#sandor

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Summary: Sandor endures another brutal day under Joffrey’s cruelty, shielding Sansa while grappling with his growing attachment to Mira and the danger it puts her in. As Tyrion’s “gift” reveals more of the king’s disturbing nature, Sandor retreats into conflicted longing and resolve, determined to protect Mira even as war looms and his feelings deepen.

Word count: 5,293

Warnings: Graphic violence, abuse of servants, implied sexual exploitation, threats, and dark themes throughout.

Notes: i really enjoyed writting this one, everybody say thank you Sansa!!

The Hound

Sandor believes this is the worst day he’s ever had.

As they left the threshold, Lady Sansa wrapped in his cloak, he saw Mira cleaning. He made sure his eyes didn’t linger. A quick assessment for any danger. When he noticed she was ok, he kept walking.

It was the safest thing to do.

The days leading up to Joffrey’s name day have been a relentless parade of horrors, each one more chilling than the last.

Not only was Sandor forced to fight in the king’s foolish celebration. A spectacle meant only to feed Joffrey’s insatiable ego but every night in the castle has become a waking nightmare.

One night, Sandor witnessed the boy king tormenting a maidservant. The bare skin of her back exposed and raw as Joffrey lashed her with a whip as she was bent over scrubbing the floors. Her sobs echoed through the halls. The girl was trembling and in utter pain, while Joffrey’s laughter rang out, sharp.

The sight left Sandor sick. His fists clenched at his sides, unable to intervene without risking his own life. He could not help but imagine his own maidservant in their place, enduring the same torment. The thought cracked broke his heart.

The boy learned that sort of spite from his own mother. The twisted, venomous cunt who ruled her chambers like a petty tyrant. She’d taken to accusing the maidservants of shrinking her gowns, as if linen and silk conspired against her, and had them whipped bloody for it. No one had shrunken her dresses, of course.

The truth was simpler. She drowned herself in wine from morning to night, and her waist thickened because of it.

Not that Sandor would judge a person for drinking. Gods knew he’d spent enough nights at the bottom of a cup himself. But there was a line. A hard, unyielding line and he’d never crossed it. He’d never raised a hand against someone weaker just to soothe his own bitterness. That was a cruelty reserved for people like her… and her golden cub.

Joffrey, with his soft hands and cruel smile, hiding behind guards while he played at being a king. Cersei, all pride and poison, whispering her malice into his ear until the boy couldn’t tell justice from sport.

They disgusted him more than any drunkard or brute ever could because they chose their cruelty.

They polished it and wore it like a crown.

And the realm bled for it.

He approached Sansa’s door, the heavy wood creaking softly as it opened under her hand. For a moment, he watched her. Taking in the way she held herself, too stiff and too careful. The aftermath of the day clung to her.

"Do you wish for me to guard your chamber, Lady Sansa?” he asked, his voice low and reluctant.

She shook her head. “No…” Her voice was thin, worn raw from screaming. “I’m sure Joffrey has need of you.”

Something in his jaw tightened. “I’ll send someone else,” he said shortly, already turning away.

"Wait!”

The command stopped him mid-step. He turned back slowly, eyes narrowing as he faced her again.

She glanced down the corridor, as if afraid of being overheard, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of her sleeve. Then she looked back up at him, meeting his gaze with caution.

"Did you accept it?” she whispered. “I’d like some good news.”

He frowned, stepping closer, his presence crowding hers. “What are you talking about?”

"The maidservant,” she said, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “I saw her, she gave you a favour.”

The words punched the air out of his lungs.

Someone saw.

His expression hardened instantly, anger rising sharp and dangerous. Not for himself, but for what that meant for her.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said coldly. “And neither do you.”

He meant it to frighten her. To shut her up before she could say more. But after what she had endured today, fear had little hold left.

She huffed softly, that smirk lingering. “I’ve seen the way you look at her. Every time you pass, you stare. Gods, at lunch, weeks ago, you barely looked at anything else–”

"Do not speak about her.”

The words came out like a growl. He stepped closer, towering over her now, his gaze turning lethal.

"Say a word about her,” he said, voice low and edged with steel, “and I’ll make what Joffrey’s done look like kindness.”

She studied him for a heartbeat, then, to his surprise, she laughed.

"I doubt that,” she said.

Before he could respond, she turned and shut the door firmly in his face.

The sound echoed in the corridor.

He stood there for a moment, jaw clenched.

Then her door swung open once more, “and one more thing, I only meant I think it’s sweet. You should accept it. Who else would like a beast like you?”

She meant for that to hurt, a new fury blooming in her eyes.

The words lingered in the air.

His jaw was still locked tight, the muscle ticking beneath scarred skin, and for a moment it looked as though he might bare his teeth at her like the dog they all named him. But something in her gaze steady and unafraid, stilled him.

...She might not be wrong.

He couldn’t understand why Mira had chosen him. Why she would offer him even the smallest favour, let alone choose to remain at his side. Women had always turned away, their gazes skimming over him as though he were something unpleasant to acknowledge. No one lingered. No one looked twice unless it was to stare at the ruin of his face.

And yet, somehow, she did.

"Aye,” he said at last, voice low and rough, “that’s what you all think, isn’t it?” His lip curled, but there was no real humour in it. “That I should be grateful for any scrap that comes along.”

Sansa tilted her head, studying him as if he were some curious creature in a menagerie. “You mistake me,” she said lightly. “I didn’t say scraps. I said sweet.” Her mouth curved faintly. “It’s not the same thing. I also don’t believe you think she is scraps.” Her eyebrow quirked up, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, “she is quiet beautiful.”

He huffed, a harsh breath through his nose. “Sweet,” he repeated, like the word tasted wrong. “You’ve spent too long in court, girl. Makes you soft in the head.”

"Or perhaps it lets me see things others don’t,” she countered, folding her hands before her. “You threaten me, yet you shield me. You snarl, yet you bring cloaks and keep watch when no one asks it of you.” Her eyes flicked meaningfully to his sleeve, where the favour lay hidden. “You’re not nearly as monstrous as you pretend.”

His gaze sharpened at that, something dangerous flickering there. “Careful,” he warned, stepping closer again. “You’re walking a thin line.”

"And you’re guarding it,” she replied at once, unfazed.

That stopped him.

For a heartbeat, the corridor fell quiet. No footsteps, no voices, just the two of them and the weight of what she’d said.

Sandor let out a low, humourless chuckle, dragging a hand down his face. “You think you’re clever.”

"I think you’re hiding,” Sansa said.

His hand dropped. “From what?”

"From being wanted,” she answered simply.

That struck deeper than any insult.

His eyes went hard again, but there was something else beneath it now, something uneasy. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

"No?” she said softly. “Then why keep it?” Her gaze flicked once more to where the handkerchief was hidden. “If it means nothing.”

His silence was answer enough.

Sansa’s lips curved, not cruelly, but knowingly. “You should accept it,” she repeated, gentler this time. “There are worse things than being liked, Sandor Clegane.”

He stiffened at his name.

No one said it like that. Not here. Not without mockery or command.

Before he could answer, she stepped back toward her door, fingers already on the handle.

"Oh and one more thing,” she added, “If you truly meant what you said…”

His brow furrowed. “What?”

Her smile turned faintly mischievous. “You’d have to do far worse than Joffrey to frighten me.”

The door shut in his face.

Again.

Sandor stood there, staring at the wood as if it might give him answers.

After a long moment, he exhaled sharply and muttered under his breath, “Bloody little bird.”

But his hand drifted, unthinking, to his sleeve.

And this time, he didn’t hide the touch.

He slipped the handkerchief from the hidden fold of his sleeve, careful, as though the simple motion carried more weight than it should. At least one good thing had come of today. One small, fragile victory amid the rest. He had earned his Raven’s favour.

It still felt improbable. She had never struck him as the sort to offer such tokens, nor had he ever imagined himself the kind of man to receive one… let alone to treasure it.

His thumb brushed over the fabric, slow and deliberate. It was soft, feeling finer than most things he owned and the colour stirred something in him.

A gentle yellow, warm and luminous, like candlelight caught in white silk. It pulled him back to that night in the tavern, to the way it had draped around her, how it made her seem almost untouchable in its glow.

His gaze lingered on the stitching. A raven, hand-embroidered, its wings slightly uneven, one side crooked as though it had been done in haste and with a unsteady hand. Yet it only made it more real.

More hers.

His jaw tightened.

It had been reckless. Dangerous, even. To give something like this in full view of the court… it bordered on madness. He had seen what the family did to those who stepped out of line, seen the quiet cruelty they wielded like a pastime. Punishments given not for justice, but for boredom.

His eyes moved instinctively, scanning the edges of the hall, lingering on every servant in sight. Every maid who passed within earshot. A habit now, one he couldn’t shake. He searched their faces, their posture, their movements, hoping quietly, desperately, that she was not among them.

That she was somewhere safer. Out of reach.

He lifted the handkerchief, slower this time, and brought it to his nose. The scent was faint, but unmistakable. Flower oils, soft and delicate, woven with the lingering trace of smoke. It was her. Entirely her. It meant she had kept it close for days… perhaps longer.

A flicker of something tightened in his chest.

He lowered it quickly, folding it back into his palm.

He was almost relieved it was only Sansa noticed. Anyone else could be more dangerous. Luck, for once, had favoured him. Because he knew what he was in their eyes: a target.

Whether it came in the form of steel or whispered cruelty, it hardly mattered. And her, his Raven, would fare far worse for being tied to him.

A walking mark.

So he will do the only thing he could.

He will hide her.

He closed his hand around the fabric, firm now, as if that alone could shield her from everything waiting beyond these walls. He was already too far gone. Letting her slip away was no longer something he could consider.

"Clegane.”

The voice cut clean through his thoughts, sharp as a blade.

He stilled, then turned.

Tyrion Lannister approached with measured ease, Bronn at his side, wearing that ever-present, knowing smirk. In one swift motion, the handkerchief disappeared back into his sleeve, Hidden once more, as though it had never been there at all.

"How is she?” Tyrion asked.

Sandor let out a dry, humourless breath. “We all saw what happened. How do you think she’s doing?”

Tyrion grimaced faintly. “Of course.” He motioned with his head, “walk with us.”

Sandor started walking beside Tyrion, they walked long corridors until they reached lower levels. The place was damp and cold. They arrived at a opening of a small tunnel.

Normal for most, Sandor would have to crouch almost in half.

"I spoke to Joffrey. Not that it will do any good.” Tyrion’s voiced echoed through the tunnel and gave a small shrug. As if already resigned to that truth.

Then his expression shifted, something sharper creeping in. “The king has a great deal of energy today. I’ve arranged a… diversion to help expend it.” A smirk tugged at his lips.

He glanced over at Bronn, who was already yanking a torch free from its iron bracket on the wall. By the time he approached, Bronn was stepping toward him, that smug curl of his lip settling into a knowing smile.

"They’re waiting in the tunnels. See them brought to his chambers and bring the boy to them.” Tyrion stated.

Sandor chuckled, “I don’t answer to you.”

"Oh look what you’ve done. You riled up the dog” Bronn teased.

"I am only asking,” Tyrion continued. “its more of a gift. You see to the king. See to it he gets his dear uncles gift.” He smiled and turned to leave.

Bronn stepped in close and shoved the torch hard into his chest. Heat flared, he flinched instinctively, stumbling back with a startled breath, his face twisting away from the flame. The torch slipped from Bronn’s grasp and clattered to the ground, its fire sputtering against the stone.

"Try not to stare at them on the way,” Bronn added with a crooked grin as they turned to leave. “Wouldn’t want to scare them off.”

Sandor watched them go, his expression darkening.

Fucking cunts.

He stared at the torch for a long moment, as if weighing whether it was worth the risk, then drew in a steady breath and reached for it. The flame flickered wildly as he lifted it, its light throwing jagged shadows across the tunnel walls. He held it at arm’s length, careful, as though it might turn and bite him at any second.

Ahead, the passage stretched into darkness, narrow and suffocating. Straight was the only way forward.

He stepped in.

At first, his movements were measured. But as the silence pressed in around him, his pace quickened. The torchlight danced faster, his shadow lurching along the walls as he moved deeper into the tunnel. The air felt thicker here, filled with the faint echo of voices.

Soft murmuring.

He slowed, turning his head slightly, listening. The sound came from a branching path to his left. Without hesitation, he turned and followed it, the whispers growing clearer with each step until he rounded the corner and found them. Three women huddled together in the dimness.

Their quiet chatter died instantly.

All three turned to face him, their eyes widening as the firelight revealed his figure. For a brief moment, no one spoke. The tension hung heavy, their unease almost tangible as they instinctively drew closer to one another.

He didn’t linger. “This way,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, barely louder than the crackle of the torch.

Without waiting for a response, he turned and began walking back the way he came.

There was a pause, then the soft shuffle of footsteps behind him. They followed, but not closely. He could hear it in their movements, the hesitation, the quiet stumbles as they kept their distance. Their whispers returned, hushed but sharp enough to carry in the narrow tunnel.

"Did you see his face?” one murmured, her voice trembling.

"He’s… scary,” another whispered, a nervous edge creeping in. “Why does it have to be him escorting us?”

A faint, uneasy laugh followed. “Maybe they keep him chained down here,” the third added under her breath, trying to sound amused, though it came out thin and brittle.

They stifled giggles, the kind that came more from fear than humour, their eyes fixed on his back as if expecting him to turn at any second.

He didn’t.

He just kept walking, the torchlight guiding the way, their whispers trailing behind him like shadows of their own.

After the women were safely delivered, Sandor turned without a word and made his way back through the Red Keep. His heavy boots struck the floors with a dull thud, echoing through the long corridors.

The halls were as grand as ever. Gold pillars, rich tapestries, but to him they all blurred together. They became colourless and lifeless, as though the castle itself had grown tired of its own splendour. The air felt tense, carrying whispers.

As he neared one of the inner chambers, a voice pierced the stillness. High, sharp, and furious.

The Boy.

"If it’s a war he wants, he’ll have it!” the boy king screamed.

Aandor slowed, recognizing the voice instantly. He stepped closer, the door slightly ajar, and heard the softer murmur that followed.

Cersei, no doubt, trying to quiet her son.

"I’ll tell you one thing,” Joffrey continued, his tone no less venomous, “he won’t make it past the gates.”

Sandor pushed the door open and entered. The room was richly adorned. gold accents, velvet drapes, the scent of perfume hanging faintly in the air. Though the tension inside it was sharper.

Joffrey stood near the centre, face flushed with anger, his posture rigid with self-importance. Cersei sat nearby, composed and watchful, though her eyes flicked toward Sandor the moment he entered.

Both turned to face him.

"You will lead, dog,” Joffrey said without hesitation, a cruel smirk spreading across his lips. “You’ll have your men fight when the time comes.” His eyes gleamed with dark excitement. “I shall take his head as soon as he steps foot in Kings Landing.”

Sandor gave a small nod.

"I’m sure you will, Your Grace,” he replied evenly.

Cersei’s gaze sharpened. “Is there a reason you disturb us?” she asked, her voice smooth but carrying an unmistakable edge.

Sandor cleared his throat, shifting his attention to the king.

"Yes. Your uncle has left a gift for you in your chambers,” he said. “I’m to bring you, to ensure you see it.”

He stood still after speaking, waiting, the flickering torchlight catching along the harsh lines of his face as silence settled over the room.

Joffrey’s anger shifted almost instantly, as it so often did. Rage giving way to eager curiosity.

"A gift?” he repeated, the word catching his interest like a spark. His posture straightened, the fury draining from his face as something brighter, more dangerous took its place. “From my uncle?”

A slow smile spread across his lips, boyish and cruel all at once. “What sort of gift?” he demanded, already stepping forward, unable to hide his anticipation. “Is it a weapon?” His eyes gleamed at the thought, a hunger in them. “Did he send me a head?”

Sandor said nothing, his expression unmoved, letting the silence stretch just enough.

Cersei, however, did not share her son’s excitement.

Her gaze darkened slightly, her fingers tightening where they rested against the arm of her chair. “Your uncle is not known for simple generosity,” she said coolly, her voice measured, though a thread of unease ran beneath it. “Gifts from Tyrion tend to come with purpose.”

She rose slowly to her feet, her eyes flicking to Sandor, searching his face for something more, an answer, anything. “What exactly did he say to you?”

"Only that I was to bring His Grace to see it,” Sandor replied evenly.

Joffrey gave an impatient scoff, already moving toward the door. “Well, I’ve no intention of standing here while you both whisper like washerwomen.” His excitement had fully taken hold now, his earlier fury forgotten as quickly as it had come. “If my uncle has sent me something, I’ll see it myself.”

"Joffrey—” Cersei began, a note of caution entering her tone.

But he brushed past her without so much as a glance.

"Come, dog,” he said over his shoulder, a grin tugging at his lips. “If it pleases me, perhaps I’ll reward you.”

Sandor turned without a word, falling into step behind him.

Cersei lingered only a moment, her expression tight with suspicion. Whatever Tyrion had left, she did not trust it and that alone made her follow.

The chamber emptied, their footsteps echoing once more into the long, dim corridors of the Red Keep, where torchlight flickered and shadows stretched thin along the walls.

Sandor fell half a step behind, boots heavy against the stone as he moved beside Cersei. The corridor echoed faintly with distant voices and the softer rhythm of her heels. Sharp, precise, controlled. He glanced at her, then ahead, weighing his words.

"This… gift,” he began, his voice low, rough as gravel, “it’s meant to be enjoyed alone.” He paused, searching for something gentler, something she might heed. “A mother shouldn’t concern herself with such things.”

Cersei didn’t even turn her head. Her gaze remained fixed ahead, locked on her son walking before them, her expression soft in a way reserved for him alone.

"A mother,” she replied coolly, “should be by her childs side.” A faint smile touched her lips. “I’m sure I can be there.”

Sandor exhaled through his nose, irritation flickering across his face. “I promise you,” he said, more firmly now, “you do not want to see his gift.”

That made her stop.

The sudden halt broke their rhythm, forcing Sandor to pause as well. Ahead, the king continued on, oblivious, his figure growing smaller with each step. Cersei stood still for a moment, her fingers tightening at her sides.

"He’s a boy,” she said at last, her voice quieted but edged.

Sandor’s jaw clenched. “He’s a man now.”

The words hung between them, heavy and unwelcome.

Cersei turned then, her composure slipping just enough to reveal the steel beneath. “I will speak to Tyrion,” she said curtly.

Without waiting for a reply, she swept away in the opposite direction, her pace quick and sharp. Each step struck the stone like a small declaration of anger, her golden hair catching the light as she disappeared down the corridor.

Sandor remained where he was for a moment, watching her go. Then he sighed, long and tired, before turning his attention forward again.

The boy– no, the young king, practically radiated anticipation. It showed in the way he moved, restless and eager, as though he could hardly contain himself.

Gods help Tyrion from the wrath of his sister.

The king had not understood his gift.

At first, there had been only confusion in the boy’s face. Bland and empty, as though something essential were missing from him. For a fleeting, absurd moment, Sandor had thought he might ask where the real present was. Some gaudy trinket, some mindless amusement fit for a child.

Not this.

Not flesh and warmth.

Sandor had watched him closely then, searching his face. A flicker of interest, a spark of curiosity, even the crude hunger most boys his age wore without shame.

But there had been nothing. No grin, no shifting eagerness, no poorly hidden anticipation.

Just that same cold, distant stare.

It had unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

He had nearly had to explain it. Spell it out plainly, like instructing a dull-witted squire.

Why they were there.

Why they waited in his bed, draped in silk and expectation.

Perhaps his mother should be here for such lessons, he had thought darkly.

Still… he had hoped. A night like this should have meant something. Any other boy, any other man would have jumped at it. Laughed, boasted and indulged without hesitation.

It should have pleased him.

Maybe it would have softened him. Taken the edge off that constant, gnawing cruelty. Turned his attention away from blood, from screams, from the endless need to hurt something.

Given him a different poison to crave.

Sandor stood by the door now, broad frame still, one hand resting loosely against the wood as he listened.

Soft laughter slipped through the cracks, light, coaxing, carefully perfected. The women’s voices followed, low and sweet, threading together as they tried to draw their king toward them. There was warmth in it, practiced and deliberate, the kind meant to entice, to promise comfort.

It grated at him.

Not because he wanted what lay beyond that door.

Gods, no.

Three women, all soft skin and rehearsed affection. It meant nothing. Less than nothing. Hollow noise, like everything else in this place.

Because none of them were her.

The thought came sharp and sudden, cutting through him with startling clarity.

Mira.

Everything in him stilled around her name.

He could picture her without trying. The way her presence settled something restless in him, the quiet steadiness of her, the absence of pretense. No coaxing laughter. No practiced touch. Just… her.

Real.

When he thought of a bed, it was not bodies tangled in excess or indulgence.

It was her beside him.

Close enough to feel the warmth of her through the dark. Close enough that the world beyond the walls didn’t matter for a few stolen hours. No fear, no performance. Just quiet. Something his life had never given him before.

Something he had no right to want.

And yet—

He did.

More than he wanted drink. More than he cared for survival. More than anything this cursed castle could offer.

The sound of laughter beyond the door rose again and it twisted something deep in his chest. Not jealousy, not truly, but a dull, aching awareness of how far removed he was from that kind of ease.

From her.

His jaw tightened, his hand pressing more firmly against the wood before he forced himself to step back.

"Gods…” he muttered under his breath.

He’d do anything to have her in his bed again. The restraint he mustered just by having her sleep next to him was sinful. He wanted to reach out, spread those deliciously soft thighs and lap at her core  until she woke up finishing on his tongue

He was a dirty dog.

His fingers toyed absently with the handkerchief tucked into his sleeve, the soft fabric twisting and folding beneath his rough touch. He scarcely noticed the motion, his mind elsewhere. Far from the cold stone corridor and the restless silence that clung to the keep.

He wanted to see her tonight. The thought lingered, heavily.

Yet the idea of her wandering these halls after dark made something tighten in his chest. The castle was no longer merely watchful. It was tense, coiled like a beast ready to strike. Guards had doubled at every turn, their armour clinking in uneasy rhythm.

War.

The word echoed through his thoughts like a tolling bell.

The last thing he wanted.

Stannis Baratheon had been gathering strength for years, quietly and patiently. What had once been whispers, low murmurs traded in shadowed corners had grown sharper. His resentment toward the boy king had never been subtle, but now it had teeth.

Sandor had always known it would come. Since the coronation, the air had been thick with it. Rumours carried like smoke.

Still… he hadn’t expected it so soon.

It didn’t matter. When the time comes, he would fight. That was what he did. What he had always done. Whether he lived or died in battle had never concerned him before. Death came for men like him eventually, it was a certainty.

But now…

Now he wanted something different.

He wanted to return.

To her.

The thought settled deep, unsettling in its weight. When all this was over, if it ended in their favour, he would take her far from here. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere untouched by kings and cruelty. A small home, warm and safe, where she would never have to fear wandering halls in the dark again.

He could leave her there. Safe. Happy.

And return to this place knowing she was beyond its reach. He could visit, if she wished it… or stay, if she would have him. Work, bleed, endure this cursed keep. Whatever it took to build her a life untouched by it. Not the scraps the world offered, but something gentler. Something chosen.

Whatever she wanted, he would see it done. Whether it cost him comfort, pride, or the rest of his days.

It would be hers.

For the first time in his life, survival meant something.

The sharp clang of metal snapped him from his thoughts, the changing of the guard. He glanced up, giving a brief nod to the man taking position before moving on, boots echoing dully against the stone.

Then—

A scream.

High. Sudden. Female.

It tore through the corridor, followed by another ragged, panicked.

Sandor stopped.

He turned his head slowly, eyes narrowing as the sound echoed down the halls. A nearby guard shifted uneasily, looking to him for direction, uncertainty plain in his stance.

Sandor only shrugged, rolling one shoulder.

The boy had no interest in what those women offered. Not in the way other men did.

Which meant one thing.

He exhaled through his nose, turning away as he resumed his path.

"Hopefully,” he muttered, voice rough and tired, “there’ll be no cleanup tonight.”

When he finally returned to his chamber, the door closing behind him with a dull, hollow thud, the last of his strength seemed to abandon him. His body sank heavily into the chair by the hearth, the weight of the day settling deep into his bones like cold iron. For a moment, he simply sat there, unmoving, staring at nothing.

With a slow, weary exhale, he began to strip away his armour. Each piece came off with effort. The scrape of metal, the dull clink as it hit the floor breaking the silence of the room. When he tugged free the last fastening, the handkerchief slipped loose from his sleeve, drifting soundlessly to the ground.

His gaze caught on it.

He leaned forward, reaching down with an unexpected care, as though the small square of cloth were something far more fragile than it appeared. His fingers closed around it gently before he brought it up, pressing it briefly between his hands.

Then, hesitating only a moment, he lifted it to his face.

He breathed in deeply.

Her scent lingered faintly in the fabric a soft, quiet contrast to the harshness of everything around him. It eased something in his chest, loosening a tension he hadn’t realised he carried. No wine, no victory, no fleeting distraction had ever managed that.

Still, habit won.

Without lowering the handkerchief, his other hand reached blindly for the wine carafe on the table beside him. He poured without looking, the liquid glugging into the cup before he brought it to his lips. One drink turned into another, the warmth spreading through him, dulling the edges but never quite touching what the cloth in his hand soothed so easily.

Time passed, he wasn’t sure how long.

But with each swallow, the thought grew stronger.

Mira.

The need to see her began as a quiet pull, then sharpened into something far harder to ignore. It pressed at him, insistent, until sitting still became unbearable.

No one would question him if he walked the halls. Not him.

He should know where her chambers were anyway. He told himself it was for her safety. That he needed to be certain she was unharmed, that the castle’s unrest had not reached her door.

That was reason enough.

It had to be.

He pushed himself up from the chair, the movement slower now, heavier, but driven by something steadier than before. The room seemed colder as he crossed it.

At the door, he paused only long enough to gather himself, his hand closing around the handle.

And then

A soft knock made him jump.

Next chapter

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Previous chapter

Summary: Mira secretly crafts a humble handkerchief as a heartfelt token of gratitude for Sandor, while grappling with the growing, complicated feelings she has for him after he protected her.

Word count: 4,770

Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Attempted Sexual Assault, Sexual Harassment, Abuse of Power, Trauma and Aftermath, Emotional Distress, Canon-Typical Violence, War Imagery, Fire Trauma, Psychological Conflict, Pining, Hurt/Comfort, Court Intrigue, Power Imbalance.

Notes: the battle of Blackwater is near!! What will the two of them do??

Mira

Mira had spent the better part of several nights in quiet labour, fashioning a small favour by her own hand. After much hoarding of scraps and remnants, enough cloth had been gathered to cut a modest square, dyed a soft, sun-worn yellow. The same colour as the dress he complimented. It was humble, yet pleasing to the to the touch beneath the fingers.

By candle’s narrow glow, when the keep lay hushed and the corridors slept, careful stitches had been set into one corner: the likeness of a raven, dark and crooked-winged.

It was no fine work. Mira knew as much. The lines wandered, the form lacked grace. Still, countless hours spent watching highborn ladies at their embroidery had taught enough for imitation.

The whole thing felt foolish, childish, even. To devote such care to so small a token. Yet the desire remained. The favour was not meant for show, nor for custom’s sake alone, but as a gift.

A quiet offering, given in thanks for the protection he freely offered, for kindness shown when none was owed.

She stayed back that night, telling herself it was only to be sure Thalia returned safely but her feet would not move when the noise rose from the tavern. From the doorway, she watched, heart hammering, a knot of fear and something far more dangerous tightening in her chest.

With every strike, her breath caught. Horror flared first, sharp and instinctive, but it tangled quickly with awe she didn’t want to name. The blows landed because of her because of words spoken against her and the weight of that realization pressed hard against her ribs. She should have looked away.

She couldn’t.

As he moved, something steadied inside her even as it shook. Fear gave way to a fierce, unwanted gratitude. She felt seen. Defended. The chaos before her was terrifying, yet it wrapped around her like a shield, and the contradiction left her dizzy.

In that moment, she understood the danger of it, not just him, but what he made her feel.

Her protector.

Her knight.

Finding Sandor proved harder than the stitching. Mira searched the keep’s dim passages, pacing stone corridors where torchlight flickered and cloaks passed in shadowed blurs. Each broad silhouette stirred a small, hopeful pause and was quickly disappointed.

The wish had been to give the favour by daylight, in the open yard or beneath the wide sky, as one friend to another. But fate, it seemed, had set the two at opposite ends of the castle and the distance weighed more heavily than Mira cared to confess.

There was always the other way, slipping into Sandor’s chamber by night, as she had done before. Yet lately, such thoughts carried an unfamiliar heat of shame.

The Solitude between the two no longer felt simple. The ease once shared had grown tangled. That was why she slipped away so early, before the day could fully wake.

The truth was harder to face: Sandor’s hold had been unyielding. Arms wrapped around her with quiet certainty, keeping her close through the long hours of darkness. She lay awake all night, thoughts spiralling, fighting the urge to do something reckless she might never take back.

Sleep never came.

Instead, she remained trapped in the steady warmth around her, aware of his every breath, every subtle shift and twitch in the night, his faint, intoxicating scent that made leaving feel impossible.

All these thoughts burned and turned through Mira’s mind the following morning while working beside Nell amid the steamy clamour of the kitchens. Milk was strained through cloth, hands moving by rote to set butter for the day’s fresh bread. The body laboured, but the mind wandered.

Circling.

always circling, back to her knight.

Where Sandor lingered. What duty held his attention. Whether even a single thought had been spared in return.

The fixation was maddening. Romantic foolishness belonged to Thalia, not to Mira.

And yet, feelings had taken root. Not for the fearsome figure the world named the Hound, the one others fled from.

but for Sandor Clegane alone.

The lie had already been spoken aloud that no courting bound them, that no feelings passed between them.

Another falsehood added to her pile.

Traditions of courtship held little meaning for Mira, yet the wanting remained all the same. Something more. Something unnamed. Something that refused to be stitched neatly away.

“How fares your wound, Mira?” Nell’s voice cut clean through her thoughts.

“Better,” she replied with a weary sigh. “It’s stopped weeping long ago, at least. Still sore, and itching like the gods’ own torment.”

Nell set her bowl aside, dusting off her hands and faced her “are you going to tell me what happened?” she questioned with concern.

“I’ve been meaning to…” she answered, setting aside her own bowl. She took a deep breath in, steadying herself.

“I couldn’t sleep that night… I wanted to walk around and clear my thoughts hoping id grow tired and retire to bed. I got… stopped by a knight. He wanted to…” she trailed off. Not wanting to speak of the act.

“who?” she questioned.

She shook her head. She didn’t want to answer, his name invoked accusations.

“tell me who” Nell pressured.

Mira looked up at her then “Ser Meryn Trant.”

“that bastard! I shouldve known… you remember what happened to our last girl, he left her with child, gods know where she is now, the poor dear.” She tutted. “Thalia said you had help?” She searched Mira’s eyes, waiting for her answer.

“The Hound… he happened to catch him. He got me away from him and helped in nursing me back to health.” She confessed.

Nell gave a sly little smirk. “I didn’t know he had it in him.”

Mira blinked. “What are you on about?”

“I mean, that only a hound can show loyalty,” Nell teased, lips curling with mischief.

Mira swatted her arm with a playful laugh.

“Oh, hush. He only did what was right. Anyone would’ve helped if they’d seen what happened.”

Nell merely raised her brows, unconvinced, and returned to slicing fruit with a knowing smile.

Before Mira could scold her again, Nell spoke again “for Joffrey’s name day celebration they need more servers. I was going to send other girls so I could keep you for myself…” she looked at Mira, her eyes crunching in a knowing smile “I heard, the dog is to fight for Joffrey. Maybe he needs someone to fill up his cup?”

Mira bit her lip with a cunning smile “oh, but how will you survive without me helping you?”

“Go before I change my mind. Send Thalia to help me, she should be up there already” Nell said, Mira nodded. Wiping her hands on her apron. She undid her apron, setting it down on the table. She gave her hair a quick fix taking her pins and readjusting them to have her hair presentable.

She stuck her hand in the pocket of her dress, feeling the handkerchief there. Maybe she’ll finally have the chance to give it to him. She started to leave after her all her checks.

“mira!” Nell stole her attention

“yes?”

“You’re forgetting the wine dear” she laughed handing her the jug.

Mira reached for it, laughing at herself. “Oh right”

As she went to grab the whine Nell pulled it back “watch out for yourself out there,” handing her the jug “ladies maids whisper about tensions in the court.”

Mira stepped beyond the canvas flap and into the open yard, where the morning sun struck her full in the face, bright and hot. She blinked hard, pausing as her eyes adjusted. The sounds of steel and shouted wagers swelling around her. The air carried the smell of dust, sweat, and wine.

Her gaze sought Thalia at once. She found her near the king’s pavilion, standing straight-backed and silent, awaiting command as all were meant to do. Only then did Mira notice how near Ser Trant lingered.

too near.

His shadow pressed close to Thalia’s back, his gaze fixed upon her back like a predator’s mark.

Mira cleared her throat, sharp and deliberate. Thalia turned, despair etched deep in her face, yet at the sight of her friend, relief softened her expression, if only for a breath.

“Nell has need of you,” Mira murmured. “I’ll take your place here.”

Thalia nodded gratefully and slipped away toward the castle walls, leaving Mira to step into her stead, jug of wine heavy in her hand. She fixed her eyes on the fighting pit, scanning the gathered knights, hoping, always hoping to glimpse Sandor.

“You keep fair company,” Ser Trant muttered near her ear. “Your friend is quite pretty.”

Mira did not turn to him, though a chill ran through her all the same. There were whispers about Ser Trant, and none of them kind. If ever he turned that gaze upon Thalia again, Mira swore she would not stand idle.

In that moment, a thought rooted itself deep within her: she must learn to fight. Steel was the only language men like him understood.

Perhaps Sandor might teach her. if ever the king loosened his leash.

“maids go missing all the time around this place. Who would notice?” he chuckled.

Mira’s rage was bubbling inside her, her fists clenched at her side.

She moved down the long table, refilling chalices with practiced grace, as her anger fought to spill. It was then she noticed the Stark girl. The child looked hollowed out, grief clinging to her like a shroud. She stared at nothing, as though half her soul had already fled. Only when the king addressed her did she stir, donning a brittle mask to endure his cruelties. Mira’s chest tightened with pity.

Suddenly, King Joffrey rose, and the yard fell to a hush. Mira took her place at the end of the table, right beside the sad princess.

“My dog will fight for me today!” he proclaimed.

The crowd erupted in cheers, but Mira’s heart leapt for a different reason altogether. Sandor stepped forward clad in full armour, the Hound’s helm gleaming beneath the sun.

The trumpets sounded. Steel rang against steel. It took only moments for Mira to see the truth of it. Sandor’s opponent was hopelessly outmatched. One blow landed upon Sandor’s shield, but that was all the mercy the man received. Three fierce strikes answered it, and the knight was sent tumbling from the parapet, his body striking stone below in a grim, final hush before the blood spread darkly around him.

The crowd roared. Mira set down the jug and clapped with them, surprised to find no revulsion in herself this time. Only a fierce, breathless awe.

“Well struck, Dog!” Joffrey crowed.

Sandor bowed stiffly. As he straightened, his eyes found Mira’s across the distance. She inclined her head just slightly, a secret salute meant only for him.

He returned to the king’s table and removed his helm, curls damp with sweat falling loose about his face. He walked over to the side of the table just in front of her.

She grabbed the jug and walked up beside him “Wine, Ser?” she asked, a hint of a smile touching her lips.

His cheeks went red, his eyes falling to the ground. He nodded.

She filled his cup, noticing the strength in his hands, the scars earned and borne without complaint. She looked back up to him, his eyes fixed everywhere but hers.

Stepping back, she resumed her place behind him. Wondering why he wouldn’t look up at her.

The next bout began, Joffrey’s sharp voice rising as he tormented the Stark girl once more, but Mira scarcely heard him. Her eyes were fixed on Sandor’s broad back as he drained his cup in one long pull, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before setting it aside.

She pulled out her favor, fiddling it between her fingers. She looked down the table noticing cups still full and idle chatter being their sole entertainment. Her gaze swept around the court meeting Sansa’s eyes, curiosity and a faint smile playing at the corner of her mouth. She quickly looked down, fisting the fabric in her hand.

When she saw no one was looking, She seized her moment. Mira stepped forward with the handkerchief, standing side by side. “I made this for you.” She kept her voice steady, both not daring to look at each other.

Sandor reached for it, his fingers brushing hers in passing. The contact sent a shiver through her. He took the cloth, and she retreated again, her place behind him silently claimed.

Sandor wiped the sweat from their face, then stilled. He looked down at the handkerchief, and for a long, quiet heartbeat, did nothing at all. A thumb traced the stitched raven, slow and thoughtful, as though committing it to memory. When the fabric disappeared into his sleeve, tucked away with care, Mira’s chest ached.

The gesture felt intimate in its restraint, as though the favour had been accepted not just in duty, but in trust.

She lowered her gaze, steadying herself, then looked up again—unable not to. Her eyes rested on Sandor’s back, on the familiar line of their shoulders, and stayed there. She wondered if he could feel it: the softness of her attention, the quiet devotion that pressed against him.

She did not move. She did not smile. She simply stood there, heart tender and open, loving in silence because that was all she dared to do.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of noise and blood, yet Mira saw only him. She wondered if it might be time to see him, once the moon had risen and the king had grown bored of his sport. If she waited long enough, surely Sandor would be free.

A light tap came upon Mira’s shoulder. Brief and practiced. A silent command born of long habit. Another maid stood there, fingers gesturing toward the jug in Mira’s hands. Duty had shifted.

Mira passed the jug over without a word and turned back toward the kitchens. The corridors narrowed as she went, stone walls closing in, torchlight flickering like restless spirits along the mortar. Servants moved with heads bowed and steps quick, as though the castle itself were listening.

It was then she heard it a soft, broken sound, quickly stifled. Sobs, pressed into cloth.

Mira slowed.

From a shadowed corner near the old stair, a figure stood half-hidden.

“Tal?” Mira called gently, scarcely above a whisper.

Thalia turned at once, hands flying to her face, hastily scrubbing away tears. “Mira,” Thalia said, voice thin and hurried. “I was— I was just returning to the kitchens.”

Thalia tried to slip past, but Mira caught her wrist, fingers closing firm.

“He did something,” Mira said, not asking so much as knowing. “Didn’t he?”

Thalia’s gaze dropped to the stone floor. The silence was answer enough.

Before Mira could speak again, a smaller voice rose behind them.

“I saw what happened.”

Both servants turned sharply.

A young noblewoman stood motionless, as though rooted to the very stone beneath her feet. Her auburn hair had been painstakingly arranged into an intricate display of braids and twists, each strand placed with deliberate care. Yet it seemed unfamiliar to her, like a crown she had not chosen to wear.

Loose wisps caught the faint stir of air, trembling softly against her temples. Flickering torchlight danced across her features, casting shifting shadows that sharpened the pallor of her skin. It caught in her eyes almost glasslike, making them gleam with an unsteady brightness.

That light did not warm them; instead, it revealed the fear held tightly within, as if her composure were a fragile mask threatening to crack at any moment.

“M’lady,” Mira breathed. Both Mira and Thalia bowed low, eyes fixed on the ground. “You should not be down here.” Worry painted her voice. The king will notice her absence.

“Please, there’s no need for that,” the young lady said quickly. With nervous glances over each shoulder, the noble ushered them deeper into the shadows. “I wanted a walk, this will be my home once I marry Joffrey.”

“of course, m’lady,” Thalia murmured, bowing again.

The young lady’s mouth tightened. “They are evil,” the noble said, the words sharp despite the hushed tone. “Cruel beyond measure. He beats me. I cannot fathom what he does to others.”

Mira lowered her head, jaw tight. The truth of that cruelty was no secret, least of all to the young noble standing before them.

The lady’s hands clenched her dress. “He would not leave her be,” the noble continued, breath quickening. “whispering foul things of acts unbecoming to a maiden. Touching her when he thinks no one is looking. He is awful,” her bottom lip quivered, eyes red and raw. “The Hound warned me about him. He helped, as much as he could…”

her restless eyes never stilled, darting down the hall, toward every sound.

“Thank you, m’lady,” Mira said softly. “Few would risk warning us. You are brave to do so.” Mira’s gaze lifted just enough to scan behind the noble. “Please, keep yourself safe as well. Linger too long and it will draw his eye.”

The noble gave a small, broken smile. “He will hurt me regardless.”

Before either servant could answer, heavy boots sounded behind them.

“I am to escort you to the great hall, Lady Sansa.”

The voice was low. Rough. Unmistakable.

Sandor Clegane stood at the mouth of the corridor, torchlight tracing his scars. His gaze swept the space once. Quick. Assessing. Then caught on Mira.

Held.

Just long enough.

“I was merely asking for more wine,” Lady Sansa said quickly, lifting her chin.

“You don’t drink wine, princess,” Sandor replied.

No accusation. No question. Only understanding and something else, quieter, when his eyes flicked back to Mira. A shared knowledge neither dared give shape.

Lady Sansa turned toward him at once. “Please don’t tell him. I only needed air.”

“Your secret’s safe,” Sandor said after a pause. “I can take you the long way. This hall’s are crawling with guards.”

It was a warning to all.

“I haven’t done anything,” Lady Sansa insisted, forcing her spine straight even as tears threatened. “I’ve done nothing.”

“I know, little bird.” Sandor’s voice dropped. “But your brother’s moving against them. That makes you the only lesson left.”

“Please,” Lady Sansa whispered. “Don’t make me go.”

Sandor straightened, shoulders squaring like armour locking into place. He didn’t look at her when he answered.

“I don’t get to choose.”

His gaze slid, to Mira.

It wasn’t a question. It was an admission.

Mira understood it at once.

“It will be all right, m’lady,” Mira said gently, stepping forward. A hand settled on Lady Sansa’s shoulder. “You are not your brother, it was not you who upset them. Surely he’ll have mercy on his betrothed.”

Lady Sansa broke.

Arms wrapped tight around Mira, sudden and desperate. Mira froze. Not from the embrace, but from the weight of Sandor’s attention. It burned into her, sharp and impossible to ignore.

Mira looked to him, uncertain.

Sandor looked away at once.

Mira’s hand rose, slowly, rubbing steady circles between Lady Sansa’s shoulders. “Be strong,” Mira murmured. “Don’t let them hollow you out. One day you will be queen and you’ll be better than them. Kinder.”

Sandor’s jaw tightened. One hand curled, then stilled.

“Dry your eyes now,” Mira added quietly. “Best they don’t see.”

Lady Sansa lingered a heartbeat longer before pulling back. “Your favour was beautiful,” she whispered, only for her “I hope he accepts it.”

Colour climbed Mira’s cheeks.

Sandor noticed.

Lady Sansa wiped her eyes, drew a steady breath, and turned toward Sandor. He offered his arm. She took it.

As they passed Mira, Sandor slowed, just enough.

“Keep your head down,” he said under his breath.

Not to Sansa.

Mira met his gaze. “You first.”

Something almost like a smile ghosted at the corner of his mouth. Gone as soon as it came.

Then they were walking away.

Mira watched them disappear, chest tight. Sandor did not look back.

Still, she had seen him. That was the danger.

Some truths survived only because they remained unspoken.

Mira turned then, taking Thalia’s arm.

“I am sorry,” Mira said quietly. “I will shield you as best I can. Come, before we are missed.”

Mira took Thalia’s arm and did not let go. The grip was familiar. One born not of force, but of habit. Of long days spent side by side at the hearth, of whispered prayers over aching hands, of standing shoulder to shoulder when the world pressed too close.

Thalia did not pull away this time.

“I should not have stopped,” Thalia murmured as they walked. “I knew better.”

“Aye,” Mira said softly, steering them down a lesser-used passage. “And still, you are not wrong to breathe when you can.”

Thalia’s shoulders sagged at that, the strength finally leaving them. “I thought I was stronger than this.”

Mira halted beneath a sputtering torch and turned Thalia to face them. “You are,” Mira said firmly. “Stronger than you were last winter. Stronger than when you first came here with hands too soft for stone and eyes too kind for this place.”

Thalia’s mouth trembled. “You taught me how to hide it.”

“I taught you how to endure,” Mira corrected. “You learned the rest on your own.”

They resumed walking, steps slow and measured. Mira shifted closer, body angled just enough to shield Thalia should anyone pass. It was an old habit. One Mira did not think to question anymore.

The kitchens came into view at the far end of the hall, warm light spilling outward like promise.

Mira seized Nell by the arm and drew her into the shadows, words spilling out in a low, breathless rush. “Put me on floor cleaning. I wish to be around the great hall”

“alright. Stay out of trouble, something is going on.”

Mira had a strong feeling something was wrong. She must see Sandor tonight. But first, maybe the flames would have answers.

Mira dropped to her knees, hands trembling as she gathered the candles and set them in a careful circle upon the cold stone floor.

One by one, she placed the wicks upright, her fingers lingering a moment longer than needed, as if steadying herself before what she was about to do.

She sat before them, folding in on herself, and lifted her hand over the unlit wicks. Her palm hovered there, suspended in certainty.

Her eyes closed.

At first, there was nothing. Only the distant groan of the castle. Then it came, a rush of air brushing against her skin like a warning. Heat followed, blooming beneath her palm, alive and hungry.

The candles ignited.

Flames licked upward in thin, wavering tongues, then steadied, growing brighter as Mira focused. She slowed her breathing, drawing the fire together, coaxing it, willing it to obey. The separate flames bent toward one another, merging, pooling until they became a single, pulsing blaze.

Her brow furrowed.

“What’s happening out there…?” she whispered, voice barely more than breath.

Her hand trembled, but she held it steady.

“Is something coming?”

The fire answered.

The flames shifted, twisting unnaturally, stretching into shapes that did not belong to simple light. The chamber vanished. In its place came movement. Vast, violent, and unstoppable.

Waves.

Great, crashing waves surged into view, rolling forward with terrible force. They struck against a shoreline, again and again. The water churned dark and heavy, swallowing the sand beneath it.

Mira leaned closer, her breath catching.

The coastline sharpened, details forming and dread crept into her chest.

She knew that place.

“The keep…” she whispered.

The vision dragged her forward. Boots pounded through wet sand and sucking mud, men shouting over the roar of the sea. Steel flashed in the dim light, swords raised, arrows cutting through the air with vicious speed. The clash of battle rang out, raw and deafening.

Men fell.

Others surged over them.

The air was thick with chaos. War cries, the dull thud of bodies hitting earth, the sickening sound of metal biting into flesh.

And then she saw him.

Her heart lurched.

Sandor.

He stood at the front, unmistakable in his size, his presence, his violence. He cut through the battlefield like a force of nature, shouting orders, driving men forward. His blade rose and fell, each strike brutal, efficient.

He was alive in it.

Terrible and unstoppable.

“Sandor…” she breathed, her voice breaking.

For a moment, relief flickered, he was standing, he was fighting.

Then everything changed.

He stopped.

The world seemed to stutter around him, the chaos continuing while he stood still, frozen.

Mira’s stomach dropped.

She saw his face.

Not the hardened mask he wore in battle. Not the cold fury.

Fear.

The same fear she had seen in the flames before.

the boy, dragged to fire, eyes wide with terror.

“No…” she whispered, her hand shaking.

She followed his gaze.

The water.

The sea itself was burning.

Flames spread across the surface in a monstrous, unnatural blaze of fire swallowing the waves, turning them into a rolling inferno. The shoreline glowed with it, light reflecting off armour, off blood, off horror-stricken faces.

Men screamed.

The fire surged forward, devouring everything in its path.

Sandor didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

Mira felt it, the heat. The memory. The helplessness. The boy trapped in flame, dragged back into the man.

“Run…” she whispered desperately, as if he could hear her. “Sandor, run!”

But the fire only grew.

Higher. Brighter. Closer.

Then— Just as quickly, the room collapsed into darkness, leaving only a faint curl of smoke twisting into the air. The silence that followed felt heavier than the fire itself.

Mira sprang to her feet, her pulse hammering, eyes wide and fixed on the dying embers.

“There’s going to be a war.”

She turned for her door, rushing out.

The hallway was restless when Mira stepped out of her chamber, its corridors alive with hurried footsteps and anxious murmurs. Stewards barked orders, warning the servants to keep clear of certain chambers most especially the great hall, where the air hung thick with foreboding.

Nell ran up to Mira, “are you sure you still want floor duty?”

Mira stood taller, trying not to show her fear, “yes, ill be fine”

Nell gave her a tight lipped smile and nodded, “alright, keep yourself eyes to yourself. He’s having a tantrum”

When was he not? Mira thought.

and so she bent to her task, sweeping the dirt-strewn stones, her gaze ever drawn to the great doors whenever voices rose in anger.

Something ill stirred in the air, a heaviness that pressed upon her chest, making each breath a labour. On hands and knees she scrubbed at the mud tracked in by boots heavy with purpose, the stains refusing to yield.

Then, a cry pierced the silence, a shrill, petulant scream: “She carries traitors’ blood!” The king’s voice, high and brittle as a child denied his plaything, echoed through the hall.

The tumult stilled and Mira heard the rip of cloth, a sound that sent a chill through her. She closed her eyes, unwilling to conjure the horrors that might unfold beyond the threshold.

The sound brought the memory of her own dress ripping from Trant’s hand. It made her sweat, a faint throb at her scar from the ghosting pain he left.

Hurried footsteps thundered down the corridor. She looked up to see Tyrion Lannister, his brow furrowed in frustration. She dusted her skirts and bowed her head as he swept past, demanding, “What is the meaning of all this?”

The doors to the great hall creaked open, and Mira stole a glance within. There stood Sandor, the Hound, casting off his cloak and wrapping it around Lady Stark, whose face was pale beneath the king’s wrath. Joffrey loomed above, his cheeks flushed with rage, a tyrant in the guise of a boy.

“Poor soul,” Mira thought, pitying the gentle lady caught in the storm.

When the hall emptied, Mira remained as still as a statue, her head bowed. At length, she raised her eyes and beheld Sandor guiding the Stark girl from the chamber, his touch gentle despite the iron reputation he bore. For a fleeting moment, their eyes met. His gaze was quick, before he turned away to resume his duties.

He believes himself neither good nor kind, Mira mused. Yet beneath the scars and the scorn, she saw a soul shaped by hardship, ever watchful, ever protective of those in need.

Next chapter

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Spoilers!!

Part 1:

“You may not be called a knight,” she said, steady and certain, “but you are one to me. My knight.”

Part 2:

He’d lay her down softly on the bed, leave soft kisses to her mouth and cheeks. His fingers would trace a careful path along the nape, finding each hidden pin and easing it free. One by one, they slip loose, soft strands unfurling and settling under their own weight. Fabric would follow, layers lifted and set aside, linen brushing wool, until the last fold is lowered and the air meets bare skin, cool and quiet.