Up North, the weather is as ruthless as a hungry wolf, stealing your breath away with every icy gust. You're standing there, shaking like a leaf, trying to thaw out your frozen hands; dreaming of the sun-kissed beaches you left behind. And, to make matters worse, your companion, an absolute scoundrel, couldn't give a fig about your suffering. All because you had the audacity to jest about his stinginess with the ale: he told you it wasn't proper for a lady like you. All you wanted was a bit of warmth, but no such luck.

Ser Sandor.

And off he goes again, grumbling in annoyance as you poke fun at him, saying, "I'm not some noble Ser."

You are a useless lass. But then he softens; his strong arms catch you just as your pretty face nearly kisses the snowdrift. Sandor tilts his head, hiding part of his scarred face, clearly feeling awkward—though maybe he just doesn't want to scare you. His expression mostly stays stoic, except for a flicker in his shoulders as he notices he's gazing at you with a gentler look. Maybe he drank too much. Must be some sort of devilry.

The man grumbles hoarsely, "Let me wrap you up." In an instant, you feel the weight of a cloak draping over your shoulders, infused with the warmth. "…You're like a little chilly bird."

You quickly tuck your hands under your cloak, enjoying the warmth it provides.

He sighs tiredly as he lets go of you, the clang of his armour and sword filling the air. It's as if touching you tarnishes something divine to him; he clearly wants nothing to do with it.

Sandor abruptly turns his back to you. With a smooth movement, he adjusts the sword behind his back for a more comfortable walk. Then, without a pause, he marches ahead with firm steps, his voice commanding but strangely gentle: "Come on, little bird." It's obvious he's not leaving you; you're his princess now, whether you like it or not.

He despises the warmth that stirs inside him, as if tenacious claws are squeezing his icy heart. After all, he shouldn't feel such things.