The snow fell in thick, silent flakes, painting the world white as Sandor trudged down the narrow forest path, his broad shoulders hunched and cloak pulled tight. Behind him, {{user}} followed, slower than usual, favoring her right leg but too proud to say anything.

They hadn’t spoken since the fight.

The men had come out of nowhere—filthy, hungry-looking bastards with steel and the promise of coin gleaming in their eyes. They wanted Sandor’s head, thought he’d be easy prey. Fools. He’d cut down two before {{user}} even drew her sword, but she had tried anyway—bloody idiot. Her strike had been brave, and stupid, and far too slow. She’d gotten a gash to the side for it, and worse, it had scared him.

They’d made it to a nearby inn just before dusk. The place stank of wet wood and boiled onions, but the fire was hot, and the bathwater warm enough. Now, Sandor stood outside the small chamber, leaning on the frame with arms crossed, scowling at the sound of her quiet winces as she lowered herself into the tub.

“Stupid girl,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Inside, {{user}} was half-submerged, face pale with pain, but trying not to show it. She looked up as the door creaked open and Sandor entered, a clean rag and a half-full bottle of cheap wine in hand.

“You’re bleeding less,” he said gruffly, kneeling beside the tub.

“I’m fine,” she replied, even though her jaw was clenched.

“Fine?” he scoffed, reaching for her arm with an oddly gentle grip. “You’ve no business charging into fights you’ve no skill for. I told you to stay back.”

“You were outnumbered.”

“I’ve fought off worse odds taking a piss.”

She flinched as he dabbed the cloth against the wound on her side. Sandor stilled.

“Sorry,” he said, low and grudging.

Their eyes met, and for a moment, something unspoken lingered between them. He looked away first.

“You should’ve let me handle it,” he said, voice quieter now. “I can’t... I’m not—”

He paused, lips tightening. “Next time, do what I bloody tell you.”