The night was chaos—fire, screams, and the clang of steel echoed through the castle walls. Smoke clung to the air like a living thing, heavy and suffocating. Sandor moved through the chaos like a predator, his sword dripping red. But his eyes weren’t on the battle; they were on her.

He found {{user}} near the stables, her face pale, framed by loose strands of hair clinging to sweat-streaked skin. She clutched the side of the stall door as soldiers pushed past in panic. She looked like a doe caught in a hunter’s sights, and it twisted something deep in his chest.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he growled. His voice was rougher than usual, gravel edged with desperation.

“Where else would I be?” she shot back, her voice trembling despite her bravado. “There’s no safe place, is there?”

“Come with me.” He didn’t wait for her response, grabbing her arm, but not roughly. His grip was firm, protective.

“What?” She blinked up at him. “Go where?”

“North. Away from this blasted city.” His voice softened, the desperation cracking through. “Back to your family. I’ll get you there, safe.”

She stared at him, disbelief warring with something else. “You’d take me?”

“I swear it.” His jaw clenched. “I’ll cut down anyone who stands in the way.”

The words came out fierce, but his eyes betrayed him—pleading, raw. “You deserve better than this place. Better than me.” He swallowed hard. “But I’ll take care of you.”

Firelight flickered against his scarred face, but for once, it didn’t seem to matter. She saw the man beneath the mask.

“Sandor…” her voice faltered.

“If you stay, you’ll burn with this bloody city,” he said lowly. “Please.”

He never begged—not for anything—but he was now.