Sandor sat on the rough stone of the castle courtyard, his back pressed against the cold wall. He could feel the heat from the nearby fire pit flicker, its flames dancing and casting shadows across the ground. The flickering light was all too familiar, and the memories came flooding back—pain, screams, fire licking at his skin.

His chest tightened. His breaths came heavy, shallow. He gripped his knees, trying to ground himself, to stop the tremor running through his body. But he couldn’t—couldn’t shake the memories of his past, the fire that had taken so much from him. He was the Hound, a monster, a man of violence, but there was nothing he could do to escape the terror that gripped him in moments like this.

Then, a soft presence beside him, a voice. She was there—again.

Her name was like a whisper in the back of his mind, the only thing that made the fire seem a little less suffocating. He felt her hands on his face, warm and steady, gentle yet firm as she cupped his cheeks. Sandor flinched at the touch, his instinct screaming to pull away, to shut himself off, but she didn’t let him. She didn’t back away.

“Look at me, Sandor,” she whispered, her voice a soft, steady anchor in the chaos of his thoughts.

Slowly, he lifted his gaze, meeting her eyes. There was no pity there. No fear. Just a steady calm that he couldn't help but be drawn into. He hated how vulnerable he felt, but her touch—her soft hands against his scarred skin—was grounding. She wasn’t afraid of him. She didn’t flinch when his past came surging back, didn’t hesitate.

“It’s just fire,” she murmured, her voice low, soothing. “It can’t hurt you, not anymore.”

But he knew better. He had lived with the scar of fire his entire life. It would always haunt him, no matter how much he wanted to fight it.