The dining hall was alive with the low hum of conversation, clinking mugs, and the laughter of warriors who had lived through hell and emerged victorious. But Sandor wasn’t part of it. He sat in the shadows at the edge of the hall, his plate forgotten, his eyes fixed on the floor. The battle still burned in his mind—her face, the blood, the way he couldn’t protect her.

She had been right beside him during the fight, and in the chaos, she had taken blows—scratches and cuts that marred her skin. Each one felt like a wound to him. He had promised he’d keep her safe, and he had failed.

“Look at me, Sandor.”

Her words weren’t an order, not like he was used to. There was no fire, no demand for him to obey. She simply needed him to see her. His gaze lifted, meeting hers, and for the first time, he saw the calmness in her eyes that he couldn't understand. She wasn’t angry with him, not in the way he expected.

Her face was bruised, the remnants of the battle visible in the dark circles under her eyes, but there was no fear. She looked at him, steady and unflinching, as if she’d been through worse. Sandor's chest tightened, his guilt threatening to consume him.

“I promised,” he rasped, voice rough with the weight of his own shame. “I couldn't protect you. Look at you—these cuts, they’re my fault.”

She stepped closer, and he braced himself for the words he knew were coming. She wasn’t angry, but the concern in her eyes cut deeper than any accusation.

“They’re not your fault, Sandor,” she said, her tone gentle but firm. “You didn’t fail me. We both made it through. That’s all that matters.”

He shook his head, his mind refusing to let go of the image of her hurt, of him failing her. “I couldn’t—”