dawn. Maybe the courage to drag him to the Godswood and leave him there. Instead, you sat.

The moon had shifted high above the trees when you heard the shift in his breathing. Deeper. Then shallow. Then a soft, gritted groan. Your spine stiffened and you glanced towards him. The man was stirring, his fingers twitching against the edge of the blanket, mouth parting like he was about to curse the world awake.

He blinked slowly. Then suddenly, his eyes snapped to yours. One good eye, one swollen. Even in the moonlight, you felt the weight of that stare, sharp and cold like a blade against your throat.

You didn’t move.

Neither did he.

“You’re ruining my mint,” you said finally, voice low.

He grunted, shifting to a sitting position, eying the bits and pieces of his armor laying on the grass next to him. He reached instinctively toward his side, towards where the sword should’ve been.

You put your hands on the ground, as if ready to get up at any moment. “I hid it. And checked for wounds.”

He looked down, grunted again. “You better keep your fuckin’ hands to yourself, woman.” He looked around, taking in the picture. “Where am I?”

“In a village that wants nothing to do with that war.”

Silence stretched between you, thick with questions neither of you were willing to ask, let alone answer. You studied him carefully. He was still pale, still reeking of wine and blood. But there was clarity in his gaze now.

He was awake. 

Dangerous again.

“Who are you?” he said, voice slurred. 

Your mouth tightened. You said nothing.

“I want to know why you were bleeding on my garden.”

His jaw clenched. “Go back inside, girl”

You didn’t reply. You just stood there.

“Where my horse at?”

You shook your head. “No horse.”

“The fuck you mean?” he snapped. “Big black bastard. Mean as I am. Where’s he gone?”

“You had no horse. Just armor. A flask of wine. A sword. And a bag of gold.”

“You took the sword, but left the gold?”

“I don’t want your gold.” As far as you knew, that gold could've come from anywhere. “I'm not a thief.”

He barked out a laugh, short and mirthless. “You do steal swords.”

“I hide weapons. There’s a difference.”

You stared at each other for a long time, the silence taut and uncomfortable. The wind picked up, rustling the dry grass between you.

Sandor’s voice broke the silence. “Take the sword. Keep it. Won’t stop me if I decide to break your neck instead.”

You didn’t blink. Neither did he.

Then, from inside the house, a faint wail broke the quiet.

Maegin.

You stood slowly, eyes still on the man, hesitant to turn your back to him. The harsh truth was that he wouldn’t need any weapons to harm you and your son, and this weighed heavily on your shoulders. 

He didn’t say anything, just watched.

You lingered for a moment longer, then turned and walked toward the cottage, cloak trailing behind you.

…

Soon, dawn came.

You stepped outside again once the light crept over the hills, breath misting in the cool air. Your garden was quiet, the mint and chamomile heavy with dew. You knelt to gather a few sprigs, hands moving with practiced ease.

He was still there.

The stranger.

Sitting on the grass, back against a tree, legs stretched out in the grass. The blanket lay forgotten at his side. He was staring into the distance, jaw tense, one hand resting on his knee.

He didn’t look at you when you came near. Didn’t speak. So you walked past him without a word and went inside.

You couldn't say you always had a full pantry, but when people started talking about war and how soon Stannis’ army would come, you spent what you could to make  sure Maegin would be fed and warm. No one could tell how long it'd take before things were back to normal.

You cooked breakfast. Eggs, boiled potatoes, some leftover chicken. Maegin's highchair was broken, so you sat him on your lap and made sure he had breakfast. You'd usually eat when he was done.

With his belly full, you saw Maegin going to his room. You didn’t pay any mind to it, since mornings were always his playtime, and you were used to the soft thuds of wooden toys on the floor.

That man was still outside. You knew he was probably hungry and dehydrated due to his hangover, so you thought you could offer him some breakfast before asking him to leave. When you stepped outside, Maegin was already wobbling on his way there, to him.

The man was now standing up, his armor back on. Your eyes went wide as you saw Maegin, wearing the little tin helmet his uncle had gifted him, ambling up to the man with a stick on his hand and hitting him on the leg. The man did nothing but stare down at him, while Maegin hit him again, then again.

“Piss off.” He barked at your boy, but Maegin didn’t back out. He giggled as he hit the stranger again.

And then, the man snatched the stick from Maegin and snapped it in half, before throwing it far away. Maegin proceeded to punch his leg, just as far as a two-year-old could reach. The man growled, annoyed, and your son growled back, like the brave soldier he wanted to be. Maegin growled again, fiercer this time, gripping the man’s leg as if trying to wrestle him down. 

You rushed outside, scooping your son into your arms before Sandor could fling him aside like the stick. Clutching Maegin tight, you stepped back, eyes wide, pulse racing as though the battle had come to your very door.

The stranger scowled at you, and you stared back at him, trying to read his behaviour. When several seconds passed, none of you saying anything, you decided to break the silence. “You hungry?”

No answer.

More seconds passed and you grew tired of waiting. You turned around and went back inside, telling your son to go play with his toys. “He’s not like uncle Brenn” you warned, “he doesn’t want to play knights”. The thought of your brother not returning home weighed heavily on you as you watched your son walk into his room. Maegin couldn’t lose him, and neither could you.

Then, a moment later, the heavy thump of boots across the yard.

The stranger, tall and broad as he was, ducked under the low doorframe, straightening slowly once inside. He scanned the walls of old stone, the wooden coverings, ceiling low enough to nearly graze his head, wooden table worn smooth with years. Your son’s highchair broken, the counters old, their doors needing fixing.

He didn’t say a word.

He sat down, awkward in the chair that felt too small for him. His broad shoulders hunched and legs sprawled under the table like he didn’t know how to fold himself properly.

You set a plate in front of him. Bread. Eggs. Tea. A slice of cheese and the leftovers of the boiled potatoes. Then you served yourself and sat across from him. He ate like the brute he was.

When done, he leaned back slightly, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and muttered, “That supposed to mean I owe you something now?”

“Maybe,” you answered cautiously. He stared at you for a long moment. Then, with a slight grunt, he looked away. He knew you were about to ask questions non-stop. You set down your cup carefully. “You came from the city.” You guessed.

He didn’t respond.

“There was a battle.”

Still nothing.

“You were in it?”

He let out a sharp breath through his nose, not quite a laugh. “You always ask questions with answers you already know? Ask the right questions, dumb wench.”

“I want to hear it from you.”

His jaw worked slightly as he stared at the wall. The silence stretched.

“Fucking madness,” he said at last. “Fire everywhere. Screaming. Men burning like rats.”

You didn’t interrupt.

“I fought for gold. That’s all. That’s all it ever is.”

He stood up suddenly, the chair scraping loud against the floor.

“Wont bleed my stories across your table,” he muttered.

He didn’t thank you, he just turned toward the door, ducked under the frame again, and stepped outside like he owed nothing to either you or the world.

…

It was near dusk when you heard the knocking. Three heavy thuds. You paused at the hearth, your son Maegin playing quietly with wooden animals near the fire. It was past dinnertime, your brother was safe at home with his wife… Who could it be?

You sat down your spoon and crossed the room slowly, your fingers brushing the hidden dagger near the doorframe out of habit. Then you opened it.

And there he was.

That same stranger, from just a few weeks ago.

Dirt-smeared. Gaunt. His hair was damp with rain and sweat, longer and wilder than before, just like his beard. A crust of dried blood at his temple. He looked worse than he had the first time you’d found him in your garden, more exhausted now than drunk.  A man who looked as though he’d been chasing something with no end.

And beside him, half-hidden behind his cloak, was a girl. Thin, dirty, and glaring up at you with the hesitance only scared children ever managed. Your eyes shifted between them, taking them in. They were soaked to the bone, both of them. Pale with cold, hollowed out by hunger.

You didn’t ask why they were here, neither did you expect you’d be a safe place to him. He was big. Strong. And last time you’d seen him, he had a bag of gold dragons the size of his head. You, meanwhile, were nothing but a young widow, barely getting by.

You stepped aside. “Get in.”

They entered without hesitation, the man ducking under the doorframe again, the girl brushing past with her wary eyes scanning the room like a cornered cat. Maegin looked up from the floor, and growled playfully at the man, but didn’t stop playing with his toys. You closed the door behind them and turned back to the fire.

The man gave you a look and lowered himself onto the bench by the fire with a grunt. The girl followed slowly, eyes never leaving you. You ladled soup into two bowls and passed them around before going to check what you had in your pantry. You took half a loaf of bread to split between them.

As they ate in silence, the fire crackled. Rain tapped against the shutters. The girl devoured the soup like she hadn’t seen a warm meal in days. Sandor still ate like the brute he was.

“You didn’t say you were coming back,” You said finally.

“Didn’t plan to.”

“But you came.”

He looked up at her, the frown always present. “Ain’t dead yet.” You wondered if that meant he would come back again.

You didn’t answer, just watched as the little girl turned to look at the man, as if asking something with her gaze. You turned around to give them privacy. 

“You’ll have to help me fill the tub.” You said as you went after the buckets.

…

About an hour later, the cottage had gone quiet.

The storm outside passed, leaving the night calm and damp. The only sound now came from the low crackle of the hearth and the soft breathing of children behind closed doors.

You stepped out from the back room, drying your hands on your apron. You’d washed the girl’s clothes and hung them near the fire to dry, and now the girl was asleep in Maegin’s bed, curled up small and tight, like she didn’t know how to take up space.

You had settled Maegin in your own bed instead, and told him there were travelers staying the night, that the girl was tired and needed quiet. He fell asleep before he could even question anything. 

Now, with the fire burning low and the hour creeping toward deep night, only two remained awake.

The stranger sat at the edge of the table, as far from the fire as he could, elbows on his knees, staring at his hands. It was easy to guess why he avoided fire, you didn’t need more than a look to figure that much out. His hair was still wet from the bath, and he looked cleaner now. Less road-worn.

Still scowling, of course. But cleaner.

You stepped past him and poured two cups of wine, handing him one without a word. He simply took it.

You sat in silence for a time, the warmth of the fire a small comfort against the cold damp clinging to the windows. The wine was poor, but strong. It did what it needed to.

“She’s asleep?” he asked, not bothering to look at you.

“She is.”

He nodded once.

You took a sip of wine. “I don’t know who she is,” she said. “Or where you’re going. I won’t ask anything this time.”

“Good.” He downed half his cup in one swallow, and you stared at the way his Adam's apple moved. “Wouldn’t answer anyway.”

“I figured.”

You sat again in silence, but it didn’t feel as heavy this time.

“You’re taking care of her,” You said, more observation than question.

Sandor scoffed, but not harshly. “She’d gut me if she could.”

“Maybe. But she trusts you enough to sleep under your roof.”

“Ain't got a roof.”

“Then she trusts you.”

He didn’t answer. Just stared into the fire, jaw working.

“I’ve seen how some men would treat girls her age before, in Kings Landing,” You said softly. “Girls in collars. Chains. That’s not what this is.”

Sandor didn’t look at her. But he said, low and gruff, “No. It’s not.” You let that be enough.

He drained the rest of his cup and leaned back, stretching his huge legs out. “You’re still too big for this house,” you said with a bit of humor in your voice, for once.

“And you still talk too much.”

You smiled faintly and poured him another cup.

Outside, the wind had quieted. Inside, the fire settled to soft embers. You picked up some more sticks nearby to feed the fire.

You didn’t speak again, but sat there, for a long time, drinking in the quiet. And for the first time, you felt completely safe near him, and noticed that he didn't look as though he was desperate to leave.

…

The trees were heavy with the promise of snow, and so was the air. You were pulling herbs near the fence when you heard the hoofbeats. 

Slow. Steady. One rider. You looked up.

The man on the horse was slumped in the saddle, one hand on the reins, the other resting heavy on his thigh. Dust caked his boots. A dried smear of blood ran down the side of his face.

You recognized the man before he was close enough to speak. Not that he was a talker, anyway. 

He looked... older. More hollow. How many weeks had passed since the last time you had seen him?

Neither of you said a word.

You stood slowly. Didn’t drop your basket. Didn’t move toward him.

“You’ve got a habit,” you said finally as you stood “of showing up at my door half-dead.”

The man gave a sound that might’ve been a laugh. Or a grunt. Or something in between. He slid down from the saddle, slow, stiff.

“Seems to be a pattern”. he said. You studied him. His tunic was torn near the ribs, and there were fresh bruises across his knuckles. “I'm a big motherfucker. Hard to kill.”

“Where’s the girl?”

He hesitated, jaw flexed. He didn’t answer. You didn’t press. “I could take a look at those scratches.” you said.

“No need.”

You stepped toward the house. "I've got some wine.”

He didn’t thank you,  just gave a small nod before following.

…

Inside, the cottage was nearly unchanged, though now Maegin’s drawings were pinned up on the wall: birds and trees and monsters with square heads. At the sight of blood covering the stranger's face, you were thankful Maegin was at his uncle's for the night.

He sat on the bench by the fire, with a familiar grunt, his long frame folding awkwardly into the space once again.

You poured water into a basin and set it on the table with a clean cloth. And once again, you didn’t ask where he’d been or what he’d done.

Instead, you said, “You’re bleeding.”

He seemed to only remember that then, and he touched his forehead near his hairline, on the scarred side of his face. “Not enough to matter.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” You got closer with the cloth now wet, and he pulled back, turning his scar away from you.

You stood there for a beat, half stunned at how sensitive he seemed to get. It's not like you haven't seen his scar before, given how big and obvious it is. “I won't hurt you”.

He grunted at the highest of his grouchyness. “Couldn't hurt me if you tried, girl.” He snatched the cloth from you and cleaned the blood in his own clumsy way.

You sat across the table.  “Bandits?” He nodded. “You killed them?”

He didn’t answer at first. Then: “Aye. They killed my friend.”

You didn’t ask more. He looked deeply troubled, and you were unsure if it was because of the girl, because of his friend, or if he just was like this and you never realized. Was the girl the friend he was talking about?

“I'm sorry for your loss” You offered the words sincerely, and aimed to squeeze his hand that was resting on the table, just to offer some comfort. As soon as your fingers touched he pulled back. 

“Shove your pity up your arse”.

The silence between you was different now. Hostile.

“I don't pity you. I'm just trying to offer some… solidarity.”

He stared at you for a beat, as if he was evaluating if it was worth arguing for. “You said you had wine.”

Was he mad at you, or at the world?

You poured wine. “You still don’t talk much,” you said after a long while.

“You talk enough for both of us.”

You siad nothing else, just enjoyed a cup of wine with that stranger, and even though the wind broke through the small cracks on the wood here and there, you felt somewhat… cozy.

…

The sun filtered through the shutters in warm stripes.

You woke to the scent of sawdust and damp earth, not smoke or breakfast, but something heavier, rooted. You sat up slowly, rubbed your eyes, and listened.

No child’s laughter yet. No knocking. But something was moving outside.

You wrapped your husband’s robe around your shoulders and stepped barefoot across the stone floor, the quiet and cold of the early hour wrapping around you like wool.

When you opened the door, the sight made you pause.

The stranger was in your yard. Shirtless, sweat on his brow, fixing the broken posts of your fence. The one you had meant to fix all spring.

He grunted, wiped his face on his sleeve, then crouched by the new lumber and began cutting a fresh beam with the small handsaw you kept by the shed. Too small for his huge hands, but he worked with it anyway.

It wasn’t the first time.

You remembered now how the last time he’d been here, the kitchen counter was magically fixed by morning. The time before that, it was the window latch. Always silent. Never asked. Was that his way of apologizing? Or was there a part of his heart, even if small, that was not bitter enough to give a helping hand? 

Did he pity you, being a widow and raising a child all by yourself? Or was he just thanking you for the food, drink and shelter? 

You never asked. You just watched how skilled he was with his hands and how he didn’t seem to mind the small wounds under the coat of thick hair on his chest.

He saw you, but kept his focus on finishing the work. You watched for a moment longer, then turned to make tea. You didn’t speak when he came to the door an hour later, dripping sweat and covered in sawdust, and dropped the broken fence board beside the threshold like a dog bringing back a kill.

He sat down at the table like he’d lived there for months.

You poured him tea like he had, too.

But before he could lift the cup, the door swung open, and your brother stepped inside with a sack of wrapped meat over his shoulder, Maegin behind him, Brenn's dark eyes scanning the room. He froze when he saw the man at the table.

“Seven hells,” Brenn muttered, jaw tightening. He dropped the sack onto the table and reached for the dagger at his hip. “Is that…? That’s the Hound.”

The stranger now had a name. A name you remembered hearing before, so far ago you couldn't remember. But you remembered getting chills when you first learned about ‘The Hound’.

He didn’t move. Just looked up, brow raised, his perpetual frown present.

Brenn turned sharply to You. “Are you mad? Letting him in your house?” His voice was low, hard. “Do you even know who that is?”

“I do now” You said quietly. Your eyes darted to Maegin, wobbling to you with his arms open, asking for uppies. You quickly scooped him up as you turned back to your brother.

“For how long has this been going on?” Brenn hissed. “Is that where Sam’s sword went? A dog?”

You only needed a glance at the Hound to know it was not a good idea to have your brother say all those things. 

“Brother… Can we speak in private?”

Brenn stepped even closer. “Fuck no! He’s a murderer. A deserter. There’s a bounty on his head in three kingdoms!”

“And yet here I am,” Sandor said flatly, finally speaking. He took a sip of his tea. “drinking your sister’s piss-water brew. In broad daylight.”

Your brother drew the dagger, and the Hound stood up, his broad frame pushing the chair backwards till it fell with a loud noise. Scared, Maegin clung to you and started to cry. 

“Brenn,” You said, firmly now. “Leave it.”

Your brother looked at you like he didn’t recognize you. “You’ve let him stay here? You’ve fed him?”

“I didn’t know who he was until now” you said, overwhelmed by your son's bawling and by the tension in the room. “He never asked for more than I could give.”

Brenn stepped back slightly, but his hand was still holding his dagger.

You looked between them, both tense and taut, divided between not wanting to startle you and  throwing the first punch. 

You couldn't even bear to think of what could happen if a man as big as the Hound started throwing fists. From the stories you've heard… he was probably the scariest man in Westeros, if not for his brother. Definitely the most skilled warrior. 

A weighted silence fell over the house. You'd be able to hear each other's heartbeat if not for Maegin scared cries. Your brother cut the silence by sheathing his dagger.

He looked at the Hound once more, shook his head, and muttered, “If he brings death to your door, don’t ask me to clean up the blood.”

He took Maegin from you forcefully, and the sight of the boy reaching for you broke your heart. Brenn turned and left, the door slamming shut behind him. You wanted to go after him and get your child back, but you knew you and the former stranger had to talk, and it'd be better without Maegin around. 

Sandor grunted. “Let him in again, and I’ll have words.”

You both knew your brother wasn't a threat to you. “You’ll have tea. That’s all I’ll serve.”

You sat in silence for a few minutes. Not awkward. Just careful. The kind of quiet that happens when people are thinking about the past and trying not to say too much.

The Hound broke it first. “This your husband’s house?”

You looked up. Nodded. “Was.”

Sandor grunted. “He died in the war?”

“Yes,” she said softly, then took a bite. “Didn’t even get far. They sent his things back in a sack. I never opened it."

The Hound looked at you in a way you couldn't quite decipher.

You sighed, thoughtful. “It wasn’t a love match,” you said, voice low. “We were best friends. Grew up together. He made me laugh. I think he asked me to marry him just so we wouldn’t have to stop spending time together.”

“Better than most,” The Hound muttered.

“It was easy,” she said. “Loving him. Not the kind of love they write songs about. No fireworks. No grand gestures. Just... quiet. Kind.”

Your eyes were teary, but you continued. “He never met Maegin. Died before I even knew I was pregnant.”

The Hound said nothing.

After a while, you tilted your head. “And you? Who are you?” You needed to hear it from him, that he was not a Hound anymore. 

His grip on his cup tightened just slightly.

“I only knew the name,” you continued carefully. “A few things people said. ‘He worked for the king. He is dangerous. He has a brother twice as bad’.” You bit your lip in thought. “They said he burned half your face.”

His jaw moved slowly, once, then stilled.

“I didn’t know what was true,” you added.

Sandor looked at you then, finally. His eyes were angry, hard and wary. He scowled. You wondered if you had not spoken each word with enough care. He was like a wild animal… any wrong movement and he'd bite, or run. Always on fight or flee. Always choosing to fight when you wanted nothing but peace, always fleeing when you least expected him to.

“I figured if I gave some answers, I might get some back.”

He stared at you a moment longer, then put down the cup.

“You think if you know what they call me, it makes a difference?” he asked. “I was the Hound when I killed for the Lannisters. I was Sandor when I was beaten by my brother and pissed on by lords. Doesn’t matter what name you use. Won’t erase any of the shit I’ve done. Won't change who I am.”

“What…what do you mean?” You managed to mutter, pressing further.

Sandor’s mouth twisted. “Fuck off.” He was clear, you had no right to his past. He was not letting you into whoever he is… or was.

You let that hang in the air, and watched the way he sat, the way his shoulders tensed, the scarred side of his face turned slightly away from you.

“Who are you now?”

No answer. 

Then he stood and headed to the door. You didn’t move. didn’t try to stop him. You just looked up at him and asked, “Will you come back?”

Sandor didn’t answer, just left.

Your hands were shaking when you picked up the empty cups. 

…

The sun hung high and golden over the village roofs when you heard the whispers.

The Brotherhood Without Banners, about fifty riders, rough-looking, with swords and worn sigils, had passed through the southern woods by midmorning. You’d caught the gossip from the butcher’s wife while handing off a bundle of lavender salves.

“They’re camping by the river tonight.” the woman said, taking a look at the products on your shelves. “Could’ve stayed in the village, we've got inns, but I heard they didn’t want trouble. Gendry’s down there. The smith’s boy. And the Hound, too. Can you believe it? Him, with them? You better lock your doors tonight, windows too, if you can. My husband said they're all thieves.”

You didn’t answer.

You just nodded, packed up the rest of your candle jars, and worked the rest of the morning with your head full of things you couldn’t say aloud.

By noon, you’d decided.

Maegin was dropped off at Brenn's with little explanation beyond, “He’s too restless today. He’ll wear me thin.” Brenn raised a brow but said nothing, only tugged Maegin inside with a grunt and a muttered complaint about the boy’s muddy boots.

You walked home slowly, past the herb garden, past the fence Sandor had repaired months ago, and into the quiet house where the silence buzzed louder than usual.

You lit a single candle. Sat at the table. Waited. Would he come, or had you driven him off for good, asking about the brother who scarred him, the names he hated, the past he refused to own?

You hadn’t meant to pry. But things had been quiet. Comfortable. And for a moment, it had felt safe enough to ask. You thought maybe he could trust you with his past, since he could trust you with his safety.

But maybe it meant you had overstepped.

Your hands busied themselves, folding herbs, straightening the shelf, brushing dust from corners that didn’t need cleaning. All the while, your ears strained for a sound outside. A voice, a footstep, a knock.

But there was only birdsong and the soft creak of the old house in the summer heat.

You poured yourself water. Poured it out again, untouched. You told yourself you weren't waiting.

That night, the door stayed shut, even though you’d left it unlocked. A foolish thing, maybe. Or maybe not.

But the candle you lit by the window stayed burning until it burned itself down to nothing.

…

The candle had burned down to a stump by the time you heard it, the uneven sound of boots crunching over the dry path, slow and heavy. You didn’t move at first. Kept lying still on your bed, heart thumping against your ribs.

A knock didn’t come.

Instead, the latch clicked open without a word.

Your bedroom door opened, but you still didn’t move. Sandor stood in the frame, the moonlight catching on the wild strands of his hair, the shape of him broader than you remembered. 

He didn’t speak, didn’t ask, just entered the room, unbuckling his armor with movements stiff and unpracticed. The breastplate clattered too loud against the floorboards, and you winced at the sound. Then his heavy boots were left on the floor as he climbed up the bed, lying beside you. 

His body was massive, warm and hard, a wall of heat close behind you. He didn’t pull you to him, didn’t wrap around you, didn’t even touch you. Just rested there, close enough that you could feel his imposing presence. You’d be lying to say you weren't somewhat attracted, apprehensive… You just wanted to turn around and look at him. And you wanted him to let you see him, for once.

You turned your head taking a glimpse of him. He left the scarred side of his face in shadow. Always in shadow. You didn’t move. Didn’t sit up.

“Sandor..” You breathed out, not even sure what you were going to say next, but you needed that night to not go blank. You needed something to happen, and that was all it took for him to roughly grab you, his hands sliding up your thigh from behind. Hesitant, then firm.

No words. No warning.

His hands were calloused and scarred from years of swordplay and combat. They pushed up the hem of your nightgown, exposing more of your skin to the cool night air. You gasped as his fingers found the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, tracing a path upwards until they brushed against your already wet cunt.

You shifted for him, giving his greedy hands better access to you. You didn’t even think. The touch of his hands, there in the dark, made you mind empty, brain foggy with expectation, but your body had never been so awake.

He didn't wait for permission or encouragement. He acted on pure instinct, driven by a desperate need that had been building for weeks. His touch was clumsy at first, unpracticed and hesitant, but it grew bolder and more insistent with each passing second.

You sat up, ready to kiss him, touch him back, eager for more. You could barely see him in the pitch black of midnight, curtains closed, no more candles lit, but at that moment you realized how attracted to him you were. 

You wanted to see him, touch him, feel him. You were desperate.

But when your hands touched him, he pulled them away. Your eyes searched for his, but his hands fell to your waist, turning you around, your face on your pillow.

Then you felt his hands pulling down your smallclothes. You were stunned. Not because you wanted to stop him, not because you didn’t want him. But because you felt so strongly how you craved him, how you wanted nothing more than to feel him inside of you. You wanted him so much you couldn't care less about doing anything properly.

He took mere seconds to undo his pants and bury himself deep inside of you with a grunt.You arched your back as he entered you, a strangled cry escaping your lips. He was large and hard, stretching you in a way that bordered on painful, his hips slamming against yours with each powerful thrust. It was fast and raw. His movements were uncertain, uneven but strong, driven by instinct, not practice. 

The headboardslammed against the wall, the sound of wood on wood echoing throughout the room. You gripped the sheets beneath you, knuckles turning white as you tried to anchor yourself against the force of his movements.

No kisses.

No eye contact.

But his hand gripped your waist like you might vanish if he let go.

So you just let him, not asking for more, not asking to stop. You’d die before you ask him to stop. You were needy, desperate after years of being without the touch of a man, and he wasn’t just any man. 

You’d had opportunities with others after your husband had passed. But you had never felt like this. Never felt the ache Sandor gave you. 

No one got you wet like he did. 

You were so sensitive you didn’t last more than a few minutes. It was the first time you ever came with your clothes still on. When your walls clenched around him, he came right after, his fingers hurting your hips from the force of his grip, but it felt delicious. 

Then, he was out of you, and you felt cold.

You didn’t speak, there was nothing you could’ve said. You knew it was no use asking for anything other than this, which was as far as he was willing to go. 

You wanted to get up and open the curtains, to let the moonlight shine on his face, but your legs felt shaky and weak, so you just pulled yourself up to sit near the headboard.

He sat up on the edge of the bed, with the scarred side of his face hidden from view.

A long silence settled between you. He didn’t reach for you, but he didn’t leave.

You sat still for what felt like forever, listening to the uneven rhythm of his breath, trying to regain control of your own. The room was warm, your bodies warmer still, but the space between you felt ice cold.

He didn’t speak, didn’t move, so you did.

“Are you not going to look at me?”

He stood up, and you feared he’d leave.

“You show up drunk. Don’t say a word. Don’t even look at me.”

His jaw flexed. Still, he said nothing.

“I’m a widow, not a whore.” You snapped. That landed. You noticed it in the way his breath caught. “Look at me, damnit!”

The wind blew harshly against the windows,  escaping through the cracks and jostling the curtains. You could see him better in the moonlight, his back to you. When he turned to look at you, he had the same troubled expression on his face, his eyes angry and melancholic. Your anger met his.

You leaned toward him, voice lower now, but no less sharp. “You’ll fuck me. But not kiss me. Not look at me.” Your brows furrowed. “Why?”

His throat worked, but no sound came out.

You watched him and for the first time you saw fear beneath all the roughness. Not fear of you, but fear of being seen. The way he stayed turned just so, keeping the ruined half of his face hidden. The way he’d touched you like he didn’t deserve it.

A few days ago, he made sure you looked at his face, as if he wanted you to think of him as a monster, but now… he hid.

Your anger softened, cooling into something sadder, something truer, as you reached out, slowly, and touched his jaw. He flinched, but didn’t pull away. So you did it again, fingers brushing along the side he always hid.

“I don’t care about this.” you whispered. “You act like it makes you something… evil, but it’s not the scars that insult me, it’s the way you hide behind them.”

“I didn’t ask you to give a shit,” he bit back. “Didn’t ask for anything.”

“No,” you said, “you didn’t. But you’re here.”

His eyes flicked toward yours then. Just briefly. But it was enough.

You shifted, pushing the straps of your nightshirt down, not allowing but demanding that he looked at you properly. You had never recognized hunger in his eyes - it’d hardly show, with the loose clothes you wore -, not until now. His gaze wandered over every inch of your body, and it made clear just how much he wanted you. 

Maybe he just wanted the raw relief, maybe it wasn’t about you. Not before. But now he's seen you, heard you, and you knew he wanted you. You had no intention to fool yourself or pretend that you didn’t want him too.

You kneeled on the edge of the bed and gripped the waistband of his half-undone pants, pulling him closer. He let you, and when you cupped his face, your hand on top of his scars, he didn’t pull away. Nor did he look away. But when you got close, when his breath touched your face and your nose brushed his, he looked away.

You didn’t give up, though, kissing his neck and jaw instead. His breathing heavy.

You’d never had to work hard to seduce a man before, but this didn’t feel like seducing or convincing, but something deeper. Something truly intimate.

You unbuttoned his shirt, already familiar with the scars on his torso, though it was the first time you touched the thick hair on his chest. As your hands traveled further down, peeking inside his pants, you looked back up, tilting your head backwards so your eyes could meet his.

“Look at me.” You had asked before, but now you commanded. He obeyed. “Keep looking at me while you fuck me.”

It took mere seconds for Sandor to push you against the mattress and climb on top of you. You had no doubt he wasn’t familiar with this type of intimacy - the type he didn’t have to pay for - but you didn’t feel discouraged in the least.  You welcomed his weight on top of you willingly, your toes curling when he pushed inside of you again.

This time, you were not shy to ask for more, nor to wrap your legs around him. When he came undone once more, it was your turn to push him down on the bed and climb on top of him, your hands on his chest for balance, his hands on your hips to guide your pace.

His eyes only left yours when the pleasure became too much and you had to shut them tight and throw your head back. You leaned down, pressing your forehead to his, your breath brushing his cheek. Then, you kissed him.

It wasn’t gentle, or tender. It was real and quick, just a brush of lips before you pulled back to bury your face on his neck, melting as you came, still on top of him. 

He didn’t kiss you back, not then. but by the end of the night, he was kissing your ankles, not as shy to voice his needs. 

When you were both fully spent, his heavy body fell by your side. Only then, he held your cheek and pulled your face to his. When he kissed you, it was messy and awkward, like he didn’t know what to do with his mouth. Like it was the first time. Maybe it was. But damn, you’d wanted this, wanted him, wanted it so much that you moaned at the feeling of his tongue on yours.

He didn’t pull away.

Not again.

…

He returned with the girl, weeks later. 

She wasn’t a little girl anymore, not really. She had the gait of a fighter now. The blank expression of someone who knew how to kill without flinching. Yet her eyes, as sharp as they were, still held something human. Still kind.

Maegin had always liked her.

You didn’t ask questions. Just watched.

Watched Sandor hover near the girl without quite looking at her. Watched him stay quiet when Maegin climbed into his lap at the table like he used to as a toddler. Watched as the girl met your gaze with something like understanding, though no one said it aloud.

Not until the girl rose after dinner, dusting her hands and announcing calmly, “I’m going to kill the queen.”

Not a queen.

The queen.

Cersei.

That’s when it all clicked. Your heart twisted with it. Sandor wasn’t just going to King’s Landing to take the girl there. She could get there on her own.

He was going for himself.

For his brother. To die.

No one said it. No one had to.

When Maegin eventually drifted off to sleep, Sandor put him to bed himself, the boy curled under a blanket and fast asleep. Sandor only came back to the kitchen to gather his things. He hadn’t unpacked.

You followed them quietly to the door. The girl nodded, a quick farewell, not quite a goodbye. You knew she'd kill the queen. You knew she'd come back. Then she turned and went to get their horses.

Sandor stayed, like he wanted to say something. So did you, even though you didn't know what to say.

You could’ve begged, but you didn’t. You knew it wouldn't be fair.

You looked up at him, your eyes full of all the words you weren't brave enough to speak. You knew you shouldn’t fool yourself with the expectations and promises he never made. Your hands curled at your sides. Your lips parted slightly, then closed.

'Don’t go. Don’t die. Don’t leave me.' But the words never left your lips.

He stared back.

Then he stepped closer. His hand came to your jaw, rough and unsure, and he kissed you. Not hard, not rushed, but as he simply… as he meant it. 

Like it was goodbye.

His mouth tasted of wine and salt. He lingered for just a breath, but you weren’t ready to let go. Your hands clutched to his tunic, keeping him close, knowing those seconds would be your last ones.

Then pulled back, eyes falling to yours.

No promises, no lies.

At that moment you realized he really had no intention of coming back. He thought there'd be nothing left for him after he got his revenge.

You wanted to scream to his face that you'd still be there, that he'd have you to come back to.

But you didn’t. He turned and left.

And you didn’t cry. Not until the door was closed, and the sound of his boots faded.

…

The sky had burned days ago.

You had seen it, just after dawn, a red haze stretching out from the direction of the capital. The dragonfire had lit the clouds from below like the world was ending behind the hills.

You stood outside your cottage that morning, your apron still damp from soap and herbs, staring toward the horizon as the air went still. No birds. No wind. Just the weight of heat and silence, pressing down.

You knew it was over.

Not the details, not how, but you knew something terrible had happened. Days later, the refugees still trickled through the village.

Soot-streaked, limping, empty-handed. Some with children strapped to their backs, others with nothing at all but rags and smoke in their lungs. Their stories came in pieces, half-muttered at the baker’s stall or passed between farmers hauling water.

“The Queen… the dragon queen… burned it all…”

“They say the Red Keep fell.”

“Bodies everywhere. Whole streets are just ash.”

“She’s dead now. The dragon queen. Killed. The other one too.”

You said nothing. You helped them when they came by, handed out what bandages and salves you could spare. Took nothing in return.

At night, you sat by the hearth long after Maegin had gone to sleep. You wouldn’t light the fire. Couldn’t bring yourself to. Not after the stories, not knowing he could have possibly…

Every time you stared into flame now, you saw him. How ironic.

You'd seen that last look in his eyes. The weight of it. The quiet, final choice of it.

He hadn’t intended to come back. You had known it.

But you hadn’t stopped him. There was only one thing keeping him alive, he'd said it before. And you knew it wasn’t you, but that it was hate. For the world, for his brother. 

Sandor wanted nothing but revenge, and to die with it. You felt it wasn't fair to try and stop him, not that he'd let you anyway.

Not with your hands. Not with your mouth. Not even with your tears.

Because you’d known there would come the moment when there was no way he’d ever leave his brother behind. Not alive.

Still, you waited. You told yourself you weren't. But you did.

Every sound at the door, every shape on the road… your heart leapt, and then dropped.

No word of the girl, either. Not a whisper.

You kept busy. The garden needed tending. Maegin needed feeding. Candles needed pouring. But your hands were slower now. Your eyes duller. The days stretched.

…

It was late afternoon when you saw the horse.

Rider cloaked, moving slowly, dust rising behind in lazy swirls. You stood at the edge of your garden, a basket of dried herbs forgotten in your hands, eyes narrowing against the sun. The figure dismounted with ease, fluid, familiar.

Arya.

She looked thinner. Older. Her face was sharper, hollowed. Her eyes were still kind, human, but also changed. That, you supposed, was something.

You met near the gate.

You said nothing at first. Just looked at her. Looked behind her, but there was no second horse.

She seemed to understand.

Absence.

You wanted to ask. The words clawed at the back of your throat. But you couldn’t.

“It's good to see you.” You finally said, hugging her tight.

She just nodded and, stepped inside. You both ate in silence.

Arya barely touched your stew. Her hand shook a little when she raised the spoon, and she blinked too long between each breath, like she hadn’t quite remembered how to rest.

You didn’t push her. She simply took smalls sips of the broth, set a small hunk of bread on the table, and let the fire do the talking.

When Maegin fell asleep, curled on your lap, head on your arm, that was when Arya finally spoke.

“He made me leave,” she said, voice quiet.

Your hands stilled over the table.

Arya didn’t look up. “Said the fire would get Cersei. Or the dragon. Or Daenerys. Said I didn’t belong there.” A pause. “He told me if I stayed… then I’d end up like him.”

Arya’s jaw clenched, voice tightened. “I didn’t want to go. I tried to get him to leave. But he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t even look back.”

The words felt heavy. 

“The Keep was coming down around us. I made it out. Just barely.”

Your eyes lifted, glassy and red-rimmed.

“I waited. A day. Maybe more. Watched the smoke settle. Searched the rubble.”

Your chest ached, sharp and sudden.

“I didn’t find him,” Arya finished.

Silence followed.

Not final, not definite, but empty.

You swallowed. Your hands tightened around your baby, all you had left, but still, you said nothing. What could you possibly say?

You looked at Arya again, at the set of her mouth, the grief clinging to her like dust. Not the grief of a comrade.

The grief of a daughter.

…

Arya left before breakfast.

She hugged Maegin without a word and promised to send word when she reached her home. She didn’t say where she was going, but you knew she had a home to go back to, in north. She wasn’t stuck waiting for someone who’d never come.

You watched her ride away from the garden gate, the morning sun just beginning to warm the garden. The wind carried the faintest smell of ash… days old, but still lingering.

That night, Maegin sat on the floor by the hearth, drawing shapes in the dirt with a stick.

He looked up at you suddenly. “Will Sandor come too?”

You didn’t answer. Not right away.

“You want him to?” You asked, brushing the hair from his brow. He nodded sleepily, clinging to your hand. 

You held Maegin throughout the night. 

…

The moon was high when you stepped barefoot into the garden.

The earth was cool. Dew already beginning to gather on the leaves. You walked the path slowly, trailing your fingers over the herbs, the old bench, the spot near the tree where you'd once found a man half-dead and stinking of wine.

He had barely spoken.

And now… he never would again.

You knelt beside the tree. The earth was untouched, the same crooked roots he once leaned against still splitting the ground. You pressed a hand to them, as if searching for warmth, for proof.

The tears came quiet. No sobs. Just the slow, relentless ache of… knowing.

But even as the grief swelled, something else stirred beneath it.

You remembered his hands. His silence. The way he fixed things around the house without ever being asked to. The way he looked at you, the night he finally did.

You were still standing in the garden, your husband’s robe clutched tight around your shoulders, when the wind changed.

It wasn’t loud.

No hoofbeats. No announcement. Just a shift in the night. The kind of silence that comes after fire dies, after screams have faded. The silence of what’s left.

Your heart jumped before your body even turned. You didn’t dare hope. You couldn’t. Not again. But you still turned, slowly, toward the edge of the trees.

And there he was.

Sandor.

No horse. No armor. Just a hulking silhouette at the edge of moonlight, walking the path as if his boots weighed twice what they should. He looked taller than you remembered. Or maybe just older.

You didn’t move.

He didn’t speak.

Closer now, you saw the soot on his skin, his clothes singed at the edges. His hair was tangled, and his beard was streaked with grey and ash. But his eyes…

They were still his. There and then you realized you loved them. 

He stopped a few feet away, breathing hard, like the walk had cost him more than it should have.

“Is it done?” you half asked, half whispered. It spilled from your lips like a sob that didn’t make it to your throat.

Sandor nodded just once.

Then, after a long pause, he said, “Burned the Keep.”

You blinked. “The Red Keep?”

He shook his head. “Clegane keep.”

Another pause. A chuckle escaped through your tears, and he showed you a hint of a smirk.

"How ironic."

You stared at him… At the years, the blood, the fire behind them.

“I didn’t think you’d come back,” she said quietly.

“Didn’t plan to.” he muttered, gaze drifting toward the house.

Your heart clenched. You stepped forward, closing the distance between them. “But you did.”

He looked at you and didn’t turn his face this time. Didn’t hide the scar. Didn’t lower his eyes.

“Aye,” he said. “I did.”

The words landed between them like a promise too late, or maybe just in time.

You stepped closer, rested your hand lightly on his chest, over his heart, a desperate caress, then your fingers curled around the fabric of his tunic. You felt the beat, steady, real.

“You hungry?” You asked, voice barely above a breath.

He grunted. “Aye.”

You almost smiled.

“Come home, then.”

Sandor looked back one last time toward the trees, toward the long road behind him, the fire now cold.

Then he followed you.

And he stayed.

----------------------