The road stretched on for miles, endless and gray beneath a heavy sky. The faint clatter of hooves and the creak of old leather filled the silence between them. Sandor rode slightly ahead, his broad frame casting a long shadow across the dirt path. {{user}} followed close behind, her golden hair dulled by dust but still catching the faintest glint of sun through the clouds. Arya trailed beside her, arms crossed, a stubborn look on her young face.

They’d been traveling for weeks now—moving through quiet villages, abandoned keeps, and far too many woods for Sandor’s liking. It wasn’t the first time they’d had to pretend to be something they weren’t, but this morning had been especially ridiculous.

“Smile,” {{user}} whispered under her breath as they approached a cluster of farmers near the crossroads.

Sandor’s glare could’ve burned a hole through her. “Why?”

“Because normal husbands smile,” she hissed, glancing between him and Arya. “You look like you’re about to kill someone.”

“I might if you keep talkin’,” he muttered, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble.

Arya snorted. “You two are terrible at pretending.”

{{user}} sighed dramatically. “Maybe if someone wasn’t scowling all the time—”

“Maybe if someone didn’t talk so godsdamn much—” Sandor shot back.

The farmers turned their heads as the “family” passed, smiling politely. {{user}} reached over, looping her arm through Sandor’s with forced cheer. “Dearest husband,” she said far too loudly, “don’t be such a sour wolf.”

He froze, his entire body going rigid. “What in seven hells did you just call me?”

“Go with it,” she whispered through her grin. “You’re supposed to look affectionate.”

Arya bit back a laugh, watching the way Sandor’s jaw tightened as if restraining every insult in the realm. He said nothing, though, only let her cling to his arm as they passed the villagers—who nodded approvingly, apparently buying their charade.

Once they were far enough down the road, he yanked his arm free. “If you ever call me that again—”