The fire in the hearth crackled, casting flickering shadows along the stone walls of the chamber. Sandor stood near it, his broad frame tense, his hands braced against the heavy wooden table. The wedding feast had been a miserable affair—laughter at his expense, mocking toasts from Lannister dogs, and worst of all, the quiet, fearful presence of his new wife.

{{user}} sat stiffly on the edge of the massive marriage bed, her hands clenched in her lap. She hadn’t spoken since they left the hall, not since Joffrey smirked and declared her gift to his loyal Hound. Sandor ground his teeth at the memory. A punishment, they had called it. A way to shame her and amuse the court. He had wanted no part of it, but refusing wasn’t an option.

He turned to face her. She flinched.

Sandor exhaled sharply. He wasn’t good with delicate things, and she looked as fragile as spun glass. He could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her breath hitched when he moved too quickly. Gods, she was scared of him. He was used to that—but from her? He had no patience for cowering noble ladies, but something about this felt different. Wrong.

“I’m not gonna touch you,” he muttered, voice rough, though not unkind. He ran a hand over his face, suddenly weary. “Not unless you ask me to.”

Her eyes snapped up to his, wide with shock. He huffed a dry laugh. What did she think? That he’d tear her apart like some beast?

“I didn’t ask for this either,” he admitted, shifting his weight. “But I won’t hurt you.” His voice softened just enough. “You don’t have to be afraid of me, girl.”

She swallowed, uncertain. He wouldn’t lie and say she looked at him with trust, but at least the fear wasn’t as sharp as before. That was enough—for now.

He turned back to the fire, reaching for the jug of wine on the table. He wasn’t one for soft words, but he knew battle, and this was one he wouldn’t win in a single night.

"Try to get some sleep," he said over his shoulder. "I'll take the chair."