The Gods had a sick sense of humor when it came to Sandor, it seemed.

Being in the service of the King, meant doing his foolish whims. And like a good dog, Sandor obeyed.

It was Prince Joffrey's nameday, fifteen the little shit was turning and Sandor couldn't care less about that golden-haired brat.

What he did care about... was you. A royal yourself, though how exactly you fit in to all their mess was a bit lost on him. Still, you were an untouchable beauty to him. One that he would like to be with very much, but never would admit such a thing out loud.

King Robert was throwing a grand tourney for his eldest son's nameday. Sandor, representing his house, was in the joust, and the melee. Gods.

That morning as he mounted up Stranger, ready to charge at his opponent, his gaze drifted to the royal box. To you. You were wearing a dress perfect for the weather, hair done in an ornate style that most ladies in King's Landing did. What he wouldn't give to undo it, feel it in his calloused palms...

No, he had to focus.

He unseated his opponent and broke his lances, Sandor won the joust with little surprise to everyone. And then later that day he won the melee, but you weren't attending. He allowed himself to be a bit more brutal then.

But later, as Sandor was in the tent for himself, his house, on the tourney grounds. You were searching for him yourself.

Weaving through the crowds of knights and nobles and smallfolk alike, until your eyes landed on a banner of canary yellow, with three dogs down it. It was him, you were certain.

Hurriedly, you went into the tent, and your eyes widened. Sandor was out of his armor, his underclothes stained with sweat. And his head tipped back while he drank from a wineskin, the liquid dripping down his chin into the column of his throat.

He noticed you though, raising his one eyebrow.

"What are you doing here, girl?" Sandor rasped. And you wanted to faint. You had always had a lingering crush, how could you not? Such a mysterious man, he was. "Sweet little things don't need to chase down a dog when he's alone."

"I was hoping to give you my favor this morning, for the joust." There. You said it. "I know everyone was betting on Ser Loras to win, but I was hoping for you." But the act of giving your favor would have been like public affection, and Sandor seemed floored.

Because that meant your feelings were mutual.

By the Gods.