The wind howled outside, rattling the wooden shutters of the small house you and Sandor had built together. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows along the rough stone walls. You sat at the edge of the bed, fingers running over the soft fabric of your daughter’s blanket, listening to the distant rumble of hooves in the valley below. War was coming.

Sandor stood by the door, sword in hand, his broad frame tense as he watched the darkness beyond the window. You could see it in his shoulders—the way they tightened, the way his grip flexed around the hilt. He didn’t trust the silence.

"You should take her and run," he said gruffly, his voice thick with something unreadable. "Go somewhere far. Somewhere they won’t follow."

You lifted your gaze to his, seeing the flicker of fear beneath his scowl. Not for himself. For you. For her.

"And leave you behind?" You shook your head. "Not happening."

Sandor let out a low, irritated growl, rubbing a hand over his face. "You’re stubborn as hell, woman."

"And you love me for it," you shot back, standing up and crossing the room to him.

He sighed, tilting his head slightly, looking at you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded. His free hand lifted to your face, calloused fingers brushing your cheek. "I love you, aye," he muttered, reluctant as ever to say it but meaning it more than anything. "That’s why I’m tellin’ you to leave."