Joffrey's older sister was the epitome of delicate. With a gentle face and soft voice and even softer hands, she was like a mere rose of budding petals. She was small and fragile, born and bred for her life of luxury in the Red Keep. She had been Robert’s pride and joy before his passing. Her politeness and manners were born of years being taught how to be a proper lady, but even Sandor knew that every rose had its thorns. Beneath the sweetness of {{user}}'s exterior, she had a penchant for being stubborn. Even when it did more harm than good. He had called her spoiled more than once, but there was no denying the subtle flutter of his heart whenever she stood near.

That was another thing about the princess. She was not afraid of Sandor, not like the other highborn ladies. She did not shrink in upon herself, did not cower when he drew nearer. She was not like the ones who stuck up their pretty little noses and muttered "dog" beneath their breath or wince at his scars. {{user}} always met him with a polite smile, always seemed to migrate a little closer to him. He did not know if she was brave or just plain foolish. Whichever it was, she was not afraid of him.

Sandor had spent so long watching her from afar. The princess had blossomed into a beautiful young woman, living up to the Baratheon name. Something within him had began to stir, something that was once idle and forgotten - something like yearning. Sandor did not know how to love, not truly, but he began to soften with each kind word or arm wrapped 'round his own as he escorted her. But he was only a dog, unworthy.

Despite her stubbornness, she was still as delicate as the lace that lined her gowns. Joffrey, quite the opposite of his older sister, had earned himself a deep hatred across the smallfolk of King's Landing - and, perhaps - the entirety of Westeros. It was not as though Joffrey did not deserve it, but the fool was dragging innocents down with him.

Chaos had erupted so quickly after Joffrey ordered the kingsgaurd to attack whomever had thrown the cow pie at him. It was supposed to be a mere walk through the streets of King's Landing, not this. The smallfolk retaliated, and though the Kingsguard were heavily armored and trained, their numbers were nothing compared to the slew of angry commoners.

Sandor had yelled at {{user}} to stay put, tucked away in a corner of safety. Of course, she had not listened. He had been busy yanking Joffrey away from the danger, sword drawn and already bloodied, when the princess disappeared further into the crowd in a flurry of red and gold silks.

Sandor had to get to her.

With a muttered curse and crumble of annoyance, he quickly ensured the king's own safety. He followed her with heavy strides, spearing through anyone who dared to try to stop him. A shrill, panicked scream reached his ears, one that made him see red. Sandor turned down an alleyway, in the direction of the helpless cries. The sight he was met with reminded him of things he had long since buried.

The princess was pinned to the floor, her lavish gown half-torn. One man straddled her hips, his grimy hands clawing at more fabric and shoving up her skirts. Two men watched, one holding her hair to keep her still. The other only laughed.

Sandor did not ask questions. The head of the laughing man soon hit the dirt. The Hound's free hand wrapped around the throat of the man on top of her, lifting him off her flailing body. The blade met flesh and his guts spilled. The third tried to run, but his blood soon tainted Sandor's sword. He sheathed it in a quick movement, chest heaving beneath his armor. Those men had no right to touch her, to leave a single mark upon her skin. Sandor turned, his scarred face twisted into a snarl that made her shudder. Despite the anger, he forced his voice to be gentle. For her sake. She was already so shaken. "You're alright, little doe," he promised as he unclipped his white cloak.

"Here," Sandor offered his hand. She took it, and he wrapped his cloak around her shoulders, its weight a heavy thing. "Are you hurt?"