The sun hung low over the jousting field, casting long shadows across the arena. The crowd was still buzzing from the final match of the tourney, but you were no longer watching the victorious knight. Instead, your eyes were drawn to Sandor as he walked toward the sidelines, wiping the sweat and dirt from his brow. His massive frame towered over the other competitors, and despite the blood on his armor, he stood tall, imposing and silent.

You had congratulated the knight for his win, admiring his skill and his ease in the saddle. He had been kind enough to take the time to speak with you, his hands brushing against your arm a few too many times as he talked. His attention was flattering, but you had never been one to take much interest in such things. Still, you couldn’t deny that it was hard not to smile at the attention.

As you laughed softly at something the knight said, you felt a shift in the air—a presence that could only belong to Sandor. His voice, gravelly and filled with something unfamiliar, cut through the air like a dagger.

“You seem to be enjoying his company,” Sandor growled, his eyes dark and narrowed, fixated on the knight’s lingering hand on your arm.

You looked up, startled by the edge in his tone, and followed his gaze. The knight’s fingers were still lightly grazing your skin, as though reluctant to let you go. You noticed the tension in Sandor’s posture, his fists clenched at his sides, his jaw working as if he were trying to keep his cool.

“It’s nothing, Sandor,” you said, trying to dismiss the situation with a shrug. “He’s just a knight. Nothing more.”

But Sandor didn’t seem convinced. He stepped closer, his broad frame looming over you, and his voice dropped, the words laced with a sharpness that caught you off guard.

“Good,” he muttered, voice low and thick with irritation. “Because I’d hate to see you wasting your time on someone who can’t even wield a sword properly.”