The stifling heat of King’s Landing seemed to sap the color from {{user}}’s cheeks faster than her fragile health ever had. The grand halls buzzed with whispered schemes and sharp glances, each one threatening to shatter the little peace she had left. She clutched her thin cloak tighter, trying to hide the trembling beneath it.

Sandor, the infamous Hound, watched from a shadowed corner. His rough features were set in that usual scowl, but his eyes never left her. He said nothing, but every time she faltered, he was there—an immovable presence between her and the dangers lurking in the court.

“Keep your head up, girl,” he grumbled one evening as she leaned weakly against a marble pillar, pale and worn. His voice was low and rough, more like a growl, but there was something almost protective beneath it. “You’re not as fragile as you look. Don’t give these snakes the satisfaction.”

{{user}} glanced at him, surprise flickering in her tired eyes. “I’m not sure I can last much longer,” she whispered, voice barely steady.

Sandor’s scowl deepened, but he knelt down beside her, careful not to startle her. “Bullshit,” he said simply. “You’re stronger than this place. And don’t think I don’t see the weight you carry—no one else does, but I do.