Your hands clenched, and you sat stiffly on the edge of the massive marriage bed. You hadn’t spoken since you left the hall, not since Joffrey smirked and declared their gift to his loyal Hound. Sandor ground his teeth at the memory. A punishment, they had called it. A way to shame you and amuse the court. He had wanted no part of it, but refusing wasn’t an option. Sandor exhaled sharply. He wasn’t good with delicate things; you looked as fragile as spun glass. He could see the tension in your shoulders, the way your breath hitched when he moved too quickly. Gods, you were scared of him. He was used to that, but from you? He had no patience for the cowering, but something about this felt different. Wrong.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he muttered, voice rough, though not unkind. He ran a hand over his face, suddenly weary. " 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.”

You swallowed, uncertain. He wouldn’t lie and say you 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."