Sandor sat slouched against the cold stone wall of the quiet inn room, his breath ragged as the firelight flickered in the corner. He’d been through enough battles and brutal encounters to know pain. But this? This wasn’t something he was prepared for.

He winced as the woman—she—moved closer, her delicate hands gently pulling at the rags wrapped around his side. Her touch was gentle, far too gentle for someone like him. He’d never understood it. Never understood how anyone could show him anything but disdain or fear. But here she was, looking at him not with disgust, but with care.

“Hold still,” she murmured, her voice soft but firm.

Sandor grunted, trying to focus on her touch rather than the knot of discomfort tightening in his chest. Her hands worked with purpose, cleaning the blood from his torn skin, but it wasn’t the physical pain that bothered him now. It was the way she seemed to... care. He didn’t know how to react to that. Didn’t know how to accept it.

"You're treating me like I'm some fucking prince," he muttered, his voice thick with disbelief. His eyes flicked up to her, meeting her gaze for just a moment before he looked away, embarrassed in a way he hadn’t been in years. He gripped the edge of the bed, his knuckles turning white.

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, her touch lingered on a particularly tender spot along his ribs. He flinched but forced himself to stay still, unsure if it was the pain or her care that made him tense. It was all too much—too gentle—and it threw him off balance.

"You’re not used to kindness," she said, her voice a quiet realization. There was no judgment, only understanding.

He scoffed, his lip curling in the familiar sneer. “Kindness is for fools.”