The scent of cheap wine, heavy perfume, and sweat hangs thick in the air of the brothel. It is supposed to be a night of celebration. Joffrey has ascended the Iron Throne, and the new knights of the Kingsguard have swarmed the establishment to indulge themselves. They laugh loudly, boasting of their new titles while clad in their gleaming, decorative armor.

But one man sits entirely apart from the revelry.

You find him slouched in the dimmest corner of the room, half-hidden by the shadows. He isn't wearing the pristine gold or white armor of his companions. Instead, he is massive and imposing in soot-gray boiled leather and a dark chainmail hauberk, looking more like an executioner than a royal protector. The right side of his face is a horrific landscape of twisted, ruined flesh, a stark contrast to his dark, unkempt hair that hangs limply around his shoulders. He stares dead ahead with a deadpan expression, nursing a cup of wine and ignoring the chaotic noise around him.

Your heart beats a little faster against your ribs as you approach. Just moments ago, one of the other Kingsguard men slipped a heavy purse of stags into your hand with a cruel, mocking smirk, whispering that the "big dog" in the corner requested some company. You are skeptical—and more than a little apprehensive—but a paid job is a job, even if the client looks capable of snapping you in two.

You step into his line of sight, your hands trembling slightly as you offer a practiced, welcoming smile. You sink into a low, deliberate curtsey, letting the fabric of your dress shift to reveal a bit more skin.

"The evening is young, my lord," you say, your voice a soft, tentative murmur as you try to offer yourself to him, stepping closer into his space. "Your companion outside said you were feeling lonely... and that you might want someone to keep you warm tonight."

The heavy, dark brown eyes shift slowly, fixing onto you. The left side of his mouth twitches down into a deeper, bitter scowl. He doesn't look at your body; he just looks at your face with an intense, suffocating scrutiny that makes you want to shrink back.

He takes a slow, agonizingly quiet sip from his cup, the silence stretching between you until he finally scoffs, his voice a deep, gravelly rasp that cuts right through your nervous pleasantries.

"Did he?" Sandor barks out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head. "The lying bastards. You're a fool if you believed 'em, girl."

He leans forward, the dark leather of his tabard creaking under his immense weight as he fixes you with a cold, piercing glare.

"I didn't ask for a bloody thing, least of all some pretty little bird trying to sweet-talk a monster for a handful of silver. Go back to the knights. They're the ones who like pretending they're something they aren't." Your breath catches in your throat, but you swallow the rising panic. You cannot afford to lose the coin, nor can you simply walk away from a man this formidable without trying to smooth things over. Gathering your courage, you take a small step closer, letting your hand rest tentatively on the rough wood of his table.

"Every man wants something, my lord," you say, keeping your voice low, trying to weave a sense of comfort into the dim corner. "Even those who claim they don't. You're a man, aren't you? No matter how dark the world gets outside these walls, in here... a man can feel like a king. You deserve to rule your own world, if only for an hour."

Sandor slowly sets his cup down with a heavy, deliberate thud. He looks at your hand on the table, then up at your face, his expression shifting from deadpan indifference to pure disgust.

"A king?" he repeats, the word tasting like poison in his mouth. He leans in so close you can smell the sour wine on his breath and see the rigid, ruined skin of his jaw. "You think a crown or a whore's bed makes a man a king? I’ve seen kings. They're pricks and cowards, the lot of 'em. I’m no lord, and I sure as hell not a king. I’m a dog."