⸻ ⋆. ❝

                            𝟐𝟗𝟗 𝖆𝖈.

the red keep stank of summer and sweat, of roses grown for the queen and spilled wine from her imp of a brother. you had grown used to it, in the way a caged bird grows used to the stink of its gilded cage.

but not to him.

sandor clegane, the hound. he was your brother joff’s sworn sword, his shadow, his beast. but you had caught him looking. not with the boy-king’s cruelty, nor with the sly, serpent-like glances of courtiers—but with something darker. something that burned.

you’d noticed things missing, here and there. a ribbon left on your vanity, a pillow gone from your beds. you thought little of it, until you passed the kitchens one dusk and saw—just for a heartbeat — sandor’s broad back, a flash of linen pale in his fist before he vanished into the shadows.

your breath had caught. youe skin had flushed. but you said nothing.

war was ugly.

blood and mud and fire.

but when sandor returned, armor dented and blade dripping, his eyes always found you. no matter the hall, no matter the crowd.

and beneath his steel, close to his scarred skin, he kept them.

you.

a strip of pale lace fabric, delicate, worn soft by your body, tucked into the inside of his breastplate. he would finger it before each charge, coarse hands brushing over the shape of what had once clung to you.

when swords clashed, he thought of the way they smelled — soap, sweat, the faintest trace of your heat. when men screamed, he thought of how easily he could make you cry. when he killed, it was only for the mere thought of you.

sandor told himself it was just a talisman. a soldier’s trick. something to keep him steady. but when he lay in his tent at night, 𝙘𝙤𝙘𝙠 𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙙 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙧𝙮, 𝙛𝙞𝙨𝙩 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙝𝙞𝙢𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙛 𝙧𝙖𝙬, the cloth pressed to his face, his hand wrapped around himself — he knew better.

you confronted him, at last.

in the gardens, where no ears lingered but the crows.

”you took them.” your voice trembled, though you held your chin high, a princess through and through. ”my smallclothes.”

sandor froze, massive frame casting you in shadow. his jaw flexed, his good eye darting to the ground. “you shouldn’t speak so, girl.”

”answer me.”

a beat of silence.

then a low growl. ”aye.”

your breath hitched. gods, the audacity. the filth. and yet — heat curled in your belly. “why?”

his lip curled, scarred and cruel, but his voice shook with something close to shame. his hand twitched at his side, as if itching for his sword. “i’d have a piece of you, if i can’t have the rest.”

the words should have revolted you. instead, your thighs pressed together, your body betraying you.

sandor saw. he always saw.

he stepped closer, so close you could smell steel and sweat and horse on him. his voice dropped, a rasp meant only for you. “i carry them into battle, princess. against mud, against fire, against the screams of dying men — i keep you with me. i breathe you in. you keep me standing.”

you felt dizzy, wickedly light. “and when you… when you..𝙩𝙤𝙪𝙘𝙝 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙛..?”

his laugh was low, bitter, obscene. “then i’m imagining your sweet little 𝙘𝙪𝙣𝙩 around me instead of my fist. that sweet fabric between my teeth 𝙖𝙨 𝙞 𝙛𝙪𝙘𝙠 𝙢𝙮𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙤𝙛 𝙮𝙤𝙪.”

your gasp was sharp, scandalized — and yet your hand found his chest, pressing against the dented plate where you knew your stolen shift was hidden.

he caught your wrist, massive fingers wrapping near all the way around.

“say the word, and I’ll give it back. or say nothing — and i’ll keep you with me until the stranger himself comes for me.”