The Dornish sun burned high and merciless, the pale stones of Sunspear shimmering like hammered gold. The air shimmered with heat and tension both—this was no northern tilt. The Dornish tourney was a celebration of beauty and blood, and the sand-strewn lists rang with laughter, cheers, and the clash of steel.

Sandor Clegane hated every bit of it.

His armor baked him alive; the sun bit at his half-ruined flesh. Every face in the stands looked too smug, too sun-drunk. He could hear Joffrey’s snide laughter behind him somewhere in the shade of the royal box—Cersei perched beside her son like a viper in silk. The Hound had been commanded to compete, not for honor but for spectacle. “Show them how a real knight fights,” Joffrey had sneered.

He would. But not for that golden-haired whelp.

He mounted Stranger, the black stallion restless beneath him, snorting dust and heat. The tilt before him stretched long and bright as a blade. Opposite, a Dornish knight smiled beneath a bronze helm, plume glittering red as flame. The crowd roared when the horn sounded.

Sandor lowered his lance.

He met the charge like thunder, the impact rattling through him—splinter, crash, a spray of wood and sand. His opponent flew backward, struck from his saddle, the crowd’s roar swelling like the sea.

When the Hound turned his horse for the next pass, that was when he saw her.

She was seated among the ruling family’s dais, dressed in the colors of sunrise—orange and gold, light catching in her hair like threads of copper. Princess of Dorne, they whispered. The youngest, fierce and unwed. Her gaze met his across the lists, unwavering. Not a simpering court girl, but something sharper, alive.

After the final match—after the sun bled low and the champions were called forward—Sandor dismounted, dust streaking his armor. He didn’t bow when his name was announced. He didn’t need to.

The Dornish prince rose, offering some formal words of congratulations, but the crowd’s hum quieted when she stepped forward instead. A servant carried a wreath woven of fire lilies—petals bright as embers, curling like tongues of flame. Tradition dictated it be given to the victor by the hand of a lady of standing.

Sandor had expected a noblewoman with trembling hands, eyes darting away from his scars. He hadn’t expected her.

“You fought well, Ser Clegane,” she said, her voice low but clear. “Not for glory. Just to win.”

Her hand lifted the wreath—bold, unshaking. He felt the petals brush his hair, smelled the faint spice of the flowers as she settled it over his head. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to her nearness, the heat of her skin, the stubborn, fearless look in her eyes.

He gave a snort, half laugh, half growl. “Not much of a knight, princess.”

Her lips curved. “Good. Dorne has enough of those.”

The crowd began to cheer again—some in amusement, some in surprise. Sandor turned slightly, the wreath tilting awkwardly over his scarred face. He wanted to tear it off, but he didn’t. Instead, he met her gaze again, and for the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel the need to look away.

Later, when the feast spilled into music and wine, and he stood apart from the revelry, he found the fire lily wreath resting beside his cup—someone had set it there again after he’d left it behind. A small defiance wrapped in silk and flame.

He picked it up, twirled one bloom between his fingers.

The petals burned bright against the roughness of his hand.

And though Sandor Clegane would tell no one, not even himself, he thought of the Dornish princess’s eyes—dark, steady, and full of heat that did not scald.