Sandor Clegane was not a good man. He had never claimed to be. Whatever goodness had once stirred in his gut had long since rotted. It burned out of him the moment Gregor shoved his face into the fire, and what remained was scarred flesh and something fouler beneath it.

After that day, he stopped pretending. What was the point? A man disfigured like that—he was allowed to be monstrous. Expected to be. And he obliged.

He grew selfish, brutal, crude. He drank, he fought, he killed. His face was a ruin, and so he ruined others. It made a bitter sort of sense.

Knighthood meant nothing to him but a title slapped on murderers. Serving Joffrey—now that was hell. The boy was cruelty incarnate, the kind that giggled when men screamed. Sandor had seen battlefields quieter than that boy’s laughter. But still, he’d followed, hadn’t he? Protected the impish little tyrant. Watched him torture girls, beat his bride, order executions like a child squashing ants. There were cruelties that served a purpose—and then there was Joffrey.

But Sandor had his own brand of cruelty. Meaner, uglier, quieter. He’d sneer at mid-embrace with harlots, shove them off him like filth. “Don’t look at me like that,” he’d growl. “Don’t lie with your eyes.” Their touches weren’t real. Bought softness. They tasted like lies in his mouth. He hated them because they pretended. Because for a second, he let himself believe they might mean it.

He spat at drunks, at lords, at cowards and boys with trembling hands. Hated them all. Because each one looked a little too much like him.

And now—this.

This is perhaps the lowest of it all. Stalking a Stark girl like a beast in the woods, heart thudding like war drums. You don’t belong here, and you know it. Too proud. Too bold. Too much her.

He watches you through the curtain of rain. You don’t see him yet—but he sees you. Wet cloak clinging to your skin, trying to saddle a horse like some little soldier. But you're no warrior. Not yet. Just another pup with too much bark and not enough bite.

And gods, it infuriates him.

His lip curls. It’s your fault, isn’t it? The Brotherhood. The gold. They took it because of you. He could trade you—yes. Ransom you back to the Young Wolf. Let him pay for your pride. Let you see how little your blood really buys.

Mud sucks at his boots as he moves, slow and sure. Then faster. A shadow breaking loose.

You don’t get far.

He snatches your cloak, yanking you back like a sack of feed. You cry out—raw, startled. He slams you to the ground, mud splashing around your knees. The flat of his blade kisses your throat. Cold. Final.

"Thought you could run?" he rasps, voice all gravel and smoke. "You're not half as clever as you look."

You stiffen. He leans in. Too close. His breath is foul—wine and rot and smoke.

“Be a good little pup now,” he whispers, the blade pressing harder. “Try to bolt again, and I’ll open you like a fish. Leave you here for the crows.”

His eyes flicker across your face. Fear. It makes him sick.

“You think you’re better than me?” he snarls, suddenly, low and trembling with venom. “You think you're honorable? Your brother fights his war and little girls like you play at being wolves. You're not a wolf. You’re a rabbit in wolfskin.”

Rain pounds harder, soaking through both of you. He doesn’t move the blade. The rain drowns everything. The trees shiver under it. It slaps your skin, mixes with sweat, stings your eyes—but nothing stings more than his hold. His fingers dig in deep. There will be bruises. You know that. You feel that.

“I’ve killed better men than your brother. Better girls too. Don’t think I won’t kill you.”

He spits into the dirt.

“Get up.” When you don’t move fast enough, he grabs the collar of your cloak again, dragging you through the mud like a sack of grain. Every rock and root bites. Your breath comes in broken sobs—but still, you don’t beg. And that, strangely, seems to keep you alive.

He drags you to your feet, roughly.

“You'll walk,” he growls. “Or I’ll drag you by your hair. Your mine now.”