Hi hi! Do you have any plans to continue Love & Vengeance? Iâm enjoying the story so far and would to read more!!
Hey ânon, thanks for asking. â€ïž Yes, I definitely plan to continue Love & Vengeance. Unfortunately, work has been keeping me very busy lately, so I haven't had much time to write. But I haven't abandoned the story, and I hope to update it as soon as I can. Thank you so much for reading and for your patience!
Summary: For one stolen night, Winterfell fades away. There are no titles. No vows. No duty. Only Sandor and Sansa, finally allowing themselves to love each other without fear. But dawn always comes, and with it the world they cannot escape.
Chapter Warnings: 18+, Explicit Sexual Content, Emotional Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Healing Through Love, Trauma References, Past Sexual Assault (Referenced), Body Scars, Angst, Canon-Typical Themes, Soft Sandor Clegane.
A/N: It took me weeks to write this chapter.
I rewrote it more times than I can count because I wanted their first time to feel emotional before anything else. After everything they've survived together, they deserved tenderness, honesty, and a little bit of happiness.
I hope I managed to do them justice.
Thank you for sticking with me through this slow burn. â€ïž
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Before either of them could stop to think about the consequences of their actions, Sansa kissed Sandor with fierce urgency. He wrapped her in a passionate embrace, and their kiss quickly deepened. He almost devoured her lips, kissing her with such hunger that they both forgot how to breathe.
When they finally had to pull away for air, the distance between them lasted only a few heartbeats. Sandor leaned in to kiss her again, then hesitated, a sudden doubt crossing his mind.
"Is this really what you want? I don't know if it should be me..."
Sansa silenced him by placing a finger against his lips. "I know exactly what I want. And you're what I want most."
Encouraged by her answer, he kissed her again, resting his hands gently on her hips before letting them slide slowly down her thighs.
Sansa felt as though she had burst into flames.
No one had ever touched her like that.
Never with such desire.
A strange, intoxicating longing rose inside her, making her crave his hands on her body.
She turned her back to him, allowing him to undo the laces of her gown.
As his fingers brushed her skin while loosening the knots, a wave of burning desire spread through her.
When the dress slipped to the floor, Sandor forgot how to breathe.
Sansa's back was crossed by pale white marks and newer pink ones.
Whip scars.
"Sansa... I..." The words died in his throat.
She turned to face him, and with a boldness she hadn't known she possessed, guided his hands onto her bare hips before kissing him once more.
This kiss was different.
Slow.
Tender.
Sansa's bare chest rested against Sandor's still-clothed one. Her hands settled on his chainmail before sliding up around his neck and finally cupping his face.
When they fell back onto the bed, he was still fully dressed while she offered herself to him in all her naked beauty.
Her cheeks burned crimson, yet she made no attempt to cover herself or hide behind embarrassed words.
She wanted to savor the moment, despite the shyness threatening to overwhelm her.
Sandor understood her embarrassment but chose not to draw attention to it.
Instead, he gently caressed her bare breasts while kissing her again.
A strange, molten pleasure rippled through her entire body.
Only then did she realize he was still dressed.
She drew back slightly and looked at him. "Why are you still... dressed?"
"Sansa... I saw your scars." His voice softened. "I don't want to cause you any more pain."
She frowned. "Why would you hurt me? I want you. You're not... forcing me." She stroked the burned side of his face before pressing a gentle kiss against it. "Don't be afraid," she whispered. Then she smiled. "How do you even get this thing off?"
The question made him laugh.
Sandor removed his chainmail and the layers beneath it.
Sansa's eyes wandered over his broad body, covered in scars and old wounds.
She wanted to kiss every single one of them.
To make him understand, through those kisses alone, that she did not think him ugly.
Nor a monster.
She reached out, tracing a scar just below his collarbone with gentle fingers.
Following its path, she was stopped when Sandor caught her hand.
Their eyes met again.
For a long, endless moment.
Neither could hide the desire growing between them.
Once freed from every layer of clothing, Sandor kissed her again, careful not to let his weight press too heavily against her.
He released her hand, letting his own drift slowly along her side before lowering his lips to her neck.
Then to her chest, rising and falling with every quick breath.
Sansa felt herself burning with pleasure.
She no longer knew what sensation to focus on.
She was embarrassed, yes.
But she wanted him.
Wanted the certainty of his touch.
When he looked into her eyes, she understood that his journey downward was not over.
Curiosity mixed with nervousness as she watched him lower himself between her legs.
Her lips parted in a silent gasp when his tongue found her in the most intimate way.
The touch was light. Precise.
It felt as though her entire body had caught fire.
A deeper and deeper ache spread through her as he continued to kiss and taste her.
She closed her eyes completely, surrendering to the confidence with which he brought her pleasure.
When release finally came, it felt as though every thought, every fear, dissolved.
A long, trembling moan escaped her lips.
Sandor did not stop until he felt her body relax completely.
Only then did he lift his head.
He saw the unmistakable expression of pleasure on her face.
When their eyes met again, they both knew the passion between them had not faded.
They kissed once more.
This time Sansa tasted herself on his lips. The sensation thrilled her even more than before.
Their bodies pressed together, and she found herself staring curiouslyâand a little fearfullyâat his arousal.
Would it hurt?
Was that what he had meant before?
She had shared a bed with the young knight from Seagard once before, yet this felt like stepping into the unknown all over again.
With one arm, Sandor drew her onto him, reversing their positions.
She could feel his hardness pressed firmly against her.
Sansa kissed him again before trailing kisses over every scar... Every mark... Every ridge... Every wound that had shaped the man she loved.
She hoped he would understand.
That through those kisses he would see she did not think him monstrous.
To her, he was beautiful. Strong. A man worthy only of love.
She paused when her gaze fell on him again.
She had no idea how to give pleasure to a man.
No one had ever taught her.
"Would you... um..." She faltered. "Would you teach me? How...?"
Sandor smiled. "No one ever taught you?"
She shook her head.
He sat up, bringing their faces level.
He kissed the back of her hand before gently spreading his legs, guiding her to do the same while she remained seated astride him.
Carefully, he took her hand and placed it around him.
Sansa gasped softly as she wrapped her fingers around his firm warmth.
Sandor swallowed.
He guided her movements.
Slowly at first.
Then faster.
When he realized she understood what pleased him, he let go and surrendered himself to the sensations she was giving him.
His breathing caught whenever she happened upon something that drove him nearly mad.
Finally, he caught her wrist and stopped her.
"What did I do?" she asked, confused.
"I don't want to..." He hesitated. "Not like this." He looked at her again. "Are you absolutely certain this is what you want?"
"Yes."
"Are you certain you want it... with me?"
"Yes."
"I do."
He kissed her deeply.
Long enough that the world seemed to disappear.
Then, slowly, he guided himself into her.
The moment he entered her, Sansa broke the kiss and held her breath.
She bit her lower lip, watching in quiet wonder as their bodies fit together perfectly.
She looked at him for a long moment before kissing his neck and then the burned side of his face.
Slowly, she began to move.
Sandor closed his eyes for a few seconds, letting his body sink back against the mattress.
Sansa had never imagined she was capable of moving like that.
Or of giving a man such pleasure.
Yet, during those endless moments, she discovered that she could.
She slowly lowered herself onto him, continuing her gentle rhythm while watching him beneath her, hearing his quiet groans and uneven breathing.
When Sandor opened his eyes again, he found her face transformed by pleasure.
It was then that he turned them over once more.
Carefully, never too rough, he moved deeper inside her.
Soft moans escaped Sansa's lips as wave after wave of pleasure washed over her once again.
He lay fully over her, murmuring broken words... Words that, under any other circumstances, would have made her blush.
But not now.
Not when everything inside her felt as though it were catching fire.
When release finally claimed them both, it came like lightning.
Blinding.
Instinctively, they kissed each other hard, desperately, muffling their cries so no one beyond the Princess's chamber door would hear what was happening inside.
When it was over, they lay side by side, unable to speak.
Neither of them needed words.
Not in a moment as perfect as this one.
Their bodies were still bare.
They had fallen asleep that way.
Sansa's body was nestled against his, Sandor's chest pressed warmly against her back.
Dawn was still some time away, yet Sandor had already been awake for a while.
His gaze lingered on the pale scars the lashes had carved into her fair skin. He shifted slightly, reaching out to trace one with careful fingers. As he followed the line of the scar, his chest tightened with the thought of the pain she must have endured.
"Don't." Her voice was quiet, but it startled him. She had woken. "I don't want... I mean... I don't want you touching them."
She turned her face toward him.
Sandor immediately withdrew his hand from the scar and rested it gently against her stomach instead.
Sansa took it, drew it up against her chest, held it tightly, then pressed a soft kiss to his knuckles.
"I should never have fallen asleep that night," he confessed bitterly. "I'll never forgive myself."
"I'm here." She smiled softly. "With you. Ramsay is dead. And I'm here. Alive. Because of you."
For once, it was Sansa comforting him instead of the other way around.
Sandor kissed her hair. "Seeing what he did to you... it hurts. I would've rather carried those scars on my own back." He slipped an arm beneath her head so she could rest comfortably against him. "I'd do anything for you."
"You already do," she reminded him, turning just enough to kiss him.
Their lips met once more.
This kiss was even less hesitant than the ones they had shared the night before.
Less innocent.
They made love through kisses again, no longer burdened by the same uncertainty that had haunted them only hours earlier.
Yet both knew that beyond the bedroom door waited reality.
The harsh reality that, whether they wished it or not, would always come knocking at the door of the Princess of the North and her sworn shield.
Each knew exactly where the other belonged.
And yet...
There.
Within the dim light of Sansa Stark's chamber. Between her sheets. Everything seemed possible.
They knew how foolish that belief was.
But for those precious moments there were no titles.
No obligations.
No masters or servants.
No kingdoms to conquer.
No borders to defend.
Only the love between two people who appeared utterly different...
Yet were far more alike than either had ever imagined.
"I have to go now," Sandor said at last, sitting up and beginning to dress. "No one can see me in your bed."
Sansa looked at him. "Butâ"
He gently shook his head. "Don't say anything. Go back to sleep."
He kissed her softly one last time before quietly putting on his clothes, making as little noise as possible.
Then he slipped into the still-dark corridor, closing the door behind him.
Moments later he resumed his place outside her chamber, as though he had never left his post as the Princess's sworn guard.
Lying alone beneath the blankets, Sansa wondered what life with him might have been like.
She imagined leaving Winterfell at his side.
She had longed so desperately to return home...
Never imagining that one day she would dream of fleeing it.
Perhaps running away was the only way she could remain with the man she loved. No one would understand. Not her mother. Not her brother. Not the people of Winterfell. They would think she had lost her mind. They would whisper. Judge her. Point their fingers.
When Sandor closed the door behind him, a strange mixture of peace and unease settled over him.
It had been the most beautiful... The most unexpected... And the most overwhelming night of his life.
He had spent it with the woman he loved.
Yet he had done so in the most shameful way imaginable.
Hidden away.
Like a coward.
Had she been any other woman, he would've thought little of leaving her asleep, still naked beneath the blankets.
But she wasn't just anyone.
She was Sansa Stark.
Gods...
What had he been thinking when he'd shared her bed?
When he'd made love to her?
When he'd told her he had to leave?
He had behaved like a thief.
A miserable thief.
The guilt was there.
He left the castle and made his way to Stranger.
He wanted to wash himself.
To rid his body of every trace of her scent.
Anything that might reveal to the othersâEspecially Robb Stark and Lady Catelynâwhat had happened between them.
He felt... Only the Seven Hells knew what he truly felt.
He plunged into the river and scrubbed himself with almost frantic determination.
Yet when he finished, it seemed as though Sansa's scent had seeped beneath his skin.
He could still smell her.
That sweet fragrance lingered stubbornly around him.
Even the clear morning sky reminded him of her.
Its brightness echoed the color of her eyes.
Everything around him seemed determined to remind him that he had spent the night with his young princess.
As he rode back toward Winterfell, part of him felt he had violated something sacred. Something he had no right to touch. No right to love. And yet... Another part of him felt like the luckiest hound in all the Seven Kingdoms.
She had wanted him beside her.
She had loved him.
She had made him feel loved.
He had never imagined sharing a woman's bed could leave a man feeling like this.
But then again...
She had never been just another woman.
Not to him.
He had always seen her as a little bird in need of protection.
Someone to warn.
Someone to shield.
Sometimes even from herself, so innocent had she been.
He had seen her frightened. Defenseless. Trembling. Broken. He had also watched her rise again. Stronger than before. And he had been there for every step of that journey.
The realization filled him with quiet gratitude.
He remembered the day he'd been teaching her how to wield a sword.
He had scoffed then, claiming there was nothing he could ever learn from her.
Gods, how wrong he'd been.
She had taught him compassion. How to help others. How to accept help in return. How it felt to live at peace with himself. How to let go of an obsession that had consumed his soul. Most of all...
She had taught him what it meant to love.
He owed all of that...
To Sansa Stark.
He returned Stranger to the stables before climbing back toward the upper levels of the castle.
A skinny boy with fiery red hair suddenly stepped into his path. "Clegane. Our lord is looking for you."
"He's waiting in the Godswood."
With that, the boy hurried away.
For the first time, Sandor wondered if Robb Stark had discovered everything.
If he had...
Then he would accept whatever punishment awaited him.
Dismissal.
The loss of his knighthood.
The loss of his place beside Sansa.
He had no right to argue.
He was not the one in command.
He made his way quickly into the ancient Godswood.
Robb Stark stood beneath the heart tree beside Lady Olenna.
His footsteps echoed through the quiet grove, announcing his arrival long before he reached them.
When he finally stopped before the pair, he inclined his head respectfully.
"Clegane," Robb greeted.
"My lord. Lady Olenna."
"You must be wondering why we've asked to see you," the old woman said.
Sandor remained silent.
He waited.
Robb glanced toward Lady Olenna before speaking, as though waiting for her permission.
"Certain things become obvious."
"And we've noticed them."
"My lord?" Sandor replied, hoping to sound genuinely confused.
"My grandson Loras realized that Lady Sansa has no interest in him whatsoever." Lady Olenna continued. "I can't say I'm surprised. My grandson is... rather delicate. Far too fond of frivolous pursuits. It was foolish to expect that, after everything she's endured, Sansa Stark would still care for such superficial things." Sandor held her gaze. "So the marriage will not take place. I would be lying if I said I wasn't disappointed. I've always been rather fond of House Stark." She turned toward Robb. "A union between our families would've made me very happy. But the heart cannot be commanded. Isn't that right, Sandor Clegane?"
Sandor looked at the Queen of Thorns. "Come now," she said with a knowing smile. "You can speak freely with us. We're hardly going to eat you. Besides..." She chuckled. "Even if we wished to, you're taller than I am and twice the size of the Young Wolf."
"I wouldn't know what to say, my lady," Sandor answered simply.
Lady Olenna nodded. "Your knight is diplomatic, Lord Stark. I like him." She cast Sandor one last look before rising. "Well then. It's time for us to return to Highgarden. You'll always be welcome there."
"Thank you, Lady Olenna," Robb said, lifting her hand respectfully to his lips.
"Lady Olenna," Sandor echoed with another respectful bow.
She offered him a faint smile before walking away.
Silence settled between Sandor and Robb for several long moments.
Finally, the young lord spoke. "As you've heard, the marriage between Sansa and Loras Tyrell has been called off."
"Yes, my lord."
Robb studied him carefully. "I know how you feel about my sister." Sandor met his gaze. "And I know how she feels about you. You love her. And she loves you. Nearly everyone has noticed. Even Lady Olenna."
"I'm sorry, my lord."
Robb frowned. "Are you? Don't say things you don't mean."
"What I feel doesn't matter," Sandor answered quietly.
"But what Sansa feels does. She cares for you. Far more than she's willing to admit. When you were injured, she never left your side. Only when she was forced to. Otherwise she would've stayed beside you day and night." He paused. "What I want to knowâand I expect complete honestyâis whether you love her as well. Because we're talking about my sister. The only sister I still have here. The other..." He looked away. "Only the gods know where she is."
Sandor's heart pounded.
He had never imagined having such a conversation.
Least of all with the lord he served...
The brother of the woman he loved.
"Yes, my lord. I love her. I would do anything to know she was happy."
Robb nodded once. "Good. You may go."
Sandor blinked, momentarily stunned.
Yet he did not question the order.
He bowed and left at once.
By the time he reached Sansa's chamber, his thoughts were in complete turmoil.
He still couldn't understand the conversation he'd just had with Robb.
Nor could he understand why he remained in the Stark family's service.
Part of him wondered whether some trap had yet to spring.
He forced himself to appear calm when the chamber door finally opened.
The sight of Sansa stole his breath.
Her red hair had been brushed with great care.
A delicate flush colored her cheeks.
Her blue eyes looked even more beautiful than usual.
The brilliant green gown she wore made both her hair and her fair complexion glow.
When their eyes met, she smiled.
And in that instant, every dark cloud that had shadowed Sandor's heart simply disappeared.
Summary: Sandor returns to Winterfell carrying wounds far deeper than the ones carved into his flesh. While Sansa finally comes to terms with what she feels for him, the future chosen by her family threatens to pull them apart. As duty and desire collide, both must decide whether love is worth defying destiny itself.
Chapter Warnings: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Blood/Injuries, Fever, Mutual Pining, Love Confessions, Class Difference, Forced Marriage Discussions, Emotional Vulnerability, Slow Burn Payoff, Kissing, Winterfell, Post-Battle Recovery
A/N: It only took me several weeks, countless rewrites, emotional damage, and a concerning amount of coffee to finish this chapter. Enjoy. đâ€ïž
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The young woman remained at Sandor's side for three days and three nights, despite both Maester Luwin's objections and her mother's disapproval. She did not care what people might think of her or what they might say. She only wanted to be there when he opened his eyes. She wanted him to know that she had stayed.
On the evening of the fourth day, Sansa sat beside him, holding his hand as she had grown accustomed to doing every night. The fire crackled softly in the hearth. The stone walls glowed red beneath the flames, casting an amber light across both her skin and Sandor's.
Everything seemed as it always had.
She listened to his breathingâsometimes calm, sometimes strained.
She knew when the fever troubled him. She had heard him mutter his brother's name more than once in his sleep. Most often, however, it was her name he called.
Whenever he mumbled it, Sansa would tighten her fingers around his hand as if trying to tell him:
I'm here.
And that was all she wished to tell him.
Nothing more.
That evening, after Maester Luwin had changed his bandages and left, she remained alone with him. Sleep was slowly beginning to pull her into a world of hopes and dreams when she suddenly felt his hand tighten around hers.
Sansa opened her eyes and leaned toward him.
"Sandor?" she whispered. "Sandor?"
There was no answer.
For a moment she thought she had imagined it.
Again.
Then she felt the squeeze once more.
She watched his lips part slowly. His brow furrowed with effort. At last, his eyes opened.
He jerked as though trying to sit up.
Immediately Sansa placed both hands against his shoulders.
"No, lie down!" she exclaimed. "It's over. You're safe. You're here. You're in Winterfell. You came back. Lie down. Rest. Please."
Sandor stared at her for a long moment as though he had not yet realized who she was.
As though he still believed himself somewhere in King's Landing.
At length, he obeyed and sank back against the pillows.
His gaze never left hers.
Sansa smiled, relieved and nervous all at once.
"I... oh, I hoped so much that you would wake up."
"Little bird..." he muttered, closing his eyes briefly. "I'm thirsty."
She quickly poured him some water and helped him drink.
After only a small sip, he pulled away.
"No wine?"
Sansa laughed softly and shook her head.
"You've had a fever, and many of your wounds are still healing. You need water. Wine can wait a few days."
"Fuck."
The curse slipped through his teeth.
"I can't remember the last time I drank water."
The remarkâand the familiar sarcasm behind itâfilled her with relief.
Her heart stumbled and then began racing when their eyes met and their fingers tightened around one another.
Slowly, her smile faded.
"I was afraid I'd never see your eyes again," she confessed. "Or your face. I thought... I thought that if you went there, I would lose you forever."
Sandor gave a crooked smile.
"Well, not seeing my face would've done you a favor, little bird. I'm not one of your handsome knights."
"I don't like knights."
The answer came without hesitation.
A faint smile touched his lips.
"And what will become of all those pretty songs you've been singing?" he asked. "You can't waste them on just anyone."
Sansa lowered her gaze.
"I don't even know what will become of me anymore," she admitted quietly.
"Why?"
"The law tells me to behave one way. My heart tells me another."
She looked up at him.
"It tells me..." A small smile appeared. "To find another nest."
His smile returned.
"And where would that be?"
"You."
The answer was barely a whisper.
Yet it struck harder than any shout.
For a moment, Sandor simply stared at her.
Then his smile vanished.
"Little bird... no."
The words came out rough.
"Don't say that."
He looked away.
"You'd throw away everything for me? Everything you have? Your title? The chance to marry some prince and fill a castle with royal brats?"
His voice grew harsher.
"How could I accept that? How am I supposed to live knowing you gave up everything because of me?"
He shook his head.
"I am nobody. And nobody is all I'll ever be. I'll never have lands. Never have titles."
His eyes met hers again.
"Oh, little bird... why?"
"But when you were leaving..."
She could not finish the sentence.
The realization hit her all at once.
He was rejecting her.
"I thought I was going to die and never see you again," Sandor said quietly. "So I said what my heart felt."
He paused.
"But things are different now."
Sansa's expression darkened.
"Sansa."
Her name sounded strange coming from him.
"I feel what you feel."
Her breath caught.
"But knowing what it would cost you..." He swallowed. "It makes me want to take a thousand steps back."
A bitter smile touched his lips.
"Watching you marry someone else will be unbearable."
He lowered his eyes.
"But it's the right thing."
"For whom?" she demanded.
"You know."
"No. I don't."
She leaned closer.
"It will hurt you. It will hurt me. Why choose pain whenâ"
Sandor sighed.
"You're still a sweet little bird. You sing, you fly..."
His gaze hardened.
"But you've forgotten what the world is really like."
He gestured toward her.
"You're a Stark. A Lady of Winterfell."
A bitter laugh escaped him.
"Remember how often you used to remind me of that?"
"I was wrong."
"No."
His answer came immediately.
"You were right."
He stared at her.
"You're privileged. You have a name. A title. A home."
His voice grew softer.
"Your brother won a great victory. That means your family will only become more powerful."
He shook his head.
"He'll marry you to a man who can strengthen alliances and preserve them through children."
His jaw tightened.
"I know what your future is. I've always known."
He looked away.
"I knew it the day I decided to take you with me."
A long silence followed.
"There's no escaping destiny."
Sansa stared at him in disbelief.
"Coming from the man who said we make our own destiny?" she challenged. "The man who never believed in gods, only in the strength of a sword?"
"I'm still that man."
His voice was low.
"But destiny is easier to forge when you're nobody."
A bitter laugh escaped him.
"Like me."
His eyes returned to hers.
"But you're somebody."
The words sounded almost painful.
"And no matter how much you wish otherwise, that won't change."
He shook his head.
"What would you do? Run away? Abandon everything and everyone just to stay with me?"
His expression twisted.
"That's madness, little bird."
"I would."
The answer was immediate.
Sandor closed his eyes.
"You'd regret it."
Then he turned his face away.
"Go."
The word came out harsh.
"I want to rest."
Slowly, he loosened his grip on her hand until at last he let it go completely.
Sansa felt hollow.
Humiliated.
This was not how she had imagined his awakening.
Reluctantly, she rose to her feet.
After one last glance at him, she left the room.
The door closed softly behind her.
Only then did Sandor turn his head toward the entrance.
Every word she had spoken had been honest.
Even a man like himâraised on violence and hardened by itâcould hear that.
Her sincerity had pierced him deeper than any blade.
It felt as though her words had buried themselves beneath his skin and were slowly consuming him from within.
He wanted to tell her yes.
Wanted to tell her they could leave Winterfell together.
That they could live one day at a time.
Eat when food could be found.
Drink when drink was available.
Ride Stranger across distant lands and never look back.
But he could not.
The very thought felt selfish.
Cruel.
The girl was confused.
If he offered her that life now, she would accept it.
Of course she would.
But one day the excitement would fade.
One day she would hate him for it.
She would remember the warmth of Winterfell, the comforts she had abandoned, and she would blame him.
Perhaps she would even come to despise him.
And then they would lose each other anyway.
Better now.
Better while they still cared.
A faint groan escaped him as he touched the wound along his left side.
The flesh there was swollen, dark, and burning hot beneath his fingertips.
He remembered exactly how he had gotten it.
"May the Seven Hells swallow you whole," he growled.
Sansa visited him every day after that, yet the more time passed, the more Sandor seemed irritated by her presence. Eventually, she convinced herself that what she felt was nothing more than a foolish dream. He did not love her. He did not want her by his side.
She grew quiet.
Sad.
Most days she spent reading until the sunlight faded, or sitting beneath the heart tree in Winterfell's godswood.
A moon passed.
Under Robb's watchful gaze, Sansa seemed to wither little by little, while her brother steadily recovered, regaining both his strength and his smile. Her mother noticed it as well, though she seemed unable to find a proper way to help her daughter.
"We have to do something."
One day Sansa overheard her mother speaking with Robb.
"What do you propose, Mother? Sansa isn't a little girl anymore."
"We could... marry her to Loras Tyrell. He's a fine young man, and the match would give us greater influence in the Reach against the Lannisters. I've heard they're doing everything they can to bring more houses back under their control. Sansa is essential to securing such an alliance."
"Mother, have you looked at Sansa lately?" Robb nearly snapped. "She's thin, pale, and she doesn't smile anymore. How can you think about alliances at a time like this?"
"I'm thinking about our family," Catelyn replied sharply. "Don't you understand? If we don't act first, the Lannisters will have our heads just as they had your father's."
Sansa squeezed her eyes shut as she listened.
Once again, she felt like an object being passed from one pair of hands to another.
Was this truly her destiny?
To marry Loras Tyrell?
Once, she had admired him. He had been brave in his own way.
Could she admire him again?
She had changed.
So many things about her had changed.
Once, she had cared deeply about her appearanceâher hair, her jewels, her dresses, her manners, the careful choice of words expected from a noble lady.
Now she barely looked at her reflection.
She ate only enough to keep from fainting.
She saw almost no one.
Most days she wandered alone through the godswood or lingered near the corridor outside her chambers.
Her heart hurt.
Every day, it seemed to ache a little more.
Like a ghost, she wandered through the grounds surrounding the castle. Her deep crimson gown carved long trails through the snow, the rich red fabric against the white landscape looking disturbingly like blood.
Again and again she found herself beneath the heart tree.
Again and again she closed her eyes.
Her future had already been decided before she had ever been allowed to live it.
The thought crushed her.
A weight settled on her chest so heavy that for a moment she could scarcely breathe.
When she opened her eyes again, Sandor was standing in front of her.
"You looked dead, for fuck's sake," he growled as he lowered himself beside her. The movement drew a pained grimace from him.
Sansa merely looked at him before lowering her gaze once more, allowing the whispering wind to fill the silence between them.
Sandor studied her carefully.
She was different.
Her beautiful red hair seemed duller somehow.
Her eyes were sad.
Her face hollowed by grief.
"Trying to steal my job?" he asked.
"What?"
"Are you sick?"
"No. Why would you ask that?"
"Because you're gloomy. Quiet. Miserable." He frowned. "What's wrong?"
She shot him a cold look.
"Why do you care?"
His answer came surprisingly gently.
"Because I'm sorry you're hurting."
A faint smile touched her lips.
"My mother wants to marry me to Loras Tyrell."
Sandor looked at her and smiled slightly.
"Wasn't that your dream once? I remember hearing all about the Knight of Flowers in King's Landing. The Knight of Flowers this. The Knight of Flowers that. You never shut up about him."
His smile widened.
"And suddenly you don't like him anymore?"
"As I told you before, I've changed."
She lowered her eyes.
"Many things I once loved seem pointless now."
"Such as?"
"Sewing." She shrugged. "Dressing up. Looking perfect. Looking beautiful."
A bitter laugh escaped her.
"I know I'm not."
Sandor placed a hand over hers.
The boldness of the gesture made her look up.
"You're beautiful."
His voice was firm.
"Only a fool would say otherwise."
A strange look crossed his face.
"Your knight will lose his mind when he sees you again."
Yet the thought of her smiling at that boy, speaking softly to him, allowing him to touch her, made Sandor's blood boil.
"I don't want to know him."
Her answer came immediately.
"Once I would've given anything to meet him. To spend time with him."
She looked directly into his eyes.
"But not anymore."
Her voice softened.
"You're the only person in my heart."
She lowered her gaze almost at once.
"I'm sorry. I know how you feel about all this, but I had to tell you. If I didn't, I think I would've gone mad."
She swallowed.
"I'll meet the man my mother chooses for me. I'll accept my destiny."
A painful smile appeared.
"The destiny of a Northern princess."
She stared at the snow.
"I'll stand beside him if that's what I'm expected to do."
Then she looked at Sandor again.
"But I will never love someone simply because I'm supposed to."
His eyes darkened with sorrow.
Gods, how he wanted to silence her with a kiss.
He would've given anything.
But the game was already lost.
"Will you walk me back inside?" she asked quietly.
Their eyes locked.
A conversation of pure pain passed between them.
At last, Sandor offered his arm.
Together they walked back toward the Great Hall, where everyone would soon gather for the midday meal.
The feast that day was particularly lavish.
There were soups, fritters, fresh bread, and strange sweet fruits brought from across the Narrow Sea.
The abundance and cheerfulness around them stood in sharp contrast to Sansa's moodâand to Sandor's, as he sat in a corner drinking with a group of overly cheerful soldiers.
"Quiet, please!"
Robb's voice echoed through the hall.
At once, silence fell.
Every eye turned toward the King in the North.
"We have won many victories," he declared. "Our enemies have fallen, but others remain. You all know who I mean."
Murmurs spread through the hall.
"To secure our future, we must forge a strong and lasting alliance. One that grants us influence in the Reach and allows us to keep a watchful eye on King's Landing."
He smiled.
"That is why I have been advised to strengthen such an alliance through marriage."
His gaze settled on Sansa.
"And what better match than my beloved sister Sansa and the heir to Highgarden, Loras Tyrell?"
Many of the men pounded their cups against the tables in approval.
The noise rang through the hall.
"Loras Tyrell arrives tomorrow," Robb continued.
His eyes softened.
"So, Sansa... make sure you look magnificent."
Sansa's expression tightened.
She lowered her gaze.
"You should say something," Catelyn urged, placing a hand atop her daughter's.
Sansa closed her eyes.
"If this is your wish, Robb," she said quietly, "then I will accept it."
More applause followed.
Then Robb raised a hand.
"One more announcement."
The hall fell silent again.
"Sandor Clegane. Step forward."
Sandor rose and approached the high table.
"You fought bravely through these past moons," Robb said. "My family and I owe you more than I can ever repay. You brought Sansa home. You helped return my mother and my wife safely to Winterfell. And you helped bring me home as well."
He stood.
"Therefore, I name you Sansa Stark's sworn protector and Knight of Winterfell."
Sandor bowed his head.
"Thank you, my lord. I am honored."
When he straightened, his gaze found Sansa's.
The look in her eyes made something twist painfully in his chest.
After the feast ended, Sandor escorted her back to her chambers.
"If you need anything, Princess," he said, stopping outside her door, "I'll be right outside."
Sansa looked at him carefully.
"I wish my brother had made you a knight and then offered you a reward."
Sandor frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"If he had," she continued, "what would you have asked for?"
The answer came to him instantly.
Her.
He would've asked for her.
Asked for the right to take her away from Winterfell and allow her to choose her own future.
But saying those words would only give her false hope.
Reality was far crueler than dreams.
"I would've asked for freedom."
His voice was quiet.
"The freedom to leave."
He glanced around the castle.
"I'd give anything to get away from this place."
Something changed in Sansa's expression.
She lowered her eyes.
When she finally spoke, her voice trembled.
"I hope your prayer is answered one day."
She forced a small smile.
"I'll see you later."
Then she slipped into her room and closed the door behind her, disappearing from sight.
The following day, Loras Tyrell arrived in the company of his grandmother Olenna, a woman as small as she was sharp, kind, and commanding.
Loras Tyrell was just as Sansa remembered him: slender and very handsome, with a thick cascade of chestnut curls and golden eyes, bright and intelligent.
Together with her mother and brother, Sansa welcomed their guests and the army that had escorted them all the way there. The young man's grandmother immediately declared herself in favor of their union, though more than once, when her gaze crossed Sansa's, the girl had the impression that the old woman had understoodâor at least sensedâthat something deep within the Stark girl was stirring, troubling her peace.
The two young people were soon left alone to walk through the grounds, while old Lady Olenna asked to enjoy some red wine to recover from the long and tedious journey.
"You are beautiful, Sansa," Loras told her, smiling faintly as he walked beside her. He offered her his arm so they might walk together, close to one another.
Sandor followed them at some distance, as the young woman's sworn protector.
"Thank you, ser," the girl said.
"You are taller than the last time I saw you in King's Landing," the knight observed.
"Yes. Time changes people."
"Indeed." He looked at her. "Though you have only changed in height. You are still so elegant, sweet, and kind."
"Well, not exactly," she contradicted him. "Forgive my insolence, but time has made me more outspoken. Before, I was terribly shallow. I thought about hairstyles, embroidery, how I ought to behave. Then came the flight from King's Landing, you know... and I never knew whether I would be alive or dead the next day."
"Your mother mentioned something of it in the letter addressed to my grandmother," Loras said.
"You read your grandmother's correspondence?" Sansa asked, puzzled.
He looked her in the eye. "No, I mean... not exactly. She told me about this matter, about the arranged marriage, but I wanted to know whom I was supposed to... marry, and so I read it."
The young woman nodded, though her expression became slightly displeased.
"I did not mean to offend you," he went on. "I was only curious."
"It doesn't matter. What do you like doing in your free time, Loras?" she asked.
"Aside from using a sword? Well, reading books about the ancient houses. It is useful to know the past. It teaches you a great deal."
"Yes, I imagine so," she said, turning toward Sandor.
For just an instant, their eyes met, before he assumed an authoritative, detached expression. Sansa looked back at the knight beside her.
"I like adorning my cloak and armor with flowers," Loras said. "That is why they call me the Knight of Flowers."
She smiled. "Yes, I know."
She looked away, then turned once more toward Sandor, who was walking twenty paces behind them.
Loras turned too.
"Does he make you uncomfortable?"
"Who? Sandor? No! It is thanks to him that I have all this and... that I was able to see you again," she finished, smiling awkwardly and adding those words only so she would not appear completely rude.
"Oh, I only ask because you seem a little nervous. And distracted."
"No."
"Yes. You keep looking elsewhere. Or behind us. Am I the one making you uncomfortable?" he asked.
Sansa bit her lower lip lightly.
"I'm sorry. It is not your fault. It is just..."
"You do not want to marry," he finished for her.
Sansa did not dare tell him what she truly thought of it. She was not certain he would understand.
She lowered her head, completely ill at ease.
"You are so kind, gallant, but..." She did not know how to finish the sentence.
"You are not ready to marry," he concluded, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.
Sansa lowered her gaze, guilt written across her face, but he spoke again.
"Neither am I. But if I must make a sacrifice for my family, then I will."
She swallowed.
"I will always respect you, Sansa. I will never hurry you for... you know, children or anything else. I would treat you well. And I know you would do the same with me. It would be a marriage based on mutual respect."
Sansa looked at him.
"Would that be enough for you?"
Sansa looked back at Sandor.
She looked at him for a long, intense moment. The man looked back, and their gazes locked together.
It was Loras who interrupted that silent exchange.
"Sansa, I understand. It shows. But you cannot. You and he can never be together. Yes, your brother has made him a knight, but... your union with him is something your brother must decide. It is for the head of the family to decide. And I know something about that."
"And you are all right with it?" she asked, looking him straight in the eye.
He rocked slightly on his feet.
"I do not have much choice. If you chose to marry me, know that, well... I am embarrassed to say it, but... um, you could choose to... be with him. I... what I mean is that... you could have relations with whomever you wished, not necessarily with me."
Sansa frowned.
"But what kind of marriage would that be, if it were not consummated? I thought marriage was that too, along with respect and love for one's husband."
"Y-yes, it is. In theory. In practice, everyone does as they please. Do you know how many bastard children there are on this continent and the other?" he exclaimed.
"But I do not want to give birth to bastard children. I know what that means, and I do not like it. If I must marry only to give birth to illegitimate heirs, then no. I do not want to marry you. Forgive me, Loras."
Having spoken those words, Sansa turned and began to walk away in great haste, but Loras's words froze her.
"I know, Sansa. But you cannot avoid it. Neither you nor I can do anything about it."
Sansa stopped for a few moments, her eyes wide.
Then she took her leave entirely, fleeing as quickly as she could, followed by Sandor.
Sansa did not appear at dinner that evening. She sent Sandor to her brother and his guests to apologize for her absence.
Robb looked at the knight for a long moment, then at Loras, before continuing his conversation with Lady Olenna about the North's defensive strategies.
Sansa remained in her chambers all evening and all night. Her heart ached, and her head throbbed relentlessly. What would she not have given in that moment to be free, to be anyone other than Sansa Stark?
The following day, it was Lady Olenna who requested to speak with the young woman.
Reluctantly, Sansa put on her finest gown. Her hair was brushed and carefully arranged. She looked beautiful, but something was wrong. Sansa herself could see it when she looked in the mirror, and Lady Olenna would certainly not fail to notice it.
When her lady's maid finished, she opened the door to let her leave.
Just outside stood Sandor.
He took a step toward her and looked at her.
Perhaps others would have missed that look, but not Sansa. She saw him studying her from head to toe.
"Princess," he greeted with the slightest nod.
"No," she said, shaking her head.
But he was already looking elsewhere.
Sansa lowered her gaze and sighed sadly before making her way down the castle corridor.
The two arrived in the Great Hall, where Catelyn Stark and the elderly woman were waiting.
Lady Olenna smiled at the sight of her.
Without the Tyrell woman noticing, Catelyn motioned for her daughter to curtsy, as though Sansa were still a child in need of instruction.
Sansa offered a small curtsy.
"My lady, please forgive my absence last evening."
"Oh, my dear child, stand up!" Olenna exclaimed, rising to her feet and smiling warmly. "Your knight here informed us that you were feeling unwell. I sincerely hope you are feeling better tonight."
Sansa smiled faintly before lowering her eyes for a moment and meeting her mother's gaze. Catelyn's expression was both pleased and stern.
"I hope so."
"Good! Now show me your lovely gardens. I hear there is a heart tree here, is there not?"
"Yes, my lady. This way, please."
As she turned, she added coldly:
"Mother."
Then she walked away.
The two women strolled slowly through Winterfell's gardens, wrapped in an unusually cold mist.
At a distance, Sandor followed them.
Not because he cared particularly about what the old woman had to say, but because he wanted to hear what Sansa would answer.
Lady Olenna was no lamb.
Her blunt and piercing way of speaking could easily upset Sansa.
And if that happened, he wanted to be there.
Though how exactly he could be there, he did not know.
"Your brother told me about everything you've endured," Lady Olenna began as they walked. "What a tragedy."
She sighed.
"It must have been dreadful living beside that little monster. I cannot imagine what it would have been like to become his wife."
"I believed marriage would change him," Sansa admitted quietly. "I saw only his better qualities, though... I still do not know how I managed to see any."
"Love makes fools of us all," Lady Olenna said. "And it makes us blind."
She glanced at Sansa.
"You were a child raised among comforts. You knew nothing of real life or its cruelty. The songs and stories cloud the mind until reality becomes impossible to see."
"My mother told you I loved songs."
"She did."
Sansa glanced behind her once more.
Sandor was watching.
"As I was saying," Lady Olenna continued, "love often prevents us from seeing what stands right in front of us."
Again Sansa lowered her head.
Again she looked back.
Again she found Sandor watching her.
Reluctantly, she returned her attention to the older woman.
"There are some things no one should ever have to endure," Lady Olenna went on. "Your journey back to Winterfell must have been terrible. A girl of your birth living in the wilderness is terrible enough, but then the rape by Bolton's bastard..."
Sansa felt her stomach tighten painfully.
The older woman continued without mercy.
"Another woman in your position would already have taken her own life."
Her voice remained brutally matter-of-fact.
"And perhaps I would have done the same. Had I been beside you, I might even have advised it. Better death than becoming flesh without will in the hands of some man."
Sansa's jaw tightened.
"I am a Lady of Winterfell. I do not break so easily."
"I know."
Lady Olenna nodded.
"And that is both a blessing and a curse."
"And why is that?"
"Because you will never be able to live beside just anyone."
The old woman studied her carefully.
"I know a thing or two about that. You are the sort of person who can either live alone... or beside someone decidedly not of noble birth."
"My lady, you offend me."
"Do I?"
Lady Olenna arched a brow.
"Because I speak the truth? Because I see what others try to hide? Because I am not afraid of the judgment of a young girl who has fallen in love with the soldier who brought her home?"
The words struck Sansa like a slap across the face.
Her breath caught.
"Listen to me, girl."
Lady Olenna's voice softened, though only slightly.
"Love is something neither you nor I are allowed to keep."
Silence settled between them.
"You may feel it, certainly."
Another pause.
"But live it?"
She shook her head.
"Never."
Sansa felt tears burning in her eyes.
"The strategist in me understands your brother's decision. I support the marriage."
Then Lady Olenna sighed.
"But the grandmother in me?"
She slowly shook her head.
"No."
Sansa took two steps backward.
"My lady, if you will excuse me, I believe I should return to my chambers. I am not feeling very well."
Without waiting for a reply, she hurried away.
Tears blurred her vision.
She rushed past Sandor.
He looked first at Lady Olenna, giving her the slightest nod, then immediately followed after Sansa.
The tears streamed freely down her face.
At last she stopped in the middle of the deserted garden, hidden by the mist.
There she finally allowed herself to sob.
A hand suddenly grabbed her and turned her around.
Her crying stopped for an instant.
Then she saw him.
Sandor.
And immediately she began crying again, throwing herself against him.
"I'm scared," she whispered.
The admission seemed to cost her everything.
"I want... to be free."
Sandor wrapped his arms around her.
Only after making certain they were truly alone.
He said nothing.
What could he possibly say?
That he wished he had never brought her back here?
That he wished he had asked for her years ago?
Instead, he simply held her tighter.
His hand slid into her long red hair.
Then he looked into her pale eyes, made even brighter by tears.
And in that moment Sandor forgot everything.
Who she was.
Who he was.
Where they were.
The guards.
Lady Olenna.
Everything.
He kissed her.
A kiss in which they lost themselves and found themselves all at once.
A kiss that made them forget who they were.
A kiss that erased the world around them.
A kiss Sansa wished she could remain inside forever.
But forever was not something people like them were allowed.
At last Sandor pulled away, forcing himself to do so.
"Princess," he said, trying desperately to reclaim the distance between them. "I'll escort you back to your chambers."
But his voice betrayed him.
And the look in Sansa's eyes made him feel suddenly inadequate.
He never wanted to call her that.
He wanted to call her little bird.
But he was no longer allowed to.
Sansa did not appear at dinner that evening either. She sent Sandor to her brother and his guests to apologize for her absence.
She had no intention of seeing Lady Olenna or her grandson again.
Sandor returned to her quickly. He knocked on her door, and Sansa opened it.
"Did you tell them?"
He nodded.
"I'll leave you alone. You must be tired."
"No, wait," she stopped him. "I'd like to go riding."
"Riding, Princess?" he asked.
"Please, don't call me that too. When you called me little bird, it made me feel small, yes, but also light and free. And that's how I want to feel tonight. Please. Do it for me."
Sandor relented.
Silently, they slipped through a secret passage and made their way to the stables.
From there, they climbed onto Stranger's back, and with a press of his spurs, Sandor sent the horse galloping into the night.
The air was wonderfully fresh.
A gentle breeze played with their hair.
For the first time in what felt like forever, Sansa felt alive again.
Strong.
Free.
She stretched her arms out at her sides, brushing her fingertips against the grass rushing past them.
For a moment, she thought she could actually feel the wind resting in her palms.
She smiled.
And Sandor saw it.
"It's the first time I've seen you smile in days."
She turned toward him.
"I feel like I can breathe again."
She fell silent for a moment.
"This might sound foolish. Maybe even childish. But I have to tell you."
Sandor slowed Stranger's pace.
"I feel like I can only breathe when I'm with you."
She looked at him.
The scarred half of his face was bathed in pale moonlight, while the other remained hidden in darkness.
"Do you know what I was thinking when I fell?" Sandor asked quietly. "When I thought my life was ending?"
She shook her head.
"I thought about you. About everything we'd been through. About the things we'd said to each other."
His gaze softened.
"I thought that at least I'd done one good thing in my life. That I'd managed to bring something precious back where it belonged."
A faint smile touched his lips.
"I thought I'd taught a little bird how to fly on her own."
Then the smile faded.
"But seeing you like this these past days..."
He looked away briefly.
"It hurt."
Sansa listened in silence.
"Do you know why?"
His eyes met hers again.
"Because I know this misery is my fault. I never wanted you to suffer. I couldn't protect you from Bolton. I never wanted you to hurt, and yet I became the reason for it."
His voice lowered.
"I love you."
The words seemed to surprise even him.
"I've wanted you for... perhaps forever. But more than anything, I want you to be happy."
"That will only happen if I stay with you."
The answer caught him completely off guard.
Sandor closed his eyes for a moment and drew a deep breath.
Sansa wanted to tell him she would never marry Loras Tyrell.
That the very thought of marrying a man who had already admitted he would never truly love her felt even more suffocating than marriage itself.
But she said none of that.
Instead, she stared ahead at the river winding through the darkness.
"You'll stay with me," Sandor said.
"I'll always be your sworn shield. I don't think that flower-covered knight you're going to marry will object, if you want me there."
"You think he is...?" Sansa asked.
"I don't know. Truth be told, I don't give a damn what he likes. But a man who wears that many flowers..."
He left the sentence unfinished.
Sansa laughed softly.
"Maybe he's just trying to hide his smell. Perhaps he stinks."
The image made her smile.
And to her delight, it made Sandor smile too.
"You'll smell nice too, little bird."
His voice grew gentler.
"Like wildflowers. Or roses."
He looked at her.
"You'll be beautiful that day. Everyone will envy you."
A pause.
"And they'll envy him most of all."
Sansa lowered her eyes.
His hands found hers.
Warm.
Steady.
Comforting.
"I'll always be there for you," he promised. "I'll make sure no one ever hurts you again. I'll make sure you're happy. That you sleep peacefully."
"Peacefully," she repeated softly.
She stared ahead into the darkness.
"I never imagined my life would turn out this way."
A sad smile touched her lips.
"When I was Joffrey's prisoner, I would have married anyone who wasn't him."
She turned toward Sandor.
"But things are different now."
Her voice trembled.
"I know who you are."
A pause.
"And I like what I see."
Sandor snorted quietly.
"Let's not get carried away. I'll always be a monster with half a face burned away."
This time it was Sansa who tightened her grip on his hands.
"I'm not exaggerating."
She held his gaze.
"I'm telling the truth."
A beat passed.
"You of all people should know when someone is telling the truth."
Sandor sighed and glanced toward the moon.
"Sandor."
He looked back at her.
"You think you're a monster, but you're not."
Her voice was gentle.
"You looked past the spoiled little girl I used to be and saw something more."
She smiled.
"And I did the same."
Her fingers brushed the scarred side of his face.
"I saw more than your scars."
More than your face.
"What defines us isn't what we look like."
She swallowed.
"It's what we do. Remember?"
Slowly, Sandor lifted a hand to her cheek.
He whispered her name.
Then he leaned forward and kissed her.
Softly.
Tenderly.
Sansa kissed him back with equal parts innocence and longing.
Her hand rested against the burned side of his face.
He flinched at first.
Then he melted into the touch.
Into her.
Into the kiss.
When they finally returned to Winterfell, they slipped back through the same secret passage they'd used to leave.
Sandor escorted her all the way to her door.
"Well..." he muttered awkwardly. "Goodnight. That's what people say, right?"
Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader (no use of Y/N)Summary: This story sets 15 yrs before The Mandalorian events, Din Djarin is hired by Rebel Alliance forces to protect and escort you, the princess of a dead planet, to your new home.Series warnings: use of you, violence, science fantasy elements, slow burn, angst, fluff, mutual pining, eventual smut (18+ MDNI), trauma.
A/N I swear this chapter fought me every step of the way. It took me weeks to finish, rewrite, and finally post it, but I'm really happy with how it turned out in the end. Thank you for being patient and still being here. â€ïž
Masterlist
Thanks @idontgetanysleep and @saradika-graphics the dividers. Thanks @vase-of-lilies for the banner. Taglist: @thegreenkid2, @harriedandharassed, @mandosgirl2099 if someone else wants to be added let me know.
The Razor Crest drops out of hyperspace with a slight vibration that ripples through the entire ship. For a brief moment, the blue streaks beyond the viewport distort, then suddenly shatter, giving way to the darkness of real space.
You slowly lift your gaze from the metal cup clasped between your hands.
You didn't sleep much.
Maybe an hour.
Maybe less.
Enough, though, to leave that heavy exhaustion clinging to youâthe kind you can feel behind your eyes and deep in your arms.
The cabin of the Razor Crest is bathed in dim light. Ahead of you stretches a copper-colored planet, crossed by enormous bands of gray clouds. Even from orbit, you can already make out vast industrial districts, scattered lights, and long metallic structures crawling across the surface like open wounds.
âWhere are we?â you ask quietly.
Din doesn't answer immediately. His hands move over the controls with practiced precision as he slowly adjusts the ship's trajectory.
âKhelar.â His voice comes through the helmet's modulator, low and controlled as always. âAn old mining world.â
You give a small nod.
The silence settles back over the cockpit almost immediately.
And that's what hurts.
Not his tone.
Not his words.
The distance.
Again.
You can feel it in everything since you left the moon. In the way he avoids any conversation that isn't necessary. In the way he speaks to you with that calm, professional detachment you've come to know far too well.
As though he's trying to put things back in order between the two of you.
As though the previous night had never happened.
You slowly lower your gaze to the cup still warm between your hands.
Maybe you really did cross a line. Maybe you shouldn't have talked about the helmet. Maybe you shouldn't have said those things to him.
The thought has been tormenting you for hours.
The Razor Crest begins its descent into Khelarâs atmosphere. Gray clouds engulf the viewport for several seconds, turning the outside world into a shifting, opaque haze.
Din keeps piloting without turning toward you. âWe wonât stay here long,â he says. âWeâll take on supplies and leave.â
âAll right.â The reply comes out weaker than you would have liked.
He gives a small nod.
Nothing else.
You tighten your fingers unconsciously around the warm metal cup.
Eventually, you can't bear it anymore.
âDin.â
The Mandalorian doesn't turn around, but you can feel his attention shift toward you all the same.
âYes.â
You hesitate for a moment.
For the first time since you've known him, you genuinely don't know how to begin a conversation with him.
âAbout last nightâŠâ
The words catch in your throat.
Din remains motionless at the controls.
âI didn't mean to hurt you,â you finish quietly.
The silence that follows lasts long enough to make you immediately regret speaking.
Then he says only, âYou didn't.â
But the way he says it is too quick. Too controlled.
And you know immediately it isn't entirely true.
You lower your gaze slowly.
âI didn't mean to disrespect you,â you continue. âI didn't want toâŠâ You swallow hard. ââŠtake something away from you.â
The Razor Crest passes through a thicker layer of clouds, and for a moment the entire cabin vibrates softly.
Din remains silent.
You draw in a slow breath before finding the courage to continue. âItâs just that sometimes... I wish I could really look at you.â
This time, the helmet lifts slowly in your direction.
Your heart quickens for no reason at all.
âI already look at you,â he says.
The words hit you with absurd force precisely because they come from him.
For a moment, you can't even find a response.
Then you shake your head slightly. âThatâs not what I mean.â Your voice drops almost to a whisper. âI want to see the person behind all this.â Your hand lifts slightly toward the helmet, stopping just short of touching it. âBecause when Iâm with you...â Your voice trembles faintly. â...I donât feel like a burden.â
Din doesn't move.
Beyond the viewport, the immense industrial platforms of Khelar begin to emerge through the clouds.
âI feel alive,â you finish softly.
The silence that follows feels almost unreal.
All you can hear is the low hum of the Razor Crest's engines and the frantic beating of your own heart in your chest.
Din remains completely still.
Then, slowly, he turns back toward the ship's controls.
For a moment, you have the awful feeling that your words have simply slid off him without leaving a mark.
Then, in a voice lower than usualâtired in a way you've rarely heard beforeâhe adds,
âYou don't know what you're asking of me.â
And for the first time, it doesn't truly sound like a refusal.
Your breath catches for a moment.
Because suddenly you can feel that there is something more behind those words.
Something Din is holding back with all his strength.
But before you can say anything else, the Mandalorian turns his attention back to the ship's controls.
The Razor Crest shudders lightly as it passes through the final layers of the atmosphere.
You barely have time to glimpse the massive metal platforms appearing beyond the viewport, suspended above impossibly deep canyons, enormous pipelines crossing the landscape like dark veins, and industrial towers flashing with intermittent orange lights.
Khelar doesn't look like a world people live on.
It looks like a colossal machine still running.
"We're landing," Din says, and his voice has returned to what it always is.
Controlled.
Professional.
The distance between you returns so quickly that it leaves you almost disoriented.
You lower your gaze slowly to your hands, clasped tightly in your lap.
Of course.
Obviously.
Had you really expected anything different?
The Razor Crest gradually slows as a landing platform emerges through the planet's gray haze.
Around you, dozens of cargo ships move through a slow, constant stream of traffic, illuminated by the dirty glow of nearby refineries.
The landing is rough enough to make you sway slightly in your seat.
Din powers down part of the ship's systems without another word.
Then he stands.
For a moment, his figure fills the entire cabin, beskar catching the intermittent lights filtering in from outside.
âStay close to me,â he says.
The words are simple.
Practical.
And yet your heart reacts anyway.
Din crosses to the small side compartment where he keeps part of his gear and quickly checks the weapons at his belt.
Every movement is precise. Automatic.
As though the conversation from a few moments ago had never happened.
You watch him in silence.
And maybe that's what hurts the most.
The fact that he can close himself off again so quickly.
âWe'll stay only long enough to take on supplies,â he continues as he secures the rifle across his back. âDon't wander off. This place isn't safe.â
âYou have a very particular definition of safe,â you mutter before you can stop yourself.
For a moment, the helmet turns slightly toward you.
Almost imperceptibly.
And for a second, you could swear you hear something close to a sigh pass through the vocoder.
âPrincess...â The way he says the nickname this time is different. Lower. More tired.
But immediately afterward, he turns back toward the Razor Crest's ramp, as though he has already decided to end that conversation before it can become something more.
The ramp of the Razor Crest lowers slowly with a long metallic hiss, and almost immediately the air of Khelar floods the interior of the ship.
It's different from the air on the moon. Heavier. Dirtier. Saturated with the acrid smell of fuel and overheated metal.
When you inhale, you can almost feel industrial dust scraping the back of your throat.
Beyond the ramp stretches an enormous platform suspended above impossibly deep canyons, surrounded by colossal metal structures illuminated by intermittent orange lights.
Columns of steam rise slowly into the planet's gray sky, while massive pipelines cut across the landscape like dark veins.
Khelar doesn't look like a world built to be lived on. It looks like a colossal machine that never stopped runningâeven after being drained of almost all life.
Din steps off the ship first, the dark silhouette of his armor cutting through the smoke and industrial lights of the port.
You follow a few seconds later, instinctively hunching your shoulders as a cold gust of wind sweeps across the platform.
Everywhere around you, people move with the same weary, wary look in their eyes. Workers covered in soot. Pilots hauling battered cargo cases. Merchants arguing over crates and fuel canisters. Hooded figures who emerge briefly from the fog only to disappear into it again moments later.
No one seems to truly look at anyone else.
And somehow, that's what unsettles you the most.
Din slows his pace slightly to make sure you're still keeping up. âDon't talk to anyone,â he says without looking back. âAnd stay close to me.â
âI'm starting to think you say that out of habit,â you mutter.
The helmet tilts slightly in your direction. âI'm not joking.â
The low edge in his voice is enough to make you lower your gaze immediately.
âOkay.â
From the back of the Razor Crest, NK-841 emits a short sequence of questioning beeps.
You glance over your shoulder toward the droid. âIs NK coming with us?â you ask.
The droid immediately lifts its head, as though it had been waiting for exactly that question.
Din pauses for a moment. âNo.â
NK lets out a distinctly offended electronic sound.
For a brief instant, the weight of the tension between you cracks ever so slightly.
You tilt your head toward the droid. âI think you just hurt his feelings.â
âHe'll recover,â Din replies calmly.
NK protests again with a faster series of metallic chirps.
This time, you're almost certain you hear something resembling a sigh pass through the helmet's vocoder.
âSomeone has to stay and watch the ship,â the Mandalorian finally adds. âAnd he's more useful here.â
The droid emits one last beepâlong, unconvincedâbefore slowly retreating back into the Razor Crest.
A small smile brushes your lips before you can stop it.
It's the first time since you left the moon that the weight in your chest feels even slightly lighter.
You move away from the ship, crossing the industrial platform amid the constant roar of machinery.
Somewhere far below, enormous drills bore into the planet's crust with a deep, steady rhythm that seems to vibrate through the very metal beneath your feet.
Ahead of you, Din's helmet continues to shift subtly as he walks.
He's watching everything. The people. The exits. The rooftops of the industrial structures.
The shadows moving between stacks of cargo containers.
You, meanwhile, still carry the weight of the conversation you had aboard the ship.
You can't stop thinking about the way he had said those words.
You don't know what you're asking of me.
You lower your gaze for a few seconds before finally finding the courage to speak.
âDin.â
He doesn't slow down. âYes?â
You hesitate. âAre you angry with me?â The question comes out more fragile than you intended.
The Mandalorian remains silent for several seconds as you continue walking through the steam rising from the pipelines and the orange glow of the refineries.
âNo,â he says at last.
But it isn't enough.
You know it immediately.
Because what you feel between you isn't anger.
It's something far more complicated.
Slowly, you tighten your fingers around the sleeves of your tunic.
âThen why do you keep pulling away?â you ask, unable to hold it back any longer.
Din stops so abruptly that you nearly walk straight into him.
For a moment, all the noise of Khelar seems to fade around you.
The Mandalorian turns slowly toward you, and the planet's industrial lights slide across the surface of the beskar.
When he speaks, his voice is lower than usual. âBecause you keep getting closer.â
And the way he says it steals the breath from your lungs.
You watch Din from a few meters away as he negotiates with the traders of Khelar's port.
The orange glow from the refineries flickers across the surface of the beskar as he speaks with one of the men behind the metal counter cluttered with crates and fuel canisters. From where you stand, the constant noise of machinery and the endless flow of people crossing the platform swallow most of the conversation, but fragments of his voice still reach you. Low. Rough. Controlled.
And somehow, that alone is enough.
The sound of his voice is enough to make people lower theirs.
The way he slightly tilts his helmet. The way he stands perfectly still when someone speaks. The quiet certainty that radiates from him. No one argues for very long.
Even the men beehind the counter âpeople who have likely spent their entire lives surviving in a place like Khelarâ seem to become more careful around him.
It's not fear.
Not exactly.
It's something more complicated.
Respect.
Caution.
Instinct.
Din never raises his voice.
He never has to.
You continue watching as he inspects the contents of an open crate. Every movement is precise and assured, performed without hesitation, as though places like this were as familiar to him as home.
And perhaps that's what strikes you most.
You still feel out of place almost everywhere you go.
Din, on the other hand, seems as though he belongs in every dangerous corner of the galaxy.
A merchant says something you can't quite hear. For a moment the man's tone grows sharper, almost impatient. Then Din straightens slightly. Nothing more. No threat. No warning. Yet the confidence immediately drains from the merchant's voice.
The helmet inclines a few degrees.
Din says something quietly. You don't hear the words.
A few seconds later, the merchant nods and immediately looks back down at the cargo.
You realize too late that you're smiling. Only a little, but enough.
Because despite everything that happened aboard the Razor Crest⊠Despite the distance that still exists between you, the distance that sometimes hurts more than you want to admit⊠Watching him like this still makes you feel safe.
And perhaps that's exactly the problem.
Because it's not gratitude anymore.
It's not even trust.
It's something far more dangerous.
Your fingers tighten unconsciously around the fabric of your sleeve as you continue watching him from across the platform.
Then, almost suddenly, the helmet turns in your direction.
Even from that distance, you immediately feel the weight of his attention settle on you.
As if he had sensed your gaze on him the entire time.
Your heart quickens for no reason. Or perhaps you know the reason far too well.
Din moves through the crowds of Khelar's port with that calm confidence you would recognize anywhere by nowâeven among hundreds of strangers. Your eyes follow him almost automatically as he crosses the industrial platform toward you, a small supply bag clipped to his belt and the rifle secured across his back.
Around him, the chaos of the port never stops. Steam rises from the pipelines. Engines roar somewhere in the distance. Merchants shout prices and coordinates over the metallic thunder of the drills.
And yet, despite all that noise, your eyes find him immediately.
Always.
As though the rest of the world has slowly become background whenever he's near.
You realize too late that you're still gripping the fabric of your tunic between your fingers.
Because the problem is that you're no longer watching the Mandalorian who saved your life.
You're looking for him.
The way he walks. The way he tilts his helmet ever so slightly when he's listening to someone speak. The low timbre of his voice. Even that constant, silent presence that somehow manages to make you feel safe in a place like Khelar.
And it is precisely that sudden realization that makes you lower your gaze the moment he comes close enough to stop in front of you.
âWe need to go,â he says simply.
His voice reaches you through the vocoder with that low, rough tone you've begun to recognize far too easily, even when you try not to.
You nod slightly.
But before you can answer, you feel his attention shift somewhere beyond your shoulder.
The change is minimal.
Almost imperceptible.
And yet you notice it immediately.
Din's body stiffens slightly beneath the armor.
"Don't turn around," he says quietly.
Your heart immediately starts racing in your chest.
"What's happening?" you ask, unable to completely hide the tension in your voice.
For a moment, the Mandalorian doesn't answer.
His helmet remains fixed beyond you, toward somethingâor someoneâin the crowd of the port.
Then his hand settles slowly at the center of your back.
The contact runs through you like a sudden jolt.
Steady.
Warm, even through the fabric of your tunic.
"Keep walking," he murmurs.
And the way he says it is enough to make you understand that this is no longer just a precaution.
You're tempted to turn around.
Instinct urges you to do it immediately, to find out what Din has seen in the noisy crowd of the port, what could have made him suddenly so tense.
But you don't.
Because by now you've learned one very simple thing about him:
when his voice takes on that tone, it means the danger is real.
And above all, you've learned that Din notices things that escape you completely.
So you keep walking beside him without looking back, even as you feel your heartbeat quickening in your chest.
His hand remains at the center of your back, steady and solid, guiding you through the chaotic flow of Khelar's port.
Around you, merchants, cargo droids, and figures wrapped in dust-worn cloaks continue to pass by, but the Mandalorian's presence at your side somehow manages to shut out everything else.
It's absurd how quickly your body has learned to trust him.
You don't even think about it anymore.
Not after Arkanon.
Not after Ellna.
Not after Lyridian.
Din tells you to walk.
And you walk.
Din tells you not to look.
And you don't look.
Because a part of you already knows that if he's worried, then you should be too.
"Din..." you murmur softly.
"Keep moving."
His voice comes through the helmet's modulator, low enough not to attract attention, but more rigid than it had been a few minutes ago.
You do exactly as he says.
You cross a metal walkway suspended above one of the lower sections of the port.
Beneath you, enormous pipelines run through Khelar like glowing veins, illuminated by orange and violet flares rising from the refineries below.
Only when you enter a less crowded area do you finally feel the pressure of his hand ease slightly from your back.
It doesn't disappear completely.
And that alone tells you how serious the situation is.
"Are they still there?" you ask quietly.
Din slows his pace slightly without stopping.
"Yes."
Your heart tightens.
"Who are they?"
For a moment, he doesn't answer.
The helmet tilts slightly, as if he's listening to the sounds behind you without actually needing to turn around.
"I don't know yet," he finally says. "But they've been following us since we got off the Razor Crest."
Your breath catches against the knot tightening in your throat as you continue walking beside him.
They're not following Din.
They're following you.
The thought cuts through your chest like ice.
Your fingers instinctively tighten against the fabric of your tunic as you try to keep pace with the Mandalorian.
Arkanon.
Fulcrum.
The moon.
The rock that moved beneath your feet.
That power that keeps manifesting itself without you ever truly understanding it.
Maybe they don't just want a surviving princess.
Maybe they want what you represent.
Or what you might become.
Your breathing grows shorter and more uneven as the weight of those thoughts continues to crush you from within.
"Princess."
Din's voice suddenly comes from much closer.
You hadn't even realized you'd slowed down.
The Mandalorian stops just in front of you, enough to force you to lift your gaze toward his helmet.
"Look at me."
The request catches you by surprise.
For a moment, all you can do is stare at the smooth surface of the beskar illuminated by the orange reflections of the refineries.
"Breathe," he says calmly.
Only then do you realize how irregular your breathing has become.
âThey want me,â you finally manage to whisper. âDonât they?â
Din doesnât answer right away.
And that hesitation alone is enough.
You immediately lower your gaze.
âMaybe they want what I can do,â you continue softly, your voice strained by the fear you're tryingâand failingâto control. âThat power... whatever it is.â
The Mandalorianâs silence weighs more heavily than any answer.
For a moment, you feel panic tightening around your chest again.
Then his gloved hand slowly comes to rest against your arm.
Steady.
Solid.
Real.
âListen to me carefully,â he says in a low voice.
The way he speaks is different from before.
Closer.
Harder.
âWhatever you are... whatever is happening...â The helmet dips slightly toward you. âI wonât let anyone take you away.â
And the way he says it makes everything else disappear for a moment.
Khelar.
Fulcrum.
The port.
The fear.
Because in that moment, you believe him completely.
You nod.
âDin? I want to understand who I am. Why are they looking for me? What is this power? Can I do good... but also harm? How do I control it?â You pause. âIs there someone who can answer those questions?â
For several seconds, Din doesnât reply.
His gaze seems to sweep across the crowd of the port, watching every movement, every face crossing the walkways of Khelar.
âMaybe I know someone who can answer those questions.â
âReally?!â you exclaim in surprise, turning toward him. âIf that's true, why havenât we looked for her already?â
âBecause she isnât someone you find.â
You frown, not understanding what he means.
âUsually, she finds us.â
âAnd how does she do that?â you ask, wanting to know more.
The Mandalorian remains silent for a moment.
âI never figured that out,â he admits.
The answer surprises you.
âAnd yet you trust her.â
This time the helmet turns slightly toward you.
âYes.â
A single word.
âSheâs one of the few people in the galaxy I trust.â
For some reason, that answer is enough to silence you.
Because if Din Djarin trusts someone, then that person must be truly special.
You continue to cross the upper walkways of the port as the noise of the refineries reverberates through the metal structures of Khelar.
The crowd has thinned out.
There are no more merchants shouting offers from every corner here, nor cargo droids pushing their way through the crowds. All that remains are suspended walkways, enormous pipes, and steam rising from the plants below like an artificial fog.
For several minutes neither of you speaks.
Then you see it.
A still figure at the end of the catwalk.
As you get closer you notice an elderly woman wrapped in a long, weather-worn gray cloak. Her white hair is tied in a braid that falls on one shoulder, while a series of small metal cylinders and crystal shards hang from her neck, jingling slightly whenever she moves.
She doesn't seem surprised to see you.
In fact, she looks like someone who's been waiting for you.
âDo you know her?â you ask in a low voice.
âYes.â Din replies, his answer reassuring you.
The woman looks at Din first.
Then you.
Her eyes, which appear clear, at least in that light, linger on your face longer than necessary.
Too long.
âYou took longer than expected, Mandalorian.â Her voice is hoarse, marked by the years, but still firm.
Din crosses his arms. "I've had problems."
Something like a smile crosses the woman's face.
Then her gaze returns to you. The smile fades.
âNo,â she says softly. âYou brought your problems with you.â
A shiver runs down your spine.
The woman barely inclines her head. âCome.â She doesnât add anything else.
She simply turns and walks away down a side walkway.
You immediately realize she isn't following the main route. If anything, she seems to be deliberately avoiding it.
You pass through lower levels of the port, half-abandoned industrial elevators, narrow corridors lit by flickering lights, and old warehouses that smell of metal and fuel.
More than once, you get the feeling that you're completely lost.
And yet the woman never hesitates. She knows every turn, every passageway, every shortcut.
At one point, you find yourself glancing over your shoulder. Not because you sense anyone there. There isn't even any sign of the two figures who had been following you. Perhaps you've lost them.
When you finally reach the woman's refuge, hidden among old industrial structures long since abandoned, you realize the place is far larger than it appeared from the outside.
The walls are covered with star charts, and datapads are stacked everywhere. Ancient archives. Fragments of artifacts from worlds you don't recognize.
The woman rests her staff against a wall and turns toward you. âSit.â
For the first time since meeting her, you feel as though you're being examined. Her eyes continue to study you as if they're searching for something. Or confirming something she already suspected.
The silence stretches on for several seconds. Too many.
In the end, you're the one who lowers your gaze slightly, feeling deeply uncomfortable.
The woman seems to notice.
âI understand,â she murmurs.
âWhat?â you ask.
Something resembling a smile crosses her face for a brief moment. âThat you've inherited more from your mother than you realize.â
You stiffen immediately. âYou knew my mother?â
The woman doesn't answer. At least not right away. She simply moves toward one of the tables covered in star charts and old digital archives.
Only then does Din break the silence. âHer name is Veda Sol.â
The woman lets out a quiet huff without turning around. âHe's always been terrible at introductions.â
For a moment, even you're surprised, because she's probably the first person you've ever seen speak to Din that way.
The Mandalorian doesn't seem offended.
âAnd he's always been terrible at listening to advice,â Veda continues as she reaches one of the tables covered in star maps.
Din doesn't reply.
He doesn't stiffen.
He doesn't correct her.
He simply remains where he is, motionless, watching her move through the shelter.
And that's what strikes you. Because for the first time since you've known him, Din doesn't interrupt her or try to correct her.
He doesn't even seem inclined to take control of the conversation.
He simply listens, as though he already knows that whatever answers you're looking for, Veda is far better suited than he is to give them.
Veda remains beside the table for a few moments without saying anything.
Her fingers absentmindedly brush across the worn surface of an old datapad while her eyes keep returning to you.
It isn't a hostile look. Nor a suspicious one. It looks more like the gaze of someone trying to piece together fragments of a very old memory.
At last, she slowly lowers herself into a metal chair. âCome.â
You hesitate for a moment, then take a seat across from her.
The woman folds her hands on the table. âYouâre afraid.â
It wasn't a question.
You lower your gaze. âYes.â
Veda nods slowly. âGood.â
Your eyes immediately lift to hers. âGood?â
âFear reminds us that what we do has consequences.â
Silence settles over the room once more.
Then the woman tilts her head slightly, with the calm of someone trying to read something beyond words. âI know that look.â
You frown faintly. âWhat look?â
Something shifts in the woman's pale eyes. Perhaps a memory. Perhaps sadness.
âThe look of someone who has spent a very long time trying to understand something no one ever bothered to explain to her.â
The words hit you harder than they should.
For a moment, you lower your gaze.
Because it's true.
Arkanon.
Your father.
The secrets.
The half-truths.
The questions left unanswered.
When you lift your eyes back to her, Veda is still watching you in silence. âTell me something,â she says at last.
Her hands fold together on the table.
âOut of all the questions you've been carrying with you... which one do you want answered first?â
The question hangs in the air.
Because there are so many that, for a moment, you don't even know where to begin.
Uncertainty fills the room for a long, very long minute. Then it is Veda who speaks again. âI thought it would be difficult to choose.â There is no impatience in her voice. Only understanding. âStart with the one that seems simplest.â
You lift your gaze to her pale eyes. âIs there really such a thing?â
âNo.â
You look at her, and for a moment the faintest smile touches your expression.
âBut you're in desperate need of answers, so start with the first one that comes to mind,â she encourages gently.
âWhat am I?â
Silence.
Veda doesn't answer immediately. She studies you. Then she looks at Din. Finally, her gaze returns to you, as though she is carefully choosing which words to use. âThe most honest answer?â
âYes.â
âI don't know.â
For a moment, you're speechless. It's not the answer you expected. Not after everything that happened. Not after the moon. Not after Ellna. And certainly not after Din brought you all the way here.
Veda seems to read the disappointment on your face immediately.
âI know what you are not.â Your eyes return to hers. âYou are not a monster. You are not a weapon.â
Her words come calmly. Confidently.
âAnd I don't believe what is happening to you is an accident.â
It's not a real answer. It's not enough. And yet part of you clings to those words anyway.
Veda slowly intertwines her fingers. âPerhaps you were expecting something different from me.â Then her gaze shifts briefly toward Din. âPerhaps you were expecting it too, Mandalorian.â
Din doesn't reply. He remains motionless beside the wall. Listening.
âBut I do not possess all the answers you're searching for.â
You frown. âThen how do you know anything about what happened?â
For the first time, something changes in the woman's expression. âBecause I listen.â
You look at her without understanding.
Veda extends a hand toward one of the artifacts resting on the table. Her fingers barely brush the worn surface of the stone.
âThere are people who listen to words.â Her gaze lifts to yours. âI listen to what things leave behind.â
The room falls silent.
âI don't understand.â
âEvents leave traces.â Her voice is calm. âPlaces. Objects. People.â A slight movement of her hand. âSometimes I can sense them.â
You feel your heart begin to race. âAnd you sensed something in me?â
Veda nods slowly. âThe moment you walked in here.â
You swallow. âWhat?â
For a few seconds, the woman doesn't answer. Then she simply says, âThe moon.â
The blood seems to freeze in your veins.
âHow do you know that?â
âBecause you still carry its echo with you.â
Silence settles over the room once more.
âThe fear.â Veda continues to watch you. âThe stone.â Another pause. âAnd something that answered.â
Your fingers tighten involuntarily.
âThen you know what happened to me.â
âNo.â The answer comes immediately. âI only know that it happened.â
You frown. âWhatâs the difference?â
âAll the difference in the universe.âVeda slowly leans back in her chair. âI can perceive an echo.â Her pale eyes remain fixed on yours. âI cannot always understand it.â
For the first time, Din is the one who intervenes. âHave you ever seen anything like this before?â
Veda remains silent. Then she slowly shakes her head. âNo.â A single word, yet spoken by her it carries the weight of a verdict. âI have seen places react to the presence of certain people.â
You immediately turn toward her. âJedi?â
âAmong others.â The woman gives a slight nod. âI have seen temples. I have seen ancient artifacts. I have seen things that most of the galaxy considers legends.â
Then she stops.
Her eyes return to you.
âBut what I sense in you is different.â
Your stomach tightens. âDifferent how?â
Veda remains silent for a few moments. As if searching for the right words.
âLike something that should not have surprised you quite so much.â
You frown. âI donât understand.â
âNo,â the woman admits. âI donât think you do. Not yet.â Her fingers slowly intertwine on the table. âBut I have the feeling that someone spent a very long time making sure that remained the case.â
The room falls silent.
For a moment, no one speaks.
Then you're the one who breaks that silence. âMy father.â
It's not a question.
It's almost a realization.
Veda doesn't answer right away.
Her pale eyes remain fixed on yours.
Then she slowly lowers her gaze.
And it's that gesture more than anything that makes your heart begin to race.
âHe knew something.â Your voice is barely above a whisper. âDidn't he?â
For a few seconds, the only sound in the room is the distant hum of the shelter's systems.
Then Veda takes a slow breath. âI think so.â
The answer hits you harder than you would have imagined.
Because part of you had always suspected it, but hearing it spoken aloud is different. Very different.
âWhy didn't he tell me?â
The question escapes before you can stop it.
Veda studies you for a long moment. âBecause sometimes people try to protect the things they love.â She pauses. âAnd sometimes they end up protecting them too much.â
You slowly lower your gaze to your hands.
Arkanon.
Your father.
Ellna.
The moon.
Suddenly, everything seems connected by invisible threads that you still can't fully see.
âThen where should I begin?â
The question comes out more fragile than you would like.
Veda remains silent for a few seconds. Then she simply says, âWith the truth your father carried to his grave.â
The room falls silent.
For a few moments, you can't find the words.
âWhat truth?â
Veda slowly lowers her gaze to her hands. âThe one your family guarded for generations.â
Your heart quickens. âGuarded what?â
The woman doesn't answer immediately.
She rises slowly from her chair and walks toward one of the walls of the shelter.
Among the star charts and ancient archives hangs a fragment of dark stone threaded with thin silver veins.
Veda lightly brushes the surface of the relic.
âMany ancient civilizations believed that certain worlds were alive.â
You frown. âAlive?â
âNot in the way we are.â The woman turns slightly toward you. âCloser to a consciousness. A memory. Something ancient that existed long before the species that inhabited them.â
Silence settles over the room once more.
âWas Arkanon one of those worlds?â
Veda hesitates, and that alone tells you how delicate the question is. âI don't know. But I believe there was something beneath Arkanon.â
Your fingers tighten involuntarily. âWhat?â
âIf I knew that, we wouldn't be sitting here making guesses.â For a moment, something resembling frustration flickers in her eyes. âI've gathered fragments. Legends. Incomplete testimonies.â The woman's gaze returns to you. âBut they all tell the same story.â
âWhat story?â
âThat the royal family did not merely rule Arkanon.âA shive r runs down your spine.âThey protected it.â
The silence suddenly becomes heavy.
âAre you saying my father was the guardian of... something?â
âI'm saying that perhaps all those who came before him were as well.â
The words hang between you.
Then a question slips out before you can stop it. âIs that why Arkanon was destroyed?â
For the first time, Veda lowers her gaze. And that simple gesture frightens you more than any answer could. Because suddenly, you have the feeling that there is more. Much more.
The woman seems about to add something else, but stops herself. Her gaze shifts toward one of the monitors positioned near the wall.
Silence falls across the room.
Din notices immediately. âWhat is it?â
The woman doesn't answer right away. She walks over to the screen. She studies something closely, then sighs. A tired sound. Almost annoyed. âThey're better than I thought.â
Din is already on his feet. âWho?â
The woman steps slightly aside from the monitor. âThe two men who were following you.â
Your stomach tightens.
Two figures move across the screen through the lower levels of the structure.
They're searching for something.
Or someone.
And they're much closer than they should be.
âHave they found us?â you ask.
The woman folds her arms. âNot yet.â
A pause.
Her eyes shift to Din. âBut they'll find this place too.â
The Mandalorian wastes no time. He has already grabbed his weapon. âWe need to leave.â
For the first time since you entered the shelter, the woman nods. âYes.â Her gaze returns to you. âAnd I think you have far less time than I originally imagined.â
You're making your way out through a hidden door concealed behind old archives and shelves when Veda's voice reaches you once more.
âWait.â
You turn around.
The woman remains beside the monitor. The blue glow of the screen softly illuminates her face.
For a moment, she watches you in silence.
As though weighing whether to tell you something or not.
At last, she sighs.
âI don't know what you'll find.â Her eyes briefly shift toward Din. Then back to you. âBut I do know one thing.â You stop.
âWhat?â
Veda tilts her head slightly. âA lot of people will try to tell you what you are. Some will do it out of fear. Others out of self-interest.â Her gaze never leaves yours. âDon't let them decide for you.â
The silence that follows lasts only a moment.
Then her eyes drift toward the Mandalorian once more.
âAnd if you're going to trust your life to someone...â A shadow of a smile crosses her face. â...you chose well.â
Din doesn't comment.
But for the first time, it almost seems as though Veda is amused by whatever expression lies hidden behind the helmet.
Summary: The North returns home wounded. Robb Stark survives Kingâs Landing, but Sandor Clegane disappears amidst fire and death. As fear slowly consumes her, Sansa begins to understand that what binds her to the Hound is no longer simple tenderness or gratitude, but something far more dangerous.
Chapter Warnings: graphic injuries, blood, fever/infection, battle aftermath, emotional pain, near death, mentions of death
A/N: This chapter hurt to write in the best possible way.
Masterlist
Thanks @vase-of-lilies for the banner
Winterfell welcomed the return of the Northern army in silence.
No one sang.
No one cheered.
The gates opened slowly, allowing men stained with blood, mud, and ash to enter. Many horses returned without riders, and many of the banners of the North appeared torn or burned.
Sansa watched everything from the courtyard, her heart tight in her chest.
She searched immediately for her brother.
And then she searched for him.
But Sandor Clegane was nowhere among the men passing through the gates.
It was only when she saw Robb suddenly slump forward on his horse, supported by his men, that panic truly seized her.
The King in the North was quickly helped down from his horse. Blood stained his clothes around the abdomen, and his face was as pale as snow.
âCall Maester Luwin!â someone shouted.
Sansa pushed through the men, still searching desperately for the Hound among them, but there was no trace of him.
And that was when fear truly began to consume her.
Robb was immediately taken to his chambers. He had a fever and a fairly deep wound along his abdomen, one that could easily become infected.
Maester Luwin came and went from his rooms, while his mother Catelyn, his wife, and his sister Sansa remained outside, waiting for good news. His younger brothers were constantly informed of what was happening, but their mother did not allow them to wait there.
Sansa would have liked to ask Robb if he knew what fate had befallen Sandor, who seemed to have vanished into thin air, but her mother would never have allowed her near him. He needed to rest.
She waited three days.
Then, when their mother finally left, Sansa seized the chance and slipped into her brotherâs room. Light filtered through the window, and she saw Robb lying in the middle of the bed, his face ghostly pale, beads of sweat glistening on his high brow, his eyes closed and his lips slightly parted.
His sister approached him as gently as she could and took his hand. He opened his eyes at once. He studied her, and when he realized it was Sansa, he smiled.
âHello,â he whispered.
âHello,â Sansa returned. âHow do you feel?â
âTired. Could you give me some water, please?â he asked.
âYes,â she answered simply, pouring him something to drink and bringing the cup to his lips. He took a couple of slow sips, then let his head fall back, breathing heavily.
âHow is Jeyne?â
âShe is well. She went to rest.â
Robb sighed in relief. âGood.â He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. âYou want to know about him, donât you?â
Sansa did not answer her brotherâs question, but Robb knew. He did not wait for her reply.
âHe left suddenly one morning at dawn. One of my men saw him going to the Red Keep alone. When we got there, we didnât see him. The battle was destroying our men, and we couldnât tell whether Clegane was alive or dead.â
He paused and coughed.
âWhen it was all over, there was fire and death everywhere. The only thing of his we found was his helm. But what became of him⊠I donât know.â
Robb finished, breathing with difficulty.
âIâm sorry I couldnât give you a different answer.â
Sansa lowered her head, her expression dark.
âIt isnât your fault. Rest now, all right? Try to heal quickly. Winterfell needs you.â
He only smiled, and Sansa withdrew, leaving his room.
When the door closed behind her, Sansa thought that the time had come for her to resign herself and consider the possibility that he â Sandor â had not survived the clash with his brother.
He had been ready to die. He had told her so.
She was the one who was not ready to know him dead.
Sansa squeezed her eyes shut, then went to the battlements. There, snow had piled up along the sides, leaving a passage for the guards defending the stronghold.
Sansa looked toward the horizon, her heart swollen with grief and sorrow, her hair tangled by the cold wind. Small flakes of snow were lifted from the ground by the gusts, spun for a few feet, then fell back down, breaking apart like water on grass.
She was about to go back inside when, a little farther away, one of the men left to guard Winterfell blew a horn and shouted:
âRIDER APPROACHING! LOOKS TO BE ALONE!â
Other soldiers joined Sansa on the battlements and readied their bows and arrows. They had to be prepared for anything. Her motherâs orders.
At first, Sansa felt her heart quicken with fear. Then she realized the horse was a black stallion, black as pitch. She narrowed her eyes and saw that the man on its back was practically clinging to the dark mane of his destrier.
Sansa recognized Stranger at once.
She ran breathlessly downstairs, nearly slipping more than once, but when she reached the gates, the horse was still galloping toward the entrance.
A few steps from her, the man fell heavily into the muddy snow with a dull thud.
Sansa ran to him, even though someone tried to stop her in order to protect her. But she had no use for protection in that moment.
She reached the man and saw him.
Sandor was there.
She threw herself beside him and looked at him. He was covered in blood and wounds; his face was almost unrecognizable between what had already been ruined before and what had been done to him not long ago.
âSandor,â she called, struggling to lift his upper body. âSandor.â
His hair clung to his head like a second skin, and his clothes were soaked with blood, rain, and mud.
âPlease, open your eyes,â she said, shaking him gently.
âLady Stark,â someone called behind her.
Sansa turned and shouted, âCALL MAESTER LUWIN! TAKE HIM INSIDE!â
âLittle birdâŠâ he slurred, barely opening his eyes. âDidnât remember your song being so⊠so⊠loud.â
She looked at him, trembling, as he tried to raise an arm as if to touch her face, but he could not. He was exhausted.
He closed his eyes again, and someone carried him inside.
âSansa.â
The girl turned. It was her mother.
âWhat is happening?â
âSandor⊠the Hound has returned,â she answered.
She turned, trying to follow the men and Maester Luwin into the room where they had taken Sandor, but her mother stopped her.
âAnd where are you going?â
âTo⊠I want to make sure he is well,â she answered.
âSansa, he is neither your husband nor your betrothed. It is highly improper to go in and look upon a wounded man, drenched in blood,â she reminded her. âYou will see him later.â
âBut later may be too late!â Sansa exclaimed.
âMy daughter, please, do as I say. Go and change. You are filthy. Preserve at least a little dignity, please. Remember who you are.â
Sansa looked at her mother in shock, then at the door behind which Sandor lay, but she had no choice.
Angrily, she pushed past her parent and changed as she had ordered.
Her heart was galloping wildly in her chest. She had memorized the cracks in the wooden door. She could hear the muffled voices of Maester Luwin and his apprentice, a young man named Jonah, and the drops of water that, every now and then, broke the silence growing darker and heavier in the now-deserted corridor.
Sansa sighed deeply. She did not know whether to knock or simply wait for someone to give her some kind of news, however vague, about his condition.
But no one told her anything.
No one came out.
No one went in.
Outside, the wind began to blow, and the direwolves of Robb, Bran, and Rickon howled loudly.
The girl began pacing up and down the corridor, but she did not leave.
The sun had long since set when Maester Luwin and his apprentice came out, closing the door behind them.
âHow is he?â Sansa asked, almost attacking the maester.
âHe has many wounds, Lady Sansa. Some unlike any I have ever seen. He has a very high fever, surely due to the many wounds all over his body. I have tended them, but⊠I do not know whether the treatment I gave him will truly be effective in his condition.â
âWill he survive?â she asked, barely breathing.
The man sighed mournfully.
âWe must pray. I have never felt a man burn so fiercely with fever while bearing wounds like those. I repeat, I do not know whether my remedies can bring him relief or benefit.â
Those words delivered the final blow to Sansa, and she collapsed there before him, falling to her kneesâŠ
Maester Luwin gave her milk of the poppy to ease the terrible pain pounding through her head, and so Sansa slept for nearly the entire day. When she finally woke, she remembered where and why she had fainted. She remembered Sandorâs return, remembered that Maester Luwin and his apprentice were tending to him, and remembered the maesterâs troubling words.
Sansa rose from the bed, though her head spun faintly, forcing her to steady herself against the wooden desk beside it. Thenâwith some effortâshe reached the door and opened it.
She took a candle and lit it from the dim lantern flickering outside her chamber. Closing the door quietly behind her, she stepped into the dark corridor. She knew every hallway and hidden corner of that place. She did not fear the darkness or its winding passages nearly as much as she feared her mother seeing her and forbidding her from visiting Sandor.
Still, gathering all her courage, she continued on.
Sansa could hear the soldiersâ laughter echoing from the courtyard below. Some laughed loudly, others spoke of the terrible clash at Kingâs Landing, while a few sang new songs in honor of her brother.
When she reached the corridor leading to Sandorâs chamber, she carefully looked aroundâto the right, to the left, toward the stairsâto make certain no one was coming. Then she dared approach the door and slowly pushed it open.
The room was lit by the fire burning in the hearth. At its center stood a canopy bed upon which Sandor lay sprawled. He was completely naked, save for the blanket folded several times over his hips.
Sansa stepped closer and saw his massive, muscular body covered in cuts and scars. Some wounds were pink, others pale white, while others carved deep lines across his skin, black and jagged like marks painted by a drunken artist. Thick bandages wrapped part of his side.
His face was swollen and torn by several fresh wounds. The side already ravaged by fire seemed to pulse angrily, and in places the ruined flesh had split and lifted once more.
Sansa let her gaze travel slowly over the body of that braveâterribly braveâman, and with the utmost gentleness she took the hand resting limply beside him.
âLittle birdâŠâ he murmured.
Sansa lifted her gaze, but quickly understood he had not truly heard her. He was dreamingâand perhaps dreaming of her.
She might have smiled had his body not looked so terribly ravaged. Instead, she remained serious and squeezed his large hand softly.
She was there.
And she wished somehow he could feel it.
âPrincess?â
She startled awake.
She had fallen asleep.
It was morning now.
And Maester Luwin had found her there, in Sandor Cleganeâs chamber, with the young ladyâs hand wrapped around the warriorâs.
âMaester Luwin!â she exclaimed, not even knowing what to say.
âMy lady, you should not be here⊠it is hardly proper⊠a lady should never see the body of a man who is not her husband.â
It sounded painfully like her mother.
âI know. But I needed to see him. I needed to know how he was.â
The old man raised his brows faintly.
âHe is a warrior. That much is clear. Some of his wounds had already begun to heal, but there is one⊠along his left side⊠I would not advise you to look at it. It appears to be infected and may well be the cause of his fever.â
She nodded. âThank you. And⊠Iâm sorry if you⊠if you saw me in an⊠ambiguous situation.â
He gently shook his head.
âI watched you come into this world. I care for you deeply, my young princess. I would simply hate to see you break traditions that have endured for generations because ofâŠâ He hesitated. âForgive my frankness⊠but because of someone beneath your station.â
Sansa felt her heart tighten painfully.
To everyoneâwithout exceptionâsocial standing seemed to matter more than anything else. But was there truly no room for feelings? For love?
Deeply shaken by his words, she rose and left the room.
The moment the door closed behind her, she realized that staying away from himâfrom that man now fighting so fiercely to surviveâhad never cost her so much.
For the first time in her life, being a lady felt unbearably heavy.
At that moment she would have given anything to be a common girl, or even to live as Aerys had lived. No one would have forbidden her from staying beside the man sheâŠ
Only then did Sansa truly understand that what stirred within her was not merely concern or tenderness, but something far stronger, far more consuming than simple affection.
The realization made her heart race.
She had believed herself in love before: first with the knights from songs and stories, then with the Knight of Flowers, then with Joffrey, then with the knight from Seagardâbut none of what she had once believed to be love compared to what she felt now.
It spread through her mind, her heart, her body.
Everything inside her seemed to cry out his nameâthat name she had once feared with all her soul and which, on that day, she realized she loved deeply.
She wanted to be with him.
To stay beside him when he awoke.
To care for him. Dress his wounds. Encourage him.
She would do anything for him.
Anything with him.
And when he recovered, Sansa would tell him everything she truly felt. She had already told him I love you, yet now those words no longer seemed enough. It was impossible to contain what she felt within only two words.
It was passion.
And she would fight to make him understand it.
But she would also fight so that neither her brother nor her mother could stand in the way of what she felt for Sandor Clegane.
The following day she visited her brother, who seemed considerably better. Robb had regained some color, though the fever still lingered.
âIâm feeling much better,â he answered when she asked after his health.
She smiled softly. âIâm glad.â
Robb glanced sideways at her before asking, âSansa⊠how is Sandor Clegane?â
She lifted her eyes to meet his. âMaester Luwin says heâs still fighting. Some wounds are harder to heal than others. One in particular seems to be causing the fever to persist.â
He nodded simply, then smiled faintly.
âYou seem very informed about him.â
Sansa parted her lips, though no answer came, and so she remained silent.
Robbâs smile widened slightly.
âRelax. Iâm not judging you.â He studied her face. âAnd donât be angry with him⊠Maester Luwin told me that⊠well, the other morning you were with him.â
âWhy should I be ashamed of it? Itâs trueânot a lie.â She swallowed before adding, âI know he isnât⊠suitable for someone like me. But I had to do it. I have to.â
Robb frowned slightly before smiling again.
âItâs the first time you havenât proudly called yourself a lady. You said someone like me. Donât you want to be noble anymore, Sansa?â
She sighed softly.
âRobb, all I know is that because Iâm noble, everyone keeps telling me what is proper and improper. What I truly want is freedomâfreedom to say and do what I want. I wish I couldâŠâ She sighed again. âThese past days Iâve found myself missing the freedom I had in the woods. I was alone, yes⊠but I was free. I could simply be anyone.
There were no noble titles there. No castle protecting me. No need for the graceful manners Septa Mordane taught me.
There⊠I was simply Sansa.â
She fell silent and watched the pale light spilling through the windows while silence settled over the room.
Then Robb spoke.
âI donât think you need to say anything more.â
Sansa looked toward her brother, who seemed terribly pale in that cold light.
âI think youâve discovered the sweetnessâand the overwhelming forceâof love, little sister.â
Her heart stumbled painfully.
âI never respected him much. Never even liked him. But he saved me more than onceâand not just me, my men as well. First when you warned us about the Bolton conspiracy. Then when he led men to rescue you. Then again at Kingâs Landing. But above all⊠he always found a way to bring you home.
Because of himâand because of youâIâm alive. And because of him, you are here too.
So yes, both of us owe him gratitude⊠but especially me. He could have taken gold and left, you know. I offered it to him shortly before your return from the Dreadfort prison, but he refused. He told me money no longer mattered most to him.â
Sansa nearly stopped breathing.
âI think he feels something for you too. I donât know whether itâs love⊠or merely desire. But you certainly arenât indifferent to him. Only a blind man could fail to notice how your face changes whenever you speak of himâor how fiercely he fought to save you from Roose Boltonâs bastard.
And I understand, Sansa. More than anyone. I married a woman from a noble house whose riches had long faded away. I did not marry her for titles, lands, or alliances.
I married her for love.
Only for love.â
What was her brother trying to tell her?
âAnd Mother? What did she say?â
âYou know her.â Robb smiled faintly. âShe gave me a very long look⊠an impossibly long one⊠but eventually she gave in. After all, Iâm a man. And now, in a way, Iâm head of the family.â
Sansa lowered her gaze.
Of course. He was a man. He was allowed to choose.
She, as a woman, was expected to bend to the will of fatherâor brotherâand accept whatever future they decided for her without complaint.
She sighed and rose to leave, but Robb stopped her with one final question.
âAre you going to him?â
She turned back toward him.
âItâs where I want to be.â
Robb nodded slowly.
âIf thatâs what your heart wants⊠then go.â
Sansa allowed herself the faintest shadow of a smile before leaving her brotherâs chamber to go to Sandor.
Summary: Eleanor Winters has to hide herself. Joel Miller is broken. They'll meet each other in Jackson. Will Eleanor put a completely broken man together and will Joel bring light into Eleanor's life?
Series Warning: angst, alcohol abuse, hints of domestic violence, dirty talk, violence, smut, and if I miss smt let me know.
Masterlist
Thanks @vase-of-lilies for the banner
Thatâs when you need someone, someone that you can call
The door wasnât completely closed.
Joel had never been good at shutting things all the way. Not doors. Not conversations. Not the past.
Sarah pushed it open without knocking. The hinges made a soft, tired sound, and for a moment she almost turned back, surprised by how ordinary everything looked inside. The table. The chair. The quiet.
Joel was sitting there, elbows resting on the wood, his hands loosely clasped as if he had been thinking about something for a long time and hadnât reached a conclusion.
He looked up.
Not startled. Not defensive.
Careful.
âWe need to talk,â she said.
Her voice did not tremble. That was the first thing he noticed. The second was that she did not call him Dad.
He straightened slowly, as if sudden movements might break something fragile between them. âOkay.â
She remained standing, keeping a deliberate distance between them, as though crossing it would mean committing to something she was not ready for.
âIs it true?â she asked.
Joel knew exactly what she meant. There was no confusion in her eyes, no vagueness in her tone. The question had weight; it had history.
He could have asked her to clarify. He could have pretended not to understand. Instead, he drew in a slow breath and let it settle in his chest before answering.
âYour mother told you I hurt her.â
It was not phrased as a question.
Sarahâs jaw tightened slightly. âEveryone says you did.â
There it was â the verdict of a town that remembered everything and forgave very little.
Joel lowered his gaze for a moment, not in shame, but to steady himself. He had imagined this conversation so many times over the years that it almost felt unreal to be living it.
âI donât want you carrying something you shouldnât have to,â he said quietly. âThere are things you donât need to know.â
Sarahâs expression hardened, but not with anger â with clarity. âIâm not a child anymore.â
That landed harder than the accusation.
He looked at her then, really looked at her, and saw not the little girl he had once lifted onto his shoulders, but someone who had already been forced to grow up in ways he had not witnessed.
âYouâre right,â he admitted.
Silence stretched between them, not hostile, but heavy.
âI found out she was seeing someone,â he said at last. The words came slowly, not because he was searching for excuses, but because he refused to hide behind them. âIt wasnât a suspicion. It wasnât gossip. I knew.â
Sarah did not interrupt. She did not soften.
âWe argued,â he continued, and there was no attempt to make that word prettier than it was. âI lost my temper. I let anger take over before I could stop it.â
His hands, resting on the table, tightened slightly.
âI grabbed her. I shoved her. I shouldnât have. Thereâs no version of that where Iâm right.â
The room felt smaller, as if the walls themselves were listening.
Sarah swallowed, but she held his gaze. âSo she didnât lie.â
âNo,â he said. âShe didnât.â
There was a pause, and then she added, âBut she didnât tell the whole story either.â
Joel hesitated then, because this was the point where he could shift blame, could redirect the weight of the moment. For years, he had told himself that silence was the nobler choice, that refusing to defend himself was a way of protecting her from the ugliness of it all.
Now he understood that silence had its own kind of violence.
âWhat I did is on me,â he said carefully. âWhatever happened before doesnât erase it. I shouldâve walked away. I didnât.â
Sarahâs eyes flickered at that â walked away. The words seemed to echo beyond the room.
âWhy didnât you ever tell me?â she asked, and this time there was something softer underneath the question, something almost like hurt.
âBecause it wouldâve sounded like an excuse,â he answered. âAnd I didnât want you thinking I was trying to justify it.â
âAnd were you?â
He held her gaze.
âNo.â
The honesty in that single word settled between them.
âI thought you were a monster,â she said after a long moment, her voice no longer sharp but stripped of pretense.
Joel nodded once. âI know.â
âBut monsters donât say what you just said.â
He did not smile. He did not reach for her. He simply stayed where he was.
âIâm not a monster,â he said quietly. âBut Iâm not innocent either.â
That was the closest he would come to asking for anything.
Sarah looked down, absorbing the weight of it. The world had handed her a simple story. This was not simple.
âI donât know what to do with this,â she admitted.
âYou donât have to do anything,â Joel replied. âNot today. Not for me.â
He did not try to close the distance between them. This time, not reaching out was not fear â it was respect.
She turned toward the door, then paused with her hand on the frame.
âDid you ever think about coming back?â she asked without turning around.
Joel did not answer immediately. The silence was not hesitation; it was memory.
âI could have,â he said at last. âThere were⊠options.â
He didnât need to explain what that meant. Supervised visits. Neutral rooms. Scheduled hours under someone elseâs watchful eyes.
Sarah slowly turned to look at him.
âThen why didnât you?â
Joel drew in a long breath, as if the air itself resisted the words.
âBecause every time I saw you like that,â he said quietly, âit felt like dragging you into a courtroom that never ended. Lawyers. Accusations. People measuring every word I said, every look I gave you, as if I was on trial even when I was just⊠your father.â
He ran a hand over his face, not to hide, but to steady himself.
âI told myself that staying away would hurt less. That distance would protect you from the noise, from the tension, from having to choose between us.â
He met her eyes fully now.
âI thought I was doing the right thing. I thought if I stepped back, youâd grow up without carrying my mistakes on your shoulders.â
A faint, tired exhale left him.
âI was wrong.â
He did not rush to fill the space after that.
âI never stopped thinking about you,â he added, softer now. âNot once. I just convinced myself that love, from a distance, was safer than being there and making things worse.â
Sarah didnât answer immediately.
She stayed there, her hand still resting on the frame, as if the house itself were the only solid thing she could lean on. Something in his words unsettled her, not because they were dramatic, but because they were simple. There was no defense in them, no attempt to turn himself into a victim. Just a man admitting he had chosen distance and called it protection.
âThat wasnât your choice to make,â she said at last.
Her voice wasnât raised. It was steady, and that steadiness carried more weight than anger would have.
Joel nodded slowly. âI know.â
âYou decided what I could handle,â she continued, taking a step back into the room without realizing it. âYou decided I was better off without you, and you never asked me.â
There it was â not fury, but accusation grounded in clarity.
Joel didnât interrupt. He let it land.
âI thought I was sparing you,â he said quietly.
âAnd instead you just disappeared,â Sarah replied.
The word hung there â disappeared.
She wasnât trembling anymore. She wasnât even visibly angry. What she felt was more complicated than that. The image of him shrinking in the grocery store earlier that day resurfaced in her mind, clashing with the version of him she had carried for years.
âI donât know who you are yet,â she admitted. âI donât know if I can trust you. But I know that choosing for me again would make this worse.â
Joel absorbed that without flinching.
âI wonât,â he said. And this time it wasnât a promise meant to soothe. It was a boundary he was setting for himself.
Sarah studied him for a long moment, as if measuring the difference between the man in front of her and the one she had been told about.
âYou donât get to protect me from the truth anymore,â she said quietly. âIf Iâm going to figure this out, it has to be with everything on the table.â
Joel inclined his head. âThen ask.â
That was the first real opening.
Sarah hesitated. Not because she was afraid of the answer, but because she understood that once she asked the next question, there would be no returning to ignorance.
And for the first time since walking into the house, she felt the weight of adulthood settling on her shoulders â not as a burden, but as a responsibility she had chosen.
Sarah let out a slow breath, as if she were steadying herself before stepping into cold water.
âWere you ever afraid youâd do it again?â
The question didnât come out accusatory. It came out honest.
Joel didnât look offended. He didnât even look surprised. He looked⊠tired. As if he had asked himself the same thing a hundred times before she ever had the chance to.
âYes,â he said.
There was no hesitation.
âYes,â he repeated, more quietly. âThatâs what scared me the most.â
Sarahâs fingers curled slightly at her sides.
âAfter that night,â he continued, âI didnât trust my anger. I didnât trust what I could become when I lost control. And I didnât want you anywhere near that version of me.â
She absorbed that in silence.
âSo you left,â she said.
âI stepped back,â he corrected gently. Then, after a beat, he shook his head. âNo. I left. Thereâs no softer way to say it.â
Sarah swallowed.
The man in front of her wasnât denying what heâd done. He wasnât rewriting it. And somehow that made it harder, not easier.
âYou donât get to decide who I can handle,â she said at last. âYou donât get to disappear and call it protection.â
âI know.â
The house felt different now â not smaller, but clearer. Like dust had been shaken into the air and was finally settling.
For a moment neither of them spoke.
Then Sarah did something small but decisive: she crossed the distance between them. Not to hug him. Not to forgive him. Just to stand closer. Close enough that she could see the lines around his eyes, the way his hands stayed open on the table instead of clenched.
âI donât forgive you,â she said.
Joel nodded once. âYou donât have to.â
âBut I donât think youâre a monster.â
That was not absolution.
It was something more fragile: revision.
Joelâs jaw tightened slightly, not in anger, but in the effort of holding steady.
âThatâs more than I deserve,â he murmured.
âNo,â Sarah replied, and for the first time there was a faint tremor in her voice. âItâs just⊠more complicated than I was told.â
She stepped back then. The distance returned, but it was different from before.
âI need time,â she said.
âYou can have all of it.â
And this time, when she walked toward the door, she didnât pause to ask another question.
She left it open.
Joel didnât move at first.
He remained where he was, hands still resting on the table, listening to the faint sound of her steps fading down the porch. The air in the room felt different now â not lighter, not easier â but altered, as if something that had been frozen for years had finally begun to thaw.
The door was still open.
A thin strip of evening light cut across the floor, stretching toward him in a quiet line. He stared at it for a long moment, almost afraid that if he blinked it would disappear.
She hadnât forgiven him.
She hadnât called him Dad.
She hadnât promised to come back.
But she had stayed long enough to listen.
And she had left the door open.
Joel stood slowly and walked toward it, stopping just short of the threshold. He didnât step outside. He didnât call her name. He understood, finally, that chasing was not the same as being present.
Instead, he placed his hand against the edge of the door.
Not to close it.
Just to steady it.
For years he had lived as though every ending was final, as though silence meant judgment, and distance meant protection. He had convinced himself that shrinking was safer than standing his ground.
Now he knew better.
Hope, he realized, did not arrive in grand gestures. It came quietly, in unfinished sentences and doors left ajar.
He did not smile.
But for the first time in a long while, he did not feel condemned to stand alone in the dark either.
Summary: After finally reuniting with Gregor during the fall of Kingâs Landing, Sandor faces the brother who destroyed his life in a brutal and desperate fight inside the Red Keep. Meanwhile, far away in Winterfell, Sansa is consumed by fear, grief, and the unbearable uncertainty of waiting for news â until a raven arrives announcing Robbâs return⊠but not Sandorâs fate.
Chapter Warnings: graphic violence, blood and gore, brutal fight scenes, war imagery, references to rape/sexual assault, trauma, grief, emotional distress, religious crisis/loss of faith, death themes.
A/N: Into the Fire is also a small tribute to the Game of Thrones soundtrack piece tied to Sandor Clegane. It felt like the perfect title for a chapter where he finally walks straight into the thing that has haunted him his entire life.
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Sandor stood only a few steps away from him.
From the brother he despised.
From the man who had ruined his face, ruined his life, the man who had condemned him to an existence filled with averted gazes and expressions twisted in disgust. The man who had taken everything from him until now.
It was Sandorâs turn to take something back.
His life.
They drew their swords at the same moment, steel crashing together with terrible violence. The Hound spun and struck for Gregor, but the Mountainâs armor absorbed most of the blow, barely scratched by his brotherâs savage attack.
Gregor drove his blade toward Sandorâs chest, but Sandor dodged skillfully. He struck again, this time aiming for Gregorâs back and trying to plunge the sword deep, but Gregor was faster. He caught the weapon midair and shoved his brother away.
The Hound staggered back.
Gregor attacked again, this time aiming for his throat.
Sandor avoided the strike once more and slashed his brotherâs arm. The armor split slightly, and Gregor roared.
Exactly as Sandor remembered.
A beast.
Whenever he was losing â whenever something of his was damaged â Gregor screamed and beat bloody whoever had dared take something from him.
Gregor tore the armor from his body, and even stripped of protection, he still looked gigantic and monstrous to Sandor.
Violent.
Deadly.
The Mountain swung his enormous sword again and lunged for his brother, but Sandor retreated and the strike missed. Gregor roared and hurled the sword aside before charging forward. Catching Sandor off guard, he smashed a fist into his jaw.
Sandor crashed to the ground beneath the brutal blow.
Gregor hit him again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
The younger brotherâs face became a mask of blood, yet Sandor, screaming, slammed his head violently into Gregorâs and forced the larger man back. The Hound used the moment to rise and reclaim his sword, but Gregor kicked him savagely in the ribs.
Sandor hit the floor hard and spat blood.
But the Hound had no intention of surrendering.
Not like this.
He grabbed the sword again and ran, fully aware that Gregor would never let him escape.
He would follow.
And, as expected, the Mountain came after him at once, sword in hand.
Sandor ran through corridors he remembered all too well, turning right, then left, then right again. Gregor pursued him relentlessly, each time Sandor rounded a corner, the Mountain swinging for his head with murderous force.
Outside, the war still raged.
Explosions thundered in the distance. Screams echoed through the fortress. Flames and arrows tore through the sky.
War consumed both the inside and outside of the Red Keep.
Sandor climbed a narrow wooden spiral staircase. As he ascended, Gregorâs blade pierced violently through one of the steps beneath him. The first strike missed. The second too.
The third grazed Sandorâs leg.
He grunted in pain but did not stop.
Gregor struck again and again, but his blows hit only wood.
Sandor reached the top and realized the staircase led nowhere. He stopped abruptly, seeing only a narrow window beside the stairs.
Gregor caught up to him.
Another clash erupted.
Sword against sword.
Strike after strike answered in equal measure.
Cowardly, Gregor smashed his fist into Sandorâs mouth before striking him directly across the scarred side of his face â the mark he himself had carved there years before.
Sandor screamed and stumbled backward.
The older brother lunged to drive his blade through his heart, but Sandor was quicker. He kicked Gregor violently in the chest, forcing him back several steps.
The Hound rose once more.
The Mountain advanced again.
But Sandor knew what to do.
He knew he was faster with a blade than his brother, who cared only about killing him, no matter how.
Their swords collided so many times that eventually both shattered.
And then Sandor seized the moment.
He caught Gregor off guard, grabbed him with all the strength he had left, and hurled him toward the window.
The glass exploded outward.
Gregor fellâ but seized his brother as he did.
And Sandor fell with him.
That morning, when her handmaid opened the curtains, a timid ray of sunlight kissed Sansaâs chamber and her delicate face.
It had been so long since Sansa had seen the sun, even such a weak one, that she smiled at the sight of it.
The handmaid remained silent.
Sansa noticed immediately and looked at her in concern.
âWhat has happened?â
âYour mother has just received a ravenâŠâ
Sansa heard only those words.
The rest vanished.
She threw on a cloak in haste and rushed from the room.
When she entered the great hall, the room buzzed with voices, but the moment people noticed her presence, silence fell.
The Stark girl crossed the room toward the long wooden table and reached her family.
Her mother was crying.
âMother? What has happened?â
âYour brother. Robb,â she answered through tears. âHe is missing. What other tragedy must our cursed family endure?â
âDoes it say anything about Sandor Clegane?â Sansa asked, tears already filling her eyes.
Her mother shook her head.
âThey found only his helm, but they do not know what became of him either. Both of them gone.â Catelyn wiped at her nose helplessly. âI do not know what to doâŠâ
Sansa broke into tears.
Her mother was right.
Their family had already suffered too much.
She had foolishly believed they might finally have peace, but apparently no one cared for the peace of a family already torn apart beyond repair.
She ran back to her chamber and locked herself inside.
Throwing herself onto the bed, she cried.
She cried until her head ached and her eyes could barely remain open.
Her handmaid, young Aerys, brought her supper hours later. Sansa lay clutching her pillow, staring at the window where nothing could be seen but darkness.
âMy lady,â Aerys began softly, âI know this is a terrible time, but you must eat. At least the soup. There is meat in it â it will keep your strength while you pray for your brotherâs return.â
Sansa looked at her.
âBut which gods?â
Aerys hesitated.
âYours. The old gods and the new ones. The ones you pray to.â
Sansa sat up slowly, the pillow resting across her lap.
âI no longer believe in any of them. If the gods truly existed, how could they allow my father to die? How could they allow Bran to fall? How could they allow me to be attacked in the woods and nearly raped? How could they allow Ramsay Bolton to violate me?â
Her voice trembled harder with each question.
âHow could they allow Robb to disappear? How could they refuse a second chance to those who deserve one?â
She fell silent.
âWe created the gods ourselves. That is all they are.â
She closed her eyes and shook her head weakly.
âI feel as though Iâm losing my mind. I wanted good news⊠I would even have preferred to hear my brother was wounded but returning home. I wanted to hear Sandor Clegane was on his way back⊠perhaps injured too, but alive.â
She rose from the bed and moved to the window.
âInstead, all the gods have given us is silence and death.â
âMy lady,â Aerys said gently, âyou are in deep despair, and I understand thatââ
âWas your family destroyed and scattered across the continent?â Sansa interrupted.
âMy mother died when I was five. My fatherâŠâ She lowered her gaze. âI never knew him. My mother told me he fought during King Robertâs Rebellion and was killed during it. So yes⊠I understand despair. And the need for good news.â
Sansa let out a heavy sigh before forcing down only a few spoonfuls of soup.
It was night when her mother burst suddenly into the room.
âThey found Robb! He is wounded, but alive! Heâs half a day from here!â
Catelyn was almost breathless with relief.
âI am going to have food prepared, inform Maester Luwin, and have the fireplaces lit in their chambers. The gods have answered our prayers!â
Sansa lifted her head at once, hope surging painfully inside her.
But when her mother left the room, she sat motionless on the bed.
Part of her rejoiced knowing her brother was returning.
But another part had hoped Sandor would be returning with him.
She shook her head slowly.
Perhaps no one could answer a prayer that complicated.
Summary: Sansa and Sandor find each other again for one fragile, aching night, but dawn brings another separation: he rides south to face his brother.
While Sansa remains in Winterfell, consumed by waiting and haunted by unsettling visions, Sandor reaches Kingâs Landing, where the war finally leads him before his demon.
Chapter Warnings: violence, blood/gore, war, trauma aftermath, emotional distress, implied past sexual violence, death/battle, sibling violence, nightmares/visions
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He opened the door, and without saying a word she threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck. Perhaps he thought she had gone mad, or that she meant to mock him somehow, but Sansa hoped with all her heart that he would understandâat least a littleâthe torment burning through her soul and heart. Just as she began to believe he would push her away and throw her out of his room, he instead wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her hair. She felt him relax all at once within that embrace. Sansa tightened her hold around him and breathed deeply as well.
Suddenly it felt as though she had finally cast aside a heavy armor she had never been able to free herself from, and could breathe againâcould finally feel well again.
She did not know what to say to him or what she should do. She let her heart speak for her, if it needed to, or act if it deemed it right. Slowly, Sansa loosened the embrace and looked at Sandor. In the firelight she could only see the burned side of his skin shifting from black to shades of orange beneath the flames.
âSansa,â he called softly, and she looked into his eyes.
âSandor,â she answered, almost using the same tone as his.
He leaned slowly closer to her face. She could have pushed him away. She could have cried out. But she did not.
She allowed him to come closer, to brush against her lips first and then taste them slowly, gently. She clung to him as though afraid she might fall or fail to withstand that closeness, and heâalmost understanding what she feltâdrew her into his arms and held her in a firm, comforting grip from which Sansa neither could nor wished to escape.
Dawn came far too soon for Sandor Clegane.
He would have given anything to keep watching her sleep peacefully beside him, to look a little longer at her relaxed face and parted lips.
The night they had just shared had been the most beautiful night of his life. They had found their way back to one another, and that alone was enough for himâworth more than anything else. It was enough, even if he had not had her in the way he truly desired, because he understood then that loving someone did not necessarily mean possessing them. Sometimes it simply meant knowing she trusted him. And Sansaâs trust in him had only waveredâit had never truly broken.
He swallowed hard at the thought that the night they had just shared had also been their first and last.
He would leave with the Starks and ride south.
And in the South waited his brother.
There, everything would end.
He would have his revenge.
He looked again at the young woman lying beside him, now beginning to stir in her sleep. He watched every tiny expression crease her delicate face before her eyes finally opened. The clearest sky seemed to stare back at him through them, like a mirror of water in which he nearly drowned.
âGood morning,â she greeted him softly.
He had never wished her good morning before, nor anyone else for that matter, but that morning he made no exception. He offered her a small smile that twisted grotesquely across the scarred side of his mouth.
âDid you manage to sleep?â she asked gently.
The question struck him like a blow. He lowered his gaze, suddenly overcome with sadness, but answered simply, âAye.â
âIs something troubling you?â
He looked at her for a long moment. âI shouldâve told you last night, but⊠Iâll say it now. I leave today.â
She frowned. âFor where?â
âFor the place you escaped from.â
Her eyes widened in surprise. âBut why?â
âYour brother marches south, and he asked me to ride with him. And my brother is there.â
Sansa went pale.
âYou always knew the thing I wanted most was to fight him and defeat him,â he reminded her.
But Sansa sat up so their faces were level.
âBut⊠IâŠâ She looked at him as though all the air had suddenly been pulled from the room. âI thoughtâŠâ
âWell, you were wrong, little bird,â he said, shifting on the bed. âThat was always my fate.â
âBut heâŠâ She fell silent for a moment. âHeâs too strong andââ
Her breath failed her, but Sandor understood anyway. He smiled faintly and looked at her for a long moment before brushing his hand against her cheek in a slow, gentle gesture.
âI can defeat him.â
Sansa searched his face. âAnd if⊠if he kills you?â
She was trembling, and he could see it. He took one of her hands and answered quietly, âIf he kills me, then itâll all be over.â He paused. âBut Iâll know I gave my life so yours wouldnât have been lost there the way mine might be.â
But Sandor continued. âAnd if I win⊠maybe Iâll finally be able to live again. Maybe Iâll finally take the Houndâs armor off my shoulders for good.â
Sansa lowered her head without replying. Her lips trembled violently as tears rolled down her cheeks.
âYou knew,â he said quietly. âYou always knew Iâd face him someday.â
A broken sound escaped her lips. She could not answer the man beside her, the man who already felt as though he were slipping through her fingers like snow.
âI have something for you,â he said. âOr ratherâit was always yours.â
He searched through his tunic, and Sansa saw her braceletâthe one she had sold long ago to pay for a room at an inn, the bracelet her father had once brought her from the Lands Beyond the Wall.
âI donât know why I never gave it back before,â Sandor admitted, âbut it belongs to its rightful owner.â
With tears still shining in her eyes, Sansa looked at the precious piece of jewelry resting in his hand. She sniffed softly and whispered, âThis means youâre not coming back.â
It was not a question, and Sandor understood that. âItâs a way to remind you of the journey we shared,â he said quietly, âand that a dog looked after you and watched over you as best he could.â
âA man,â she corrected him at once. âYouâre not a dog. You never were to me, Sandor.â
Sandor knew then that if he did not leave at that moment, he never would.
He would wipe away her tears, pull her into his arms, and the gods alone knew what else he might do.
But he could not.
It was no longer time to postpone the inevitable.
He dressed and fastened his armor piece by piece, throwing glance after glance toward Sansaâs storm-filled eyes, but he did not yield.
âI love you,â she told him just as he reached the doorway.
He looked at her for a long moment.
But he did not answer.
Not because he did not love her in return, but because he knew that if he admitted it aloud, he would never leave her behind.
And he had to.
It was time to face his demon.
Many moons passed after Sandor left with her brother Robbâs army.
Every evening, Sansa watched the horizon, hoping to glimpse a banner or some tangible sign of their return â of his return.
She could not bring herself to accept the idea that Sandor had met some ill fate.
It would not be fair.
Not after everything he had managed to do, to conquer, not after he had found and rediscovered his human side.
No, Sansa could not believe the gods would allow such an injustice. Not toward another person so dear to her.
If Sandor did not survive, she would probably stop believing in any god at all. If he died, then Sansa thought he had been right when he told her there was no merciful or good god to rely on: one could only rely on oneself.
Though Sansa no longer held the same faith she had as a girl, she still wanted to hope in some god, old or new, who might help Sandor in his purpose. It was not a noble deed, certainly, but Sansa did not care: Sandor had to live, for her, or she would die from it.
She had no idea when, exactly, that feeling for Sandor had begun, but she knew with certainty that it was a fire she had never felt for anyone before â and never so strongly, so completely.
The snow began to fall again, slowly covering once more the road that led to the castle. Another day without any news of Robb or of him.
Sansa wrapped herself in her ice-colored cloak and left her room. With quick steps, she made her way toward the entrance of the fortress: the gate was open, and beyond it stood the guards protecting House Stark and the other inhabitants of the stronghold.
The girl watched the sunlight abandon Winterfell once again. The snow shimmered and gleamed beneath those last rays of sun, and as she looked at the soft white mantle slowly forming beneath and around her, around her home and her people, she felt an abrupt emptiness open inside her.
Was this what it meant to love? To become more vulnerable?
Sansa felt naked without him, defenseless as a soldier without armor. She missed him terribly â him and those constant sharp remarks of his. She would have given anything to receive a raven and know whether Robbâs army had won, lost, or was still fighting. She wanted to know who had prevailed between Sandor and the Mountain.
She would have sent a raven herself, but with the snow falling endlessly, it was impossible to send or receive one.
âThis winter is certainly colder than the last,â Catelyn said, joining her daughter outside.
âYes, it is,â Sansa said simply.
âWaiting is terrible, isnât it?â her mother asked.
The girl looked at her motherâs pale, tired face. She too had lost sleep.
âDuring the rebellion,â Catelyn went on, âwhen I waited for your father, I remember the anguish and pain I felt for him. It is the fate of us ladies to wait and pray for the return of our men.â
Sansa lowered her head slightly, then said, âI no longer know which gods to pray to. None of them listen. And now I wonder whether Sandor⊠whether the Hound,â she corrected herself, âwas always right. What if there are no gods and we are alone? What if we created gods only to hope for some higher help, when in truth we are the only ones who exist?â
Catelyn looked at her and tucked a strand of red hair behind her ear. âYou have changed, my child. Before, you were⊠naive. Now you are so⊠disillusioned. I do not know whether leaving you with him was wise of me.â
âMother, leaving me with him was what had to be done. He made me look at life differently. I understood that life is not a song, and that my gracious manners lead nowhere. I also learned that there will always be someone ready to betray and stab another in the back for their own interest.â Sansa looked at her mother. âWith him, I understood who I am. I am a princess of the North, but I do not know whether I will ever be able to rule with everything I have learned over these past moons.â
Her mother sighed. âYou will find someone with whom you will learn how.â
Sansa watched the darkness advance. Those words made her stomach clench painfully. She did not answer her motherâs last remark; in truth, there was something hidden in her heart that perhaps her mother would neither understand nor support.
âI am a little tired. I am going to sleep,â she said.
âI will have something sent up for you to eat. You must feed yourself. It has been two days since you last ate. At this rate, you will die before spring comes!â Catelyn exclaimed.
âAs you wish, Mother.â
The young woman lay down and immediately sank into a deep sleep filled with strange creatures made of ice. Their eyes were blue. There were ravens and other birds flying in the sky, cawing louder as they passed.
Then suddenly, everything fell silent.
The creatures vanished, and with them the ravens.
She saw a castle in flames, and soon recognized it as the Red Keep. It burned, its towers collapsing piece by piece. A great dragon flew above it, setting everything ablaze in its wake, and when the terrible beast allowed her to see the rest of the fortress, she saw Sandor and his brother fighting on a stone staircase.
Sandor was covered in blood, cuts, and scratches. The Mountain was furious, merciless, striking his brother with terrible force.
Sansa wanted to scream at Sandor to be careful, to dodge the blow, but she could not. Not a single sound came from her mouth.
She could only watch what was happening to him.
Sansa woke with a start, sweat dampening her forehead, her nightgown clinging to her like a second skin. She rose and looked out of her window. With all her heart, she hoped the images she had seen were not real. She hoped it had only been fear playing a cruel trick on her.
Perhaps that terrible nightmare was merely her mind urging her to reflect more deeply on what she felt â and, above all, to find the courage to admit aloud what her heart desired.
Yes. That had to be it.
Blood, mud, dust, splinters of wood, corpses, fire.
That was what Sandor had seen since setting foot in Kingâs Landing again.
War had torn through the houses and the city walls. Little by little, the city had begun to give way beneath the assaults from the North. The Young Wolf was gradually conquering it, and the dead who fell by his hand and by the hands of his men were countless.
The wounds suffered by Robbâs men, by Sandor, by all the Stark soldiers, were countless as well.
They had faced so many men since leaving Winterfell that Sandor no longer remembered their number, nor their faces. Young, old, sick, healthy, fat, thin, pale, dark â he remembered none of them.
His hands were stained with old blood, now darkening his skin and leaving it sticky and caked.
The cuts covering his muscular arms, broad chest, and half-burned face made him look even more threatening, if such a thing were possible. The blood still running from him, and the blood already dried, had led his companions to start calling him the Bloody Hound.
He, who had fought so hard to be rid of the name Hound, had been given another name â worse, and more fearsome than the last.
Perhaps this was his fate: to kill and be covered in other menâs blood.
The little Stark had been wrong.
The Hound would never leave him.
Not in this life, at least.
Evening had fallen, and the men of the North and the South had withdrawn to tend to their wounded. Robb and the Imp, Sandor thought, must have agreed to it.
What had become of the Lannisters, Sandor did not know. Until then, he had neither met nor glimpsed any of them. He had fought the City Watch, mercenaries, and soldiers from other houses, but of them there had been no trace.
Nor had Sandor seen his brother Gregor.
He was there for him.
Only for him.
But he never said it aloud.
Not for lack of courage, but because he was merely waiting to see him â and then he would go after him.
Had the Queen taken him with her and made him her bodyguard? Gregor, a bodyguard?
No. Impossible.
That creature lived only for himself, for killing, for raping. Nothing more.
Or perhaps she had chosen him precisely for that reason.
He should have understood much sooner.
He called himself a fool, but decided that the next day he would go to the Red Keep whether the boy approved or not. He had had enough of merely obeying.
At dawn, he left his tent and made his way toward the Red Keep.
He reached it easily.
The immense fortress seemed abandoned. He entered without anyone stopping him, climbed the enormous, imposing staircase, crossed the corridors, and finally reached the Throne Room.
There was no one there.
Could it be possible that the Lannisters had abandoned their stronghold without fighting?
Sandor was saved by the sound of running footsteps.
He turned and barely had time to parry and dodge two blows â one from an axe, one from a sword. He spun and slit the throats of two Kingsguard. Others attacked him immediately, but not a single blow caught him unprepared.
âA dog turning against his masters.â
The voice came from behind him.
The Queen.
She had appeared from somewhere he had not seen. Her hair was terribly short compared to the last time he had seen her, but her bearing was still regal and contemptuous at once.
âYou miscalculated, Clegane,â she spat with disdain. âHere is something for you to sink your teeth into. Ser Gregor.â
His brother emerged from the darkness at Cerseiâs side, enormous and beastlike.
âI knew Robb Stark would send you,â she said. âBut I did not imagine you would come alone.â
At that moment, screams and heavy thuds sounded from a few floors below.
The Queenâs smile vanished. She ordered her men to leave her guard to deal with the Hound.
Then she and other shadows disappeared behind a door.
But Sandor cared nothing for the Queen or the royal family.
â” Pairing: Imhotep x Female OC ïčïčïč Alex OâConnell x Female OC
â” Summary: When death finally claimed him, Imhotep believed his torment was finally over. But even Osiris refused to accept him into the afterlife.
As secrets buried three thousand years ago begin to awaken once more, Lena Turner â haunted by dreams of Ancient Egypt â finds herself drawn toward a cursed city beneath the sands and toward a man who should have remained dead forever.
Pairing: jackson!joel miller x f!reader (no use of Y/N)
Summary: You, after a very long trip alone across the country, arrive in Jackson. Joel is a very lonely man and after Ellie broke up with him, he's even more alone and grumpy. Tommy and Maria decide that you're going to stay at Joel's house for a while, at least until more houses are built. Will your cohabitation be easy? Or will it be more complicated than everyone thinks?
Warnings: use of you, use of alcohol, loneliness, suicidal thoughts, suicidal attempt, a short story about sexual assault that occurred in the past I won't go into details, another SA in the present days, PTSD, violence, blood, lots of sexually explicit content, use of petnames, dirty talk, fluff elements, mutual pining, the main characters spy on each other for a while, the image of the female character has the sole purpose of representing the character, but you can imagine her however you want, no physical description of the female character except for long hair often gathered in a ponytail or braid, she wears a bra and jeans (most of the time).
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When you open your eyes again, it feels like you fought and lost against something much bigger and stronger than you. Your eyes burn and you struggle to keep them open, you know you have a fever, you feel it.
Then, beyond the fever, you feel it. An even stronger pain, tearing you apart from the inside.
You don't want to complain, you're so used to making it on your own that even letting out a groan of pain seems like a sign of weakness.
When you open your eyes, you see it. The rocky ceiling of that shelter, and for a moment you struggle to understand where you are or why. Then, the memories of that last absurd day wash over you.
The patrol.
Your panic attack.
Joel waiting for you, and together you get lost in the storm.
The makeshift shelter.
The avalanche.
You fall, cut your thigh, and then he heals you.
And now the fever is eating you up despite his prompt intervention.
You huddle in the covers. You close your eyes again and your breathing barely changes. The cold creeps into your bones, under your skin.
When you open your eyes again, you look around for Joel. He's leaning against the rock face, the torches are off, and the faint light filtering through comes from outside, so all you see is his dark, but equally recognizable, silhouette.
You don't know if he's looking at you or if he's looking outside. You close your eyes for a moment again and then the pain shoots through you in an instant, making you jump and instinctively reach out to your bandaged thigh.
Joel is beside you in a moment, âShh, donât touch yourself, itâs all right,â he says in a low, hoarse voice, turning on the flashlight positioning it in such a way as to illuminate your leg âNow Iâll change your bandages, okay?â
You don't know if it's that calm tone of voice or if it's that he sees you in that state of strong vulnerability or if it's because he seems to care about someone else besides himself, the fact is that you feel a strong anger.
âWhatever,â you mutter, trying to sit up and find a position that feels less painful.
âLook, âm just tryinâ to keep it from gettinâ worse.â he tells you as he starts to unwrap the bandage.
The bandage is already dark in some places, the blood having seeped through the fabric and dried poorly from the cold. He unrolls them slowly and the pain becomes more acute, a strangled moan escapes you, you squeeze your eyes shut and feel the sting of tears building. The cold air hits your skin. You're sure your face is twisted in pain.
He mutters okay, okay, okay, I got it, but it's more like he's saying it to himself than to you.
âIt's bad, isn't it? you ask even though you already know the answer. He doesnât answer. Just a tight jaw, a brief glance. Thatâs enough.
And then you look for yourself: the wound is worse than you remembered. Not a clean cut. A tear.
The skin has split open unevenly along the inside of your thigh, just above the knee, as if something had hooked you and ripped it away. The edges are swollen, red, and too raw compared to the rest of the skin.
In the center, the meat is darker. Still wet.
Joel pauses for a moment. He doesn't touch immediately. He observes. He evaluates.
Then he takes a piece of clean cloth, wets it lightly with water and comes back to you.
âGonna clean it a bit,â he says.
You just nod.
When the tissue touches the wound, the pain doesn't explode as it used to. It's lower, but more diffuse, and more persistent.
It makes you grit your teeth.
Joel doesn't insist right away. Then, he passes the fabric along the edges, avoiding the center for a moment, as if trying not to overload the pain all at once.
You take short, controlled breaths.
You don't want him to see you react. Not that way, but your body doesn't completely agree.
As he gets closer to the worst part, you feel the tension rise again. Your fingers close on the rock beside you, on the blankets.
Joel notices, but doesn't say anything. He just makes slower movements. âStill hurts?â he asks, without stopping.
He already knows the question is pointless, but you answer anyway. âManageable.â The word comes out more strangled than expected.
Joel lets out something that might be a half-breath, almost a hint of tired irony. âYeah,â he murmurs. âSure.â
âReally,â you insist, though your tone isnât quite holding up.
Joel doesn't look up. He continues cleaning. âIt doesn't have to be,â he says simply.
You don't answer. Not right away because you know exactly what he would say and you're not sure you want to hear it.
Joel finishes cleaning and grabs the new bandages. He applies them with precise movements, carefully wrapping the fabric around your leg, not overly tight at first. When he has to lift your leg slightly to slide the bandage underneath, he hesitates for a moment. Not because he doesn't know how, but to avoid making you feel even more pain.
He barely looks at you. âTell me if itâs too much.â
You nod.
When his hands slide under your leg, the contact is inevitable. Warm. Solid. Much more real than you'd like.
The pain comes right after. Not as severe as before, but enough to make your breathing stop for a moment.
Joel stops. âHere?â
You just shake your head. âGo on.â
He does. He raises your leg just enough, then slides the bandage underneath with quick movements, so as not to prolong the pain any longer than necessary.
When he puts your leg back, the relief is immediate even if it only lasts a moment.
His hands rest for a moment on the newly applied bandage, as if he were checking something. Or perhaps holding back. Then he takes them back.
âDone.â
You still take deep breaths with your eyes closed trying to push back the pain you feel, you try to remember when you were alone before the ZQ and you ran away from the inhabited centers for fear of encountering the infected. Or when you started killing the infected or already infected people, in those circumstances you couldn't be weak or cry. You won't do it this time either.
You look up at him, you see him fiddling with something in his backpack, He pulls out a bottle of water and a sandwich. He looks up and notices your eyes on him.
âYou should eat. Drink somethinâ. Then try to sleep.â
You tsk, ââm not tired.â
You are and you know he knows, but you still don't want to give in.
âOkay.â he says, âAt least eat something and drink a sip of water.â
You take the sandwich from his hand and tear off a small piece before handing it back to him. âYou have to eat too,â you say before popping the morsel into your mouth.
âAlways so stubborn.â He mutters, shaking his head before picking up the sandwich again and taking a piece of it himself.
The wind is still blowing outside, and every now and then you're hit by gusts of snow carried by the wind at the entrance to the cave. You remember the cold you suffered once you were away from the Boston QZ, you did nothing but walk or run, hide. You were hiding not so much from runners or clickers as from small groups of marauders who would prey on wanderers, stealing their belongings and then killing them. Nevertheless...
âWanna talk?â Joel suddenly asks you.
He, who doesn't speak unless it's necessary or who usually stays silent, asks you to talk. About what? The weather? Your leg? Definitely not about him, lest Joel Miller want to talk about himself.
ââbout what?â you ask perplexed.
He hands you the sandwich back. âHowâs Dina?â
âFine,â you reply quickly, sighing. âSheâs pregnant. She has her good days and days when she canât even get out of bed.â add more acid than you would like. You change the subject, âWho made this sandwich by the way?â
âSeth, I think. Or that friend of yours, whatâs his name⊠Noah?â
You tear off another piece and chew it slowly. Dina wasnât really the point. You can hear it now. You clear your throat. âNoah doesnât work in the kitchen. His grandmother does.â
Joel pauses.
âHeâs⊠a good friend, I think.â You nod, tearing another piece of bread. âYou canât help but like him. Heâs a good guy. Helped his grandma get back to Jackson. Doesnât make a big deal out of it.â
Joel hums something under his breath.
You donât look at him. But you feel it. That shift.
You donât look at him when you speak again, but the words come out anyway, like theyâve been sitting there for longer than youâd like to admit. âYou donât like him.â
It isnât really a question, and the way you say it makes that clear enough.
Joel takes a second before answering, not out of hesitation, but as if heâs deciding how much of it is worth saying out loud. âDidnât say that.â
âYou didnât have to.â
He exhales slowly, shifting his weight against the rock, the movement small but deliberate. âJust sayinâ⊠people ainât always what they look like.â
You let out a dry breath, something that might have been a laugh if it had any warmth in it. âYeah,â you murmur, your gaze still fixed somewhere else. âI figured that out already.â
That lands heavier than it should.
You donât need to look at him to know he caught it.
Of course he did.
The silence that follows stretches, but this time you donât let it settle, because if you do, you already know itâll close over everything again. âYou didnât trust me either,â you add, quieter now, but sharper in a way that matters more. âBack then.â
Joelâs jaw tightens, just enough to notice. âThat ainâtââ
âIt is.â You cut him off before he can finish, and this time you do look at him. âYou made it pretty clear I wasnât supposed to be there.â
Your voice doesnât rise, doesnât break, but it doesnât need to. The weight of it is somewhere else entirely.
Joel doesnât interrupt. He doesnât correct you.
âYou didnât even want me there at the beginning,â you say, quieter this time, as if youâre adjusting your aim while you speak. âAnd I didnât either. I avoided you.â You swallow. âAnd you didnât really try to change that.â
Itâs not a full accusation. Not entirely.
âThenâŠâ you hesitate for a moment, âsomething shifted.â The memory flickers, but it stays. âThat nightâŠâ You donât need to explain. âAnd after.â A slower breath. âWe werenât like that anymore.â You finally look at him. âNot perfect. But⊠different.â A small pause. âFor once it didnât feel like we were in each otherâs way.â
The words sit between you, more honest than youâd like. More exposed.
Joel looks down for a moment, rubbing his thumb against his palm like heâs trying to ground himself in something physical, something simpler than this. âI didnât want you to leave.â
That lands differently now.
Because this time, you almost believe him.
You shake your head, though. âThatâs not the point.â A beat. âThen I found you drinking.â
âI know,â he says quietly. âI didnât stop.â
You donât comment. You let what he said sit there, heavy between you.
For a moment, nothing moves. Not really. The wind outside keeps scraping against the rock, pushing loose snow into the mouth of the shelter, but in here everything feels still, as if the air itself had thickened around that admission.
You keep your eyes on the ground, on the uneven surface of the stone, on anything that isnât him.
Because you donât know what to do with it.
It would be easier if he had argued, if he had pushed back, if he had given you something to resist.
But he didnât.
And now the words stay there, lodged somewhere you canât quite reach, pressing without making a sound.
You shift slightly, trying to adjust your position against the rock, but the movement pulls at your leg in a way that feels deeper than before. The pain doesnât flare up all at once. It spreads, slow and deliberate, like something seeping under your skin, settling where it shouldnât.
You inhale, more carefully this time.
Your breath doesnât come out the way you expect.
Thereâs a weight to it, something uneven that forces you to pause for half a second before letting it go.
You donât want him to notice.
You focus on keeping still, on controlling the rhythm of your breathing, on holding onto that thin line youâve been walking since you got here.
For a moment, it works.
Then your vision shifts.
Not enough to call it dizziness. Not yet. Just a slight blur at the edges, as if the light at the entrance had changed, stretched too thin across the snow.
You blink once.
The shape of the cave settles again, but it doesnât feel as stable as it did a moment ago.
You press your lips together, trying to anchor yourself in something real, something simple.
The cold, maybe.
The rock at your back.
The weight of the blankets over your shoulders.
But even that feels⊠off.
Like itâs coming from further away.
Joel moves.
You donât look at him, but you feel it anywayâthe shift in his posture, the way his attention settles more directly on you now.
âYou alright?â His voice is low, the same as before, but closer.
You nod, a little too quickly. âIâm fine.â
It comes out flat, controlled.
Your hand tightens slightly against the fabric of the blanket, more out of instinct than anything else.
You can feel the heat now. Not outside. Under your skin. It builds slowly, almost imperceptibly, but once you notice it, you canât ignore it anymore. It sits behind your eyes, dull and insistent, making everything feel just a little heavier than it should.
You shift again, trying to find a position that doesnât pull at your leg, but the movement sends another wave through you, sharper this time, enough to make your breath hitch before you can stop it.
Joel hears that.
Of course he does.
He doesnât move right away. He doesnât crowd you. But he doesnât look away either.
You can feel it.
And this time, you donât tell him to stop. Because itâs getting harder to pretend thereâs nothing to see.
Some time later.
You donât know how much.
Minutes.
Hours.
It all feels the same.
The cold is still there, but itâs different now. It doesnât sit on your skin anymore. Itâs deeper, mixed with something warmer, something that doesnât belong in this place.
Your body feels heavy. Too heavy.
When you shift, even slightly, the pain in your leg pulls through you in a way that doesnât stay where it should. It spreads, dull and persistent, threading up your side and into your chest, making your breath uneven.
A sound slips from you before you can stop it. Low. Barely there.
Joel is beside you before you fully register moving. âHey.â His voice is quieter than before. Closer.
You donât open your eyes right away.
It takes effort.
When you do, the shape in front of you doesnât settle immediately. The edges blur, shift, as if the light outside is bending around him instead of holding him in place.
You blink.
It doesnât fix it.
Your throat feels dry.
âDonâtââ you murmur, though the word doesnât land properly.
Your hand moves weakly, not pushing him away, just⊠reacting.
âDonât do that.â
Joel stills. âDo what?â
But youâre not really answering him anymore.
Your gaze drifts, unfocused.
âHeâs gonna see,â you whisper, the words uneven, barely connected. âYou canâtâ heâll thinkââ
Your breathing catches.
You swallow, but it doesnât help.
âJust stay still,â you add quickly, like youâre trying to fix something thatâs already gone wrong. âDonât talk. Donâtââ
You stop.
Your brow tightens.
For a second, something like recognition flickers.
âJoel.â
The name comes out clearer.
But it doesnât last.
Your fingers tighten weakly around the blanket.
âNo⊠no, thatâs notââ
Your voice falters again.
âStephenââ A pause. Too long.
Your head shifts slightly against the rock, as if youâre trying to follow something only you can see.
âDonât⊠donât let them take it,â you whisper, more urgently now. âTheyâll take everything. You know that. You saidââ
Another breath, sharper this time.
Your grip slips.
âRalph, donâtââ
The name breaks differently.
Your body tenses without strength behind it, like a memory trying to take hold of something that isnât there anymore.
âPleaseââ The word comes out small. Uncontrolled.
And thatâs when Joel understands.
Not everything.
But enough.
Enough to know that whatever youâre seeing itâs not him.
Joel stays where he is. He watches you as your gaze slips past him, as if he weren't really there, as if he were just another shadow inside that shelter.
Your breathing is irregular now.
âHey,â he says softly, not raising his voice, as if the noise might make everything worse rather than help. âLook at me.â
It's not an order, but an attempt.
But you struggle to really listen to him, he seems so distant and so unreachable, as if he were speaking in a low voice in a room full of voices and noises.
Joel leans down just enough to enter your field of vision without intruding. âYouâre here,â he continues, slower, enunciating his words without forcing them. âYouâre with me.â A pause. âYouâre safe.â
The wind outside scrapes the rock, stronger for a moment, and the sound enters the shelter like a distorted echo.
You jump slightly. More than the noise, it's something only you can hear.
And Joel notices, but doesn't say anything.
He reaches out a hand, but doesn't touch you right away. He stops a few inches away, giving you time to react, to refuse, if necessary. âMay I?â he murmurs.
His fingers rest lightly on your wrist, enough to make you feel his presence, to give you something concrete to anchor yourself to.
The contact is warm. Real. âBreathe slowly,â he says. âWith me.â
âYou said⊠that we were safe,â you whisper, your voice breaking apart between sobs. âYou said it was okay and they still found usâŠâ
Your breathing turns frantic.
Your fingers clutch weakly at his sleeve.
âWeâre gonna die here, arenât we?â
Joel shakes his head immediately. âNo.â His voice is firm this time. Grounded. âThatâs not gonna happen.â
You squeeze your eyes shut as tears slip down your temples and disappear into your hair.
A broken sound leaves your throat.
âI thought I knew youâŠâ you whisper.
Joel stills. For one brief, dangerous second, he thinks youâre talking to him. That maybe this is about the promise he broke. About the bottle. About losing you.
Then your lips tremble again. âNo⊠RalphâŠâ
And everything inside him goes quiet.
âHe warned me about him and IâŠâ your voice shakes violently. âI thoughtâI thoughtââ The rest dissolves into incoherent words. Fragments. Names. Half-finished apologies.
Joel doesnât ask questions. Doesnât push. Doesnât ask who Ralph is. Or Stephen. He just moves closer when your body starts shaking harder.
âHey.â His hand cups the side of your face, grounding but gentle. âLook at me.â Your eyes barely focus. âYouâre here with me.â His thumb brushes away tears you donât seem aware of. âNo oneâs gonna hurt you.â
Your breathing stutters.
Your body slowly begins to give out from exhaustion more than calm.
âThatâs it,â he murmurs. âThatâs it.â
Your grip on his sleeve weakens little by little.
Your eyes close.
This time they stay closed.
Your breathing remains uneven for a while before exhaustion finally drags you under.
Joel stays exactly where he is. He doesnât move his hand right away.
Outside, the storm continues.
Inside that shelter, the silence feels different now.
He looks at your sleeping face, at the tear tracks still drying on your skin, at the fever burning through you.
And for the first time, he understands that whatever happened before Jacksonâ it was far worse than he ever imagined.
And somehow, that realization doesnât scare him.
Summary: You must marry the Prince of Dorne. He respects you, but he doesn't want you. Years later, things change, but something disturbs and upsets your serenity; so it's up to you to reveal the secrets and lies that threaten to disturb you forever.
TW: arranged marriage, Oberyn is older than you, use of female pronouns and reference to female features of the main character, use of you, Oberyn likes men and women like in the TV series, death, violence, smut. I will mark chapters with a warning if there are descriptions that might bother you.
credits: divider created by @zaldritzosrose
MASTERLIST
Oberyn returns as the sky begins to pale into soft shades of pink. Night is no longer holding, and dawn arrives with a kind of hesitation.
The air is cold, sharp against the skin like a thin blade, and the courtyard of the castle breathes in that heavy silence that always comes before the day fully claims it. The torches along the walls are burning low, their smoke curling into the faint mist clinging to the stone.
He passes through the secondary gate, his dark cloak slipping loosely from his shoulders, his hair stirred by the wind, still damp with the nightâs humidity. His pace is slow, deliberateâas if time answers to him, not the other way around.
The guards see him.
One of them straightens instinctively, but says nothing. There is no surprise in their eyes, no reproach. Only awareness.
Oberyn inclines his head in return. Nothing more. Not a request for silenceâsimply the quiet certainty that it will be kept.
Farther off, a young servant girl carrying buckets of water falters for a moment, her gaze lifting without meaning to. She does not look at him like a master.
She looks at him with curiosity.
He does not stop.
He crosses the courtyard as though the castle were merely a passage, not a place he belongs to, and disappears beneath the arches before the sun can reach him.
Behind him, the silence does not hold.
It fractures.
And then the whispers beginâspreading faster than the light.
You are not alone.
Not in the way you usually are.
When you step out of your chambers and walk down the corridor leading to the inner staircase, you feel it immediatelyâa subtle shift in the air. Itâs not obvious. Not a murmur, not a careless gesture. Something quieter: a glance that lingers a second too long, a voice that falters the moment you pass.
One of the handmaids arranging blankets lowers into a bow, but her eyes lift for just a fraction before dropping again. There is no mockery there. No pity.
Only curiosity.
That is the difference.
Curiosity isâperhapsâmore dangerous than pity.
You descend the steps with the composure you were taught, measured and controlled, but inside it feels as though the night has left something behind.
Near an archway, two young servants speak in hushed voices. They donât notice you right away.
âHe came back late,â one murmurs.
âVery late.â
Then they see you.
They fall silent.
Their heads bow too quickly.
You donât ask for explanations. You know who theyâre talking about.
You donât care where he spent the night.
You care that it has already become a story on someone elseâs lips.
You continue toward the breakfast hall without quickening your pace. Here, dignity is the only armor they cannot strip from you.
The hall is already lit when you enter, though the natural light still struggles to overtake the candles. Your father sits at the head of the table, posture rigid and controlled, as though every morning were a negotiation to be won. Doran sits beside him, still and silent, with the calm of a man who observes before he chooses.
Baelor is seated a little farther down, and when he lifts his gaze to you, his smile is that of someone who has been waiting for the right moment.
The chair beside Doran is not empty.
Oberyn is already seated.
Drinking.
He does not look up when you enterâbut you know he has seen you.
You take your place with measured grace, hands resting in your lap before the bread is broken and the cups are filled. The silence before the first words is heavier than usual.
Baelor is not a man who knows how to remain quiet. âDid you sleep well?â he asks lightly, addressing you.
The question would be harmless in another room. Not here.
âEnough,â you reply.
âI imagine sleep can be⊠irregular,â he continues, his tone deliberately mild, âwhen one discovers that certain habits are more⊠flexible than expected.â
The strike is subtle. And precise.
Your father does not intervene.
Doran watches.
Oberyn takes another sip of wine, with almost irritating calm.
Baelor tilts his head slightly. âThe guards noticed. It seems the prince knows the village paths wellâeven in the dark.â
A servant stiffens as he sets down a dish.
You do not look at Oberyn.
You will not give him the privilege of your reaction.
At last, he sets his cup down. The sound is soft, but it is enough to draw attention. âIt is remarkable,â he says evenly, âhow men who have never stepped beyond their own walls are always the most informed about what happens outside them.â
There is no aggression in his tone. But the meaning is far from neutral.
Baelor smiles, though the smile tightens.
Oberyn continues, his gaze settling on him with quiet precision. âWhen I spend a night away from a bed, it is not to seek what I lack. It is simply because I have nothing to prove to anyone.â
The words linger in the air. Elegant. Cruel.
Baelor stiffens, and for a moment seems to search for a response that will not betray him.
Doran speaks before he can. âFreedom is often misunderstood by those who have never had it.â
Your father does not appreciate the direction the conversation has taken, but he cannot challenge it without exposing himself.
Oberyn adds, almost idly, as if offering a cultural observation rather than a calculated blow, âIn Dorne, we do not measure women by the movements of men.â
He does not look at you when he says it.
And that is precisely what unsettles you.
It is not possession. Not gallantry. It is principle.
And the balance in the room shiftsâsubtly, but irreversibly.
Baelor lowers his gaze to his plate.
For the first time, he is the one being observed.
The meal ends without further disruption, but the air does not return to what it was.
Baelor speaks less. Not silenceânever thatâbut he weighs his words now, and that alone is enough.
Your father rises first, as always, and the room moves with him. Doran remains seated a moment longer, watching his brother with that calm that is never without purpose. Then he rises as well, leaning on his cane in a gesture that appears fragile, but is only measured.
You remain seated a heartbeat too long.
You do not want to rise with Oberyn.
You do not want to seem as though you are fleeing, either.
When you finally stand, you do so without looking at him. But you feel him move at the same time. He does not touch you. He does not overtake you. He walks beside you for a few stepsâclose enough to be felt, distant enough to deny intention.
The corridor beyond the hall is cooler. The candles still burn along the walls, but daylight is beginning to win against their golden glow.
âI did not need to be defended.â
The words leave you before you can stop them.
You do not look at him.
He does not answer immediately. You feel his pace slow slightly, as though weighing the words before giving them space.
âIt was not a defense,â he says at last.
His voice is low. Unemphatic.
You stop. You have no choice but to turn. âThen what was it?â
Oberyn inclines his head slightly, as though the question is validâbut not urgent.
âA miscalculation,â he replies. âYour cousin mistook the echo of his own voice for authority.â
No sarcasm.
Only fact.
âAnd that bothers you?â you ask.
âIt bores me.â
The tone is calm, but there is something more attentive in his eyes than the word suggests.
Silence stretches between you. The corridor is empty now. The othersâ footsteps have already faded into the inner chambers.
âI donât care where you spend your nights,â you sayâbecause itâs true. Or because you want it to be.
He studies you, his gaze neither provocative nor gentle. Analytical.
âGood,â he answers. âIt would be irrelevant anyway.â
It should irritate you. Instead, it leaves you suspended.
âBut you care that they talk,â he adds after a moment.
Not a question.
A statement.
You stiffen.
âI care that they speak of me as though I were a reflection of what you do.â
A beat of silence.
Oberyn steps half a pace closer. Not enough to touch you. Enough for you to feel the warmth of him through the light fabric.
âYou are not a reflection,â he says. âAnd you are not weak.â
The words are simple. They should make you feel strong, because for a brief moment you have the sense that he has truly seen youânot as a piece. Not as a wife. Not as an obligation.
âAnd do they know that?â you ask.
A shadow of a smile crosses his face.
âI do not care what they know.â A pause. âI care what they think they know.â
Something in the way he says it tells you he is thinking beyond breakfast. Beyond Baelor. Beyond you.
And for the first time, you look at him not as an imposed presence or an unwanted husband, but as a man who is calculating, measuring, anticipating.
And that is when you remember why he still feels like a stranger.
âThereâs something youâre not telling me,â you say quietly.
Not an accusation.
An instinct.
His gaze lingers on yours a moment too long. âThere are always many things left unsaid,â he replies.
He does not deny it.
He does not confirm it.
He simply steps aside, leaving the corridor open for you.
âPrepare for the journey,â he adds, almost absently. âWe wonât be staying here much longer.â
And that is all.
He does not stop you. Does not move closer. Does not try to close the distance.
That is what brings you back to yourself.
Whatever you thought you felt a moment ago remains suspended between you. It does not grow. It does not settle.
It simply stays thereâsomething that could become something else.
Summary: Trapped in silence after everything she has endured, Sansa finally faces what was taken from her and claims a form of justice.
But victory does not bring peace: while she struggles with what she has become, Sandor is left to face the weight of his own failure â and the distance growing between them.
Before to start... thank you to follow this story đđŒâ€ïž
Thanks @vase-of-lilies for the banner
Sansa, from that day on, did not speak for the next four days and refused to see anyone. She ate the bare minimum to remain standing and avoid collapsing. She slept a great deal, but still did not bring herself to speak. It was as if what she had endured had taken away her ability to express herself as she once would have.
Her mother and her brother Robb visited her in her room every day, three times a day. Her younger brothers, Bran and Rickon, were only allowed in with Maester Luwinâs permission. She had not seen Sandor during those days, but her mind and heart were still too shaken to wonder where he was or why he had not come to her.
On the fifth day, Sansa broke that heavy, deliberate silence and asked her brother what had become of Ramsay Bolton and his men. Robb told her that all of the Bastardâs soldiers had been killed, while Ramsay himself was imprisoned in the dungeons with his hounds.
Sansa smiled.
Then she asked to be taken there.
Robb frowned, but faced with her expression, he could not find the strength to refuse.
She requested that the Hound be the one to escort her. Robb agreed almost immediately.
Sansa saw Sandor again only then. He watched her for a long moment, but she did not speak a single word to him.
She was hurtâbut also angry and disappointed. Perhaps she had been wrong to place so much trust in him. Perhaps she had simply built him up too much in her mind, and now that illusion had shattered, leaving her to realize she had been in the hands of a man no more capable of protecting her than any other.
Sansa moved forward with slow but steady steps. She knew exactly what she intended to do with Ramsay.
She took a deep breath, then, after a brief glance at the Hound, descended.
He followed her like a silent shadow. They reached the dungeon door, and there she turned to him and said simply, âWait here.â
She went down the steps alone.
The chamber below was dimly lit, and for the first time she could clearly see the size of the cage in which Ramsay sat. He was in a corner, counting something on his fingers.
Sansa watched that gesture once⊠twice.
Then she made a deliberate noise.
He looked up.
âSansa?â he smiled. âI canât see very well.â
Without a word, she picked up a torch from the wall and approached him, stopping just outside the cage. She lifted the light to his face.
âCan you see me?â she asked, her voice empty. âI want you to see me. So youâll know exactly what Iâm about to do to you.â She enunciated each word slowly, just as he had once done with her.
Then they both heard a low growl.
One of his hounds was approaching.
Sansa and Ramsay exchanged a look.
âYour words will fade,â she continued. âYour house will fade. Every memory of you will fade. Now.â
He smiled. âMy hounds wonât touch me. Iâm their master. Theyâre loyal beasts.â
Another growl echoed.
âTheyâre hungry now,â Sansa said quietly. âAnd youâre right here. With them.â
Two more hounds emerged from the shadows. They sniffed him, circling.
Then, in a heartbeat, they leapt.
Ramsay screamed.
Sansa watched as the beasts tore into what remained of their master. Blood spilled, growls deepened, flesh ripped beneath their jaws.
It was enough.
She turned her back and walked away.
Sandor had never seen eyes like hers.
Or perhaps he hadâbut never on her.
She looked ahead, a faint, victorious smile on her lips. He glanced toward the darkness she had left behind and, from the sounds, understood immediately what was happening.
He followed her in silence.
What else could he do?
When they reached the others, Sansa spoke with cold composure:
âThe prisoner is dead. Have the cage cleaned in the morning, and give the hounds to someone who knows how to handle them.â
A chill ran through Sandor at her tone.
She was no longer his little bird.
She was⊠something else.
She turned to look at him.
Her blue eyes seemed to pierce straight through him.
He had never thought her capable of looking at someone that way.
He found himself forced to look away.
âLet me take care of the hounds,â he said.
She studied him for a moment, distant. âNo. I already have someone for that.â
He missed the girl she had beenâthe gentle, naive creature who had trusted him completely. The awkward attempts she made to speak to him, her soft, courteous ways that had once made him smirk.
Now she avoided his gaze.
And when she didnât, she cut through him with it.
Did she hate him?
He wondered what horrors she had endured, imaginingâknowing herâthat she had borne them in silence.
He told himself it was time to leave.
He had failed.
Twice.
As a warrior. And as a man.
The next day, he would speak to Robb Stark and go. Face his fate. His brother.
Why should he live?
For himself? What a joke.
For battle? Against whom, once his brother was dead?
For Sansa Stark? She had her family now.
What use did she have for a dog she despised?
Afterward, Sansa asked to be left alone. Sandor watched her walk away but did not follow. He understood that no matter how composed she seemed, what she had done had shaken her.
Sandor left, and Sansa climbed the tower. The young woman felt the cold wind grow sharper with every step. She climbed higher and higher, until she reached the very top, far from the soldiers guarding Winterfell. There, she sat, letting the wind cut through her, listening as it grew harsher, while the howls of the direwolves lulled her in that freezing night.
Her eyes began to sting.
It was the cold.
It was the coldânothing else.
She had taken her revenge.
She had done the right thing.
She squeezed her eyes shut, but when she opened them again, quiet tears began to slip down her cheeks.
Ramsay deserved to die.
He deserved to suffer.
He deserved it.
She had not been wrong.
If she hadnât done it, Robb would have.
Calm down, Sansa. Calm down.
Youâre home.
No one will hurt you anymore.
Calm.
But killing Ramsay hadnât brought her the satisfaction she had imagined.
If anythingâ
it had done the opposite.
She felt like a murderer.
She was a murderer.
She had become exactly like the others.
Like Joffrey.
Like the executioner in Kingâs Landing.
Like all the people she had crossed paths with.
She had only ever wanted the best for herselfâshe had only wanted to be happy, to be a princess, to have a strong man by her side, to have children one day.
InsteadâŠ
Instead, time had made her hard, aggressive, feral.
All that remained of her were pretty words, while her waysâher very way of facing lifeâhad become harsh, ungraceful.
A terrible shame rose inside her.
And she cried.
Sandor went to the great hall instead, where soldiers were eating and drinking. He sat in a corner, drinking deeplyâtrying to drown himself in the only thing that ever brought him peace. He thought it might have been better to die at the Boltonsâ hands. At least then Sansa would have remembered him well. Now she hated him.
Perhaps that was the sign he needed to leave her behind.
She was safe. She was home.
His purpose was fulfilled.
âClegane.â He looked up. The Young Wolf stood before him. âThank you for accompanying Sansa today. She needed to face her demons.â Sandor gave a slight nod. âTomorrow we march south. Kingâs Landing.â
Robb studied him. âAfraid to face your past? Or your brother?â
âMy brother is there?â Sandor asked.
âHe is.â
A flicker passed through Sandorâs eyes.
âThen will you ride with us?â
âAye,â Sandor growled. âDamn right.â
Hours later, Sansa was found atop a tower, nearly frozen. Her lady brought her back, warmed her by the fire, brushed her hair.
Sansa studied herself in the mirror.
âDo I look so different?â she asked quietly.
âLady Sansa, if I may be honestâŠâ she began.
âYou must,â Sansa urged her.
âWell, you are. And I donât mean just your much longer hair or your paler, thinner faceâyour manners and the way you carry yourself have changed too. You are more a woman now, and less a child.â
âI am,â she said, lowering her voice. âOne should be grateful for everything, shouldnât they? Both the good and the bad?â
âIt depends. My lady, I⊠can only imagine what you must have endured and suffered with the Boltonsâand with that man with the dreadful face.â
Sansa lifted her gaze. âSandor is⊠just a wounded man. But he is by far the best man Iâve had at my side. Heâs the one who⊠protected me and⊠put up with my foolishness. And yet Iâve treated him so⊠terribly these past few days.â
She spoke aloud, but it was clear she was really speaking to herselfâabout her own disgraceful behavior over the past week.
âDo not feel guilty, Lady Sansa. You endured terrible suffering with Ramsay Bolton.â
âAnd what did Sandor have to do with that?â she asked. âWhy did I take it out on him?â
She fell silent. She needed to apologizeâimmediately.
âForgive me,â she said, rising and moving toward the door. âI⊠I need to⊠do something.â
âBut my lady, your brother asked me to stay with you until you fell asleep!â the girl protested.
Sansa turned back. âIf you see my brother, tell him you saw me fall asleep.â
With that, she left the room. Taking a torch, she descended two floors, careful not to make too much noise or draw attention. Remembering where his chamber was, she approached the door, set the torch down a short distance away, and knocked softly.
Summary: This story sets 15 yrs before The Mandalorian events, Din Djarin is hired by Rebel Alliance forces to protect and escort you, the princess of a dead planet, to your new home.
Series warnings: use of you, violence, science fantasy elements, slow burn, angst, fluff, mutual pining, eventual smut (18+ MDNI), trauma.
A/N Thanks as always for following me. Love ya â€ïž
Masterlist
Thanks @idontgetanysleep and @saradika-graphics the dividers. Thanks @vase-of-lilies for the banner. Taglist: @thegreenkid2, @harriedandharassed if someone else wants to be added let me know.
Hyperspace wraps around the Razor Crest once more like an endless sea.
Luminous streaks race past the cockpit windshield, long and unbroken, as if the universe itself had been stretched into thousands of threads of blue light. It is a sight you could never grow tired of, and yet that night it brings you no peace at all.
Youâre sitting on the small side seat of the cockpit, your hands clasped over your knees, your gaze lost ahead of you without truly seeing anything.
The memory of the moon hasnât left you yet.
The tremor of the ground.
The violet veins lighting up beneath the stone.
That sensation that moved through your body like a living current.
It wasnât fear.
Thatâs what unsettles you the most.
You could have understood fear. Youâve known fear since Arkanon was destroyed, since you left your planet, since you lost Nanuk, when Ellna became a battlefield and you saw death come closer than you had ever imagined.
But what you felt on the moon wasnât fear.
It was⊠something that didnât come from the outside and wrap around you, but instead spread through every smallest part of you. It responded.
You lower your gaze to your hands.
For a moment, you can almost still feel that warmth in your fingers, as if something inside you hasnât completely gone quiet yet.
You slowly curl your fingers into a fist.
Nothing happens.
The silence of the ship surrounds you with an almost unreal calm. The steady hum of the engines fills the metallic spaces of the Razor Crest with a constant, deep vibrationâone youâve come to recognize even when your mind is elsewhere.
Din is at the controls.
He hasnât moved from there since you left the moon.
His figure fills the pilotâs seat with the same stillness that seems to follow him everywhere: back straight, hands steady on the controls, his unseen gaze behind the helmet fixed on the endless flow of hyperspace.
From where youâre sitting, you can only see the profile of the helmet, streaked with the blue lights racing past the glass.
You wonder how long heâs been awake.
You also wonder if he ever truly sleeps.
âYou should rest.â
His voice breaks the silence of the cockpit before you even realize he was about to speak.
You lift your gaze toward him.
âIâm not tired,â you reply.
And part of that is trueâbut you are tired. Tired of not understanding what is really happening to you, who you really are.
Din doesnât turn. âIf you keep staying awake when you should be sleeping,â he says calmly, âtomorrow you wonât even be able to hold a blaster.â
A tired smile brushes your lips. âI couldnât hold it today either.â
âToday was better.â
âIs that the Mandalorian way of saying I didnât completely suck?â you ask.
For a few seconds, thereâs no answer.
Then he simply says, âItâs the Mandalorian way of saying youâre learning.â
You lean back against the seat.
Silence fills the cockpit again, but itâs not the same as before. Itâs no longer just exhaustion.
Itâs something pressing at the edges of your mind.
Eventually, you canât hold it back anymore.
âDin.â
âYes?â
âWhat happened on the moonâŠâ The words die in your throat. You donât know how to finish the sentence.
Din stays still for a few seconds.
Then he slowly moves one hand from the controls and activates a small indicator on the panel. A series of glowing symbols appears on the screen, scrolling slowly as the ship continues through hyperspace.
Only then does he speak. âIt wasnât an accident.â
Your stomach tightens. âI know,â you reply, more slowly than youâd like.
âAnd it wasnât just the planet.â
You nod, even though he canât see you.
âI know that too.â
The cockpit remains bathed in the blue light of hyperspace.
For a moment, you wonder if heâll say anything else.
Instead, silence settles between you again.
Itâs in moments like this that the distance between you feels sharper.
Not just the physical one.
Thatâs nothingâjust a few steps between the pilotâs seat and where youâre sitting.
Itâs something else you feel. Something that exists between you and that beskar helmet. Something you canât quite reach, canât truly break through.
You lower your gaze. âDoesnât it scare you?â you ask at last.
This time, Din turns just enough for the helmet to angle toward you. âWhat?â
âWhatâs happening to me.â
For a few seconds, he doesnât answer. When he finally does, his voice is lower. âIt worries me.â
The honesty surprises you. âThatâs not the same thing,â you say.
âNo,â he admits.
The helmet remains turned toward you. âFear makes you take the wrong decisions.â
You realize your fingers have curled into fists again. âAnd youâre not afraid.â
âNo.â
âWhy?â
Din is silent long enough that you think he wonât answer.
Then he says, âBecause youâre not alone.â
The words linger in the air of the cockpit.
They donât bring you real comfort. Not completely.
And yet, somehow, they steady your heartbeat.
You look away from the helmet and back at the streaks of light in hyperspace.
And yet, even as you try to focus on those endless lines of light, part of your mind keeps circling back to the same thought.
To that smooth, impenetrable surface of beskar.
To everything you cannot see.
And to the strange, frustrating feeling it stirs in you.
The silence slowly settles back into the cockpit.
The hyperspace streaks continue to stream past the windshield like rivers of blue light, steady and hypnotic, but after a few minutes you realize that staring at them doesnât help calm your thoughts. If anything, the longer you sit there, the more your mind stubbornly returns to the same images.
The moon.
The ground shifting beneath your feet.
The sensation of something responding to your fear⊠or perhaps to something even deeper.
Eventually, you stand.
You make no sound. The Razor Crest isnât a large ship, but by now you know its corridors well enough to move without bumping into anything. You pass the copilotâs seat and slip into the narrow passage that leads to the rest of the ship.
Din says nothing as you walk away.
Youâre not sure if itâs because he didnât see you leave, or because he chose to let you go.
The rear compartment is bathed in dimmer light. The internal lamps cast a warm glow along the shipâs metal wallsâbright enough to see where youâre stepping, but not enough to make the space feel truly comfortable.
NK-841 stands motionless near one of the walls, its metal frame slightly inclined forward as if resting. When you pass by, the droid emits a small, questioning beep.
âIâm fine,â you murmur.
The droid falls silent.
You sit on the edge of the bunk for a few minutes, trying to do what Din suggested earlier.
Sleep.
You close your eyes.
But the darkness doesnât bring rest.
It brings Arkanon.
You see the palace again, its pale walls touched by morning light, the sound of water in the inner gardens. You remember your siblingsâ laughter, your fatherâs steady steps through stone corridors, your motherâs voice calling your name with a gentleness that now feels like it belongs to another life.
You open your eyes.
The silence of the Razor Crest is different from the silence you remember on Arkanon.
This one isnât full of life.
Itâs empty.
You sit there for a few more minutes, but eventually you understand you wonât be able to sleep.
So you stand again.
When you return to the cockpit, Din is still where you left him.
His hands move slowly over the controls as he adjusts something on the main panel. The blue light of hyperspace reflects off his helmet, sliding across the beskar like water.
You stop by the doorway.
âI thought youâd be asleep,â he says without turning.
Itâs not a question.
âI tried.â
Din doesnât comment right away. He finishes adjusting the panel in front of him, then leans back slightly in his seat.
âIt doesnât always work the first time.â
You lean against the doorframe, crossing your arms.
âDo you ever sleep?â you ask.
âWhen itâs necessary.â
âVery reassuring answer.â
The helmet tilts slightly in your direction, as if considering whether that was a joke.
âYou donât need much sleep when traveling through hyperspace.â
âAnd yet you always look awake.â
âItâs the job.â
You take a few steps closer and sit in the copilotâs seat. From there, the view of hyperspace is even more intenseâlines of light cutting across the glass like currents in an endless ocean.
For a few minutes, neither of you speaks.
Then you say quietly, âWhat was Mandalore like?â
The question seems to surprise you almost as much as it surprises him.
Din doesnât move right away.
âWhy do you ask?â
You shrug slightly. âI donât know. Maybe because we keep talking about where weâre going⊠but never about where we come from.â
The Mandalorian remains silent for a few seconds. âI donât remember much.â
âNothing?â
âNot enough.â
That answer makes you think.
âI remember everything,â you say softly.
The helmet slowly turns toward you.
âToo much, actually.â
You lower your gaze to your hands.
âSometimes I wish I could forget,â you continue. âArkanon, my family⊠everything.â
The word lingers in the air.
Din doesnât respond immediately.
When he finally speaks, his voice is calmer. âNo.â
You look up. âNo?â
âIf you forget,â he says, âit becomes easier for others to decide who you are.â
The words hang in the cockpit.
âAnd you?â you ask after a moment. âDo you know who you are?â
Din doesnât answer right away.
Then he says simply, âI know what I have to do.â
âThatâs not the same thing.â
âSometimes it is.â
You watch the hyperspace streaks for a few seconds.
âAnd me?â you ask quietly.
âYou what?â
âWhat am I supposed to do?â
The question comes out more fragile than youâd like.
Din stays still.
âThis,â he says at last.
âRunning from one planet to another?â you ask with a faint, tired smile.
âSurvive long enough to figure out who you want to become.â
A small, incredulous laugh slips from you. âThat sounds like a very vague plan.â
âIt works more often than you think.â
Silence returns to the cockpit.
But this time, it isnât empty.
Itâs closer.
As if something between you has shifted, just slightly.
And yet, as you watch the smooth surface of the beskar helmet lit by hyperspace, that same frustrating feeling rises againâimpossible to ignore.
Because even now, even after that conversation, thereâs still something that keeps you apart.
Something you canât cross.
And you know that sooner or later, that distance will hurt again.
The silence that follows his words lasts longer than you expect.
The hyperspace streaks keep flowing past the Razor Crestâs windshield like currents of light that never change direction, and for a while you simply find yourself following them with your eyes, as if they could carry you away from the thoughts that keep returning.
But they donât.
Because your mind inevitably circles back to the same point.
To what Din said.
Survive long enough to figure out who you want to become.
You lower your gaze to your hands, still resting on your knees.
âYou make it sound simple,â you murmur after a moment.
Din doesnât move. He remains seated, his gaze fixed on the shipâs instruments.
âItâs not,â he replies.
âNo,â you repeat softly. âItâs not.â
For a few seconds, you consider stopping there. The conversation could end like that, with another silence, with you returning to the back of the ship to try and sleep again.
But something inside you wonât let you stop.
Maybe itâs the exhaustion.
Maybe itâs fear.
Or maybe itâs the fact that, since Arkanon was destroyed, no one has really allowed you to say whatâs on your mind.
âDo you know what the problem is?â you continue.
Dinâs helmet tilts slightly toward you. âTell me.â
As you take a slow breath, you feel the words coming before you can hold them back. âYou always talk like everything is⊠linear,â you say. âLike if you just keep moving forward long enough, things will eventually fall into place.â
Din doesnât answer right away.
âSometimes they do,â he says.
âSometimes,â you echo.
A tired smile brushes your lips.
âBut thatâs not how it works for me.â
The Mandalorian remains silent.
You keep your eyes on hyperspace ahead of you.
âI donât even know what I am,â you say quietly. âI donât know what was inside that room on Ellna. I donât know why the ground moves under my feet when Iâm afraid. I donât know why someone like Fulcrum would come looking for me.â
You pause, then add, âAnd most of all, I donât know if Iâm supposed to be glad they did.â
The words hang in the cockpit.
Din doesnât speak immediately.
When he does, his voice is calm. âYou donât have to be.â
You turn toward him.
âNo?â
âNo.â
The simplicity of his answer surprises you.
âWhy?â you ask.
âBecause anyone who comes looking for you,â he says, âwill have a reason.â
âAnd that doesnât worry you?â
âIt always worries me.â
That answer leaves you unsettled. âYou donât seem very worried.â
Din tilts his head slightly. âItâs not useful.â
You let out a quiet breath. âOf course,â you say. âNot useful.â
The sarcasm in your voice is light, but not enough to go unnoticed.
The Mandalorian remains still. âIf you have something to say,â he says, âsay it.â
The words land in the cockpit with a calm that irritates you more than any provocation.
âThatâs not the point.â
âThen what is?â
For a moment, you donât answer.
Because the truth is, you donât really know how to say it.
Youâre not even sure you should.
But the feeling thatâs been following you for daysâthat constant distance, that invisible barrier between you and himâpresses against your chest again.
Eventually, you sigh.
âThe point is that you always seem to know what to do.â
âNot always.â
âMost of the time.â
Din doesnât comment.
âI donât,â you continue. âI just keep⊠reacting.â
You stop.
Searching for the right word.
âSurviving,â you finish.
The Mandalorian shifts slightly in his seat.
âThatâs already a lot.â
You shake your head slowly.
âNot enough.â
Silence returns for a few seconds.
Then you say something you hadnât planned to say. âFor you, itâs different.â
The helmet turns a few degrees. âIn what way?â
You hesitate for a moment. âYouâre always⊠protected.â
The word hangs between you.
Din doesnât react immediately. âProtected?â he repeats.
You nod faintly. âBy the armor,â you say. âBy the rules. By your code.â
The Mandalorian doesnât move.
âYou know exactly who you are,â you continue. âYou know what you have to do. You know where youâre going.â
A small gesture with your hand.
âI donât.â
The hyperspace lights glide across the surface of his helmet.
âItâs not that simple,â he says.
âMaybe,â you reply quietly.
You stand from the copilotâs seat and take a few steps across the cockpit, stopping near the windshield.
The luminous currents of hyperspace seem to flow just meters beyond the glass.
For a moment, you remain silent.
Then you add, almost without realizing it, âBut at least you donât have to wonder every day if someone is trying to use you.â
The words linger in the air.
Din doesnât respond.
You keep staring ahead.
âArkanon was my home,â you say softly. âAnd now it doesnât exist anymore.â
Your chest tightens slightly, but you go on.
âEllna was supposed to be a refuge. It wasnât.â
A deeper breath.
âAnd nowâŠâ
You stop.
You donât finish the sentence.
Din finishes it for you. âNow youâre here.â
You turn slowly toward him. âYes.â
The Mandalorian watches you in silence. Then he says, âAnd youâre alive.â
That sentence, spoken with the same steady calm as always, hits you in an unexpected way.
Because you understand that, for him, it truly is the most important thing.
But at the same time⊠it isnât enough.
And something inside you hardens.
âIs that it?â you ask quietly.
âWhat.â
âIs that all that matters?â
The helmet remains still. âYes.â
The answer comes without hesitation. And that certainty is exactly what sets something off inside you. Because suddenly you understand whatâs been weighing on you the most.
Not the running.
Not the fear.
Not even the power you donât understand.
Itâs the distance. The distance that always remains between the two of you.
And as you keep looking at that smooth surface of beskar, completely hiding Dinâs face, you feel that distance suddenly become unbearable.
You stand there with your arms at your sides. Din doesnât move from his seat, and yet you can feel his attention on you.
Then the words break free.
âIs this what you always do?â you ask at last.
Your voice cuts through the silence with a calm that doesnât quite hide the exhaustion beneath it.
âWhat?â he asks.
You donât turn right away. âStay distant.â
The word lingers in the cockpit.
Din doesnât answer immediately. âIâm piloting a ship in hyperspace,â he says after a few seconds. âNot the best moment toââ
âThatâs not what I mean.â
You finally turn toward him.
The blue light of hyperspace slides across the surface of his helmet, casting shifting reflections over the beskar. Once again, youâre struck by how impossible it is to read anything behind that smooth, impenetrable surface.
âI mean⊠this,â you continue.
You make a small, vague gesture with your hand.
âAlways like this.â
Din remains still. âLike what?â
The question is simple, but you know it isnât really.
For a moment, you consider letting it go.
You still could.
You could just shrug, walk back to the rear of the ship, and pretend this conversation never happened.
But itâs too late now.
Because something inside you has already shifted.
âLike nothing can ever really touch you,â you say quietly. âLike everything that happens⊠always stays outside.â
The Mandalorian tilts his head slightly. âThatâs not true.â
âReally?â you shoot back. The word comes out sharper than you intended. âBecause from here, it doesnât look that way.â
The silence that follows is brief, but enough to tell you youâve hit something.
Din shifts slightly in his seat. âYou donât know what youâre talking about.â
âNo,â you admit immediately. âYouâre right.â You take a step toward him. âBecause I canât know.â Your gaze falls again on the helmet. âNo one can.â
The words land between you with sudden clarity.
Din says nothing.
The distance between you is only a few steps now.
And yet it still feels immense.
âEvery time we talk,â you continue slowly, âevery time you try to explain something to me⊠itâs like thereâs always a wall.â Your voice drops slightly. âI can never really see who you are.â
For a moment, time seems to stop.
Din remains completely still. âDonât talk about the helmet,â he says at last.
His voice is lower than usual. More tense. Itâs not a shouted order, but you feel it all the same.
And instead of stopping, that sentence has the opposite effect. Because suddenly you realize thatâs exactly the point.
âWhy not?â you ask.
The Mandalorian doesnât answer.
The silence lasts long enough to become an answer.
Your heart starts beating faster in your chest.
âSee?â you murmur, your gaze fixed on him. âThatâs exactly it.â
Din slowly rises from the pilotâs seat.
The movement is controlled, but thereâs a new rigidity in the way he straightens his shoulders. âLet it go.â
âI donât want to let it go.â
The words leave you before you can stop them.
The Mandalorian stops.
For a moment, you stand there in silence.
Or at least⊠you look at him. Because you have no way of knowing if heâs doing the same behind that smooth surface.
âEvery time something happens between us,â you say quietly, âevery time it feels like, for a moment, thatââ
You stop.
You canât finish the sentence. You donât need to.
âThereâs always this.â Your hand lifts slightly, gesturing toward the helmet. âAlways.â
The word lingers in the air.
Din doesnât move. âYou donât know what it means,â he says.
âThen explain it to me.â
âI canât,â he replies immediately.
And itâs that certainty that makes something snap inside you. âThere,â you say softly. Your chest tightens. âThatâs exactly the problem.â
You take another half step forward.
Now youâre really close. Close enough to see the reflections of hyperspace lights sliding across the beskar. Close enough that, for a moment, you wonder what his eyes actually look like behind that dark visor.
âI canât know what youâre thinking,â you continue. âI canât know what you feel.â Your voice falters slightly. âI canât even know if you feel anything.â
The silence that follows is heavy.
Din doesnât move.
âAnd sometimes,â you add quietly, âit feels like Iâm talking to a wall.â
The words hang between you.
For a long moment, you think youâve gone too farâthen you say the one thing you never thought you would.
âSometimes⊠I wish I didnât have to see that helmet.â
Time seems to stop.
Nothing happens. No sound. No movement.
Only the distant hum of the Razor Crestâs engines and the streams of hyperspace light still flowing beyond the glass.
Din doesnât move, doesnât speakâbut you can feel it clearly: something has shifted.
The tension in the cockpit tightens like a wire on the verge of snapping.
For a momentâjust oneâyou get the absurd feeling that something might actually happen.
That he mightâ
But it doesnât.
Din remains still.
When he speaks, his voice is even lower than before. âDonât talk about the helmet.â
The words are calm, but this time theyâre not just a request. Theyâre a boundary. And for the first time since you met him, you realize youâve touched something far deeper than you intended.
Your heart pounds in your chest.
And as you watch him standing there in his armor, unmoving, you realize that the distance between you has never felt so smallâand at the same time, so impossible to close.
For a few seconds, neither of you moves.
The hum of the Razor Crestâs engines fills the cockpit with a steady, low vibration, while beyond the windshield hyperspace keeps streaming past like an endless ocean of light. Everything around you looks exactly as it did moments ago.
And yet something has changed.
You can feel it clearly.
Din stands in front of you, unmoving.
He hasnât taken a step back, but not forward either. His body is tense, rigid in that controlled posture youâve learned to recognize when something is truly testing him.
The surface of his helmet reflects your movement as you lower your gaze.
Only then do you realize youâve been holding your breath.
You exhale slowly. âI didnât mean toâŠâ you begin.
The sentence breaks off before it can fully form.
Because the truth is, youâre not even sure what you meant to say.
Din doesnât help you finish it.
He remains silent, and his silence weighs more than the words youâve just spoken.
For a moment, you think heâs going to walk away.
That heâll return to the pilotâs seat, or simply shut the conversation down like he has before.
But he doesnât.
He stays.
Close enough that, if you reached out, you could touch the beskar.
The thought hits you suddenly.
You donât know where it comes from.
You donât even know why.
But for a moment, you actually imagine itâyour hand lifting, your fingers brushing the cold surface of the helmet, trying to understand if thereâs something beneath that metal you could finally feel.
The thought lasts only a second.
Then you push it away.
You let your arms fall to your sides.
âItâs just thatâŠâ you try again quietly, searching for the right words. âSometimes it feels like Iâm talking to someone I canât really know.â
The words linger between you.
Din doesnât move.
Then, very slowly, he inhales.
Through the helmetâs modulator, the sound is faintâbut you still hear it.
âItâs easier this way,â he says. The answer comes in that controlled calm you know so well.
And yet this time, it doesnât convince you.
âFor who?â you ask.
The Mandalorian doesnât answer right away.
The hyperspace lights continue to slide across the beskar, turning the helmet into a warped mirror reflecting the cockpit.
âFor everyone,â he says at last.
The answer leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.
You shake your head slowly. âNot for me.â
The words come out softer than you expected.
Din remains still.
He doesnât argue.
He doesnât justify himself.
And that lack of response makes everything harder.
Because suddenly the exhaustion hits all at once.
The exhaustion of days spent running.
The exhaustion of unanswered questions.
The exhaustion of not knowing what youâll become.
You take a step back.
The distance between you widens by a few centimeters.
âMaybe I should actually try to sleep,â you murmur.
The Mandalorian doesnât stop you. âYou should,â he says simply.
You stay there for one more second.
Then you turn.
You cross the cockpit without another word and head back toward the corridor leading to the rear compartment.
You donât look back.
You donât want to know if heâs still watching you.
But when you reach the threshold, his voice catches up with you. âPrincess.â
You stop.
He doesnât call you that often.
You turn slowly.
Din is still where you left him.
A dark figure in armor against the blue glow of hyperspace.
For a moment, you think heâll say something different.
Something that might change how that conversation ended.
But when he speaks, his voice is the same as always.
Controlled. Steady.
âSleeping will help.â
Your chest tightens slightly.
You nod.
âGood night, Din.â
You donât wait for an answer.
This time, you keep walking.
When you lie down on the bunk a few minutes later, the hum of the Razor Crestâs engines wraps around you like a blanket too thin to warm you.
You close your eyes.
But sleep doesnât come right away.
Because the last image left in your mind is the beskar helmet lit by hyperspace.
And the growing awareness that the distance between you and Din isnât made only of space.
Itâs made of something far harder to cross.
And as the ship glides silently through the galaxy, one thought keeps returning to you.
If one day that distance disappeared⊠you donât know whether it would be the best thing that could happenâor the most dangerous.
Summary: Javier Peña and his partner can't stand each other, but to take down an old enemy they are forced to work together and pretend to be a complacent married couple.
Series warnings: language , violence, alcohol use, slow burn, angst, mutual pining, smut (18+ MDNI), creampie, oral sex (m and f), fingering, masturbation (m and f), trauma and SA referencing.
Masterlist
Before to start⊠First let me thank you so much for your likes and reblogs, I really appreciate it âșïž Second, sorry guys, but it took me a while to write, I had neither the calm nor the time, but now here it is. I hope it's decent. If you want let me know. â€ïž
Taglist: @love-affair-with-fandoms; @pedr0swh0r3; @angel98624; @missladym1981; @harriedandharassed; @morganlolitta if you want to be added let me know.
Thanks @saradika for the divider. Thanks @vase-of-lilies for the banner
The word game lingers in the air even after no one says it anymore.
It doesnât need to be spoken aloud to keep existing. It seeps into gestures, into silences, into the way each of you avoids holding the othersâ gaze for too long. Monteiro isnât in the room, but it feels as if he has already taken up a precise space among youâa space no one can ignore.
Mark slowly lowers the tablet, as if even that simple movement could disturb something delicate and fragile.
Javier doesnât speak right away. His eyes remain fixed on the still-lit screen, but heâs not really reading the data. Heâs connecting. Reconstructing.
You stay still for a few seconds, arms still crossed, your gaze steady but not empty. Inside, everything has already started moving again.
Itâs not fear.
Itâs not anger.
Itâs something colder.
âLet me see that section again,â you say at last, addressing Mark.
Your voice is steady, but not neutral. It carries that slight tension that only appears when youâve already decided you canât afford any mistakes.
Mark steps closer and turns the tablet toward you, zooming in on the log section. âHere,â he points with two fingers, âmanual override. The code wasnât forced, no failed attempts. It was entered directly.â
You lean slightly toward the screen. Not enough to invade his space, but enough to catch every detail.
âInput interval?â you ask.
âEight-tenths of a second between blocks.â
You nod slowly. âToo slow for an automated system.â
âItâs not an error. Itâs someone who knew the sequence,â Javier adds.
You donât miss the fact that he spoke without hesitation, completing your reasoning. You donât look at him, but you register it.
âSo whoever entered it,â you continue, âknew exactly what they were doing. And when.â
Mark inhales, then scrolls to another screen. âAnd they knew where to enter it.â
âExplain.â
âThe terminal the access came from isnât the one assigned to the on-duty operator.â
This time you look up. âNot an authorized station?â
âIt is authorized,â he clarifies, âjust not for that kind of operation.â
Javier shifts slightly, stepping closer just enough to see better. âSo someone used an internal terminal with partial privileges to carry out an operation that requires full privileges.â
âExactly.â
The silence that follows is full of implications.
You straighten slowly. âThat rules out an external hacker.â
âYes,â Mark confirms. âNo remote intrusion. No anomalies in the main firewalls.â
âAnd no stolen code,â Javier adds.
This time you turn toward him. âNo. A valid code.â
The words hang there for a moment, as if no one wants to be the first to draw the conclusion.
Then Javier says it, without emphasis. âSo itâs someone inside.â
Itâs not a discovery.
Itâs a confirmation.
And thatâs why it hits harder.
Mark lowers his gaze back to the tabletânot out of uncertainty, but because heâs already looking for more, as if what just emerged is only a starting point.
You, instead, move.
You walk toward the investigation board without haste, pick up a marker, and draw a new line beneath the existing timeline. The gesture is precise, almost surgical.
You write: INTERNAL ACCESS â CONFIRMED.
Then you stop.
You donât add anything else.
Because everything else, for now, is still uncertain.
âIt canât be a random access,â Javier murmurs behind you.
You donât turn right away. âWhy?â
âBecause just being inside isnât enough to do something like that.â
You turn, slowly.
âYou need to know where to intervene,â he continues, âat what point in the system, in which time window. It takes experience.â
You nod. âOr someone giving instructions.â
âTo someone already inside,â he concludes.
Mark looks up. âSo itâs not just one person.â
You cross your arms, thinking. âNot necessarily,â you say. âBut itâs unlikely itâs a single individual without support.â
You step back toward the central table, where the folder with the photograph is still closed.
For a moment, you brush it with your fingers without opening it.
âMonteiro doesnât improvise,â you add, almost to yourself. âIf he organized the escape like this, he built the structure beforehand.â
âHow far in advance?â Mark asks.
You look at him. âFar enough to already be in place when we entered France.â
The sentence lands heavier than it should.
Javier picks it up immediately. âSo the photoâŠâ
âItâs not the beginning,â you cut in, looking at him. âItâs a phase.â
The way you say it shifts something in the room.
Youâre no longer facing an isolated event.
Youâre inside a sequence.
Mark runs a hand through his hair, thoughtful. âIf thatâs the case, then he observed not just the operation, but the team dynamics.â
âOr someone told him,â Javier replies.
You donât react immediately.
You donât want to go there out loud yet.
But the possibility is there.
And itâs not that far.
You take a step back from the table, as if you need space to think. âBefore we involve DiĂĄz,â you say at last, âI want something more concrete.â
Javier nods almost imperceptibly. Itâs not a challenge to authority. Itâs operational caution.
Mark hesitates for a moment, then accepts it too. âWhere do we start?â
You look at him.
Not like before. Not with distance.
With real focus.
âAt the edges,â you answer. âSecondary terminals. Temporary access. Rotating personnel.â You pause, then add, âAnd anyone with just enough access to go unnoticed.â
The silence that follows is no longer just concentration.
Itâs awareness.
Someone opened the door for Monteiro.
And it wasnât a mistake.
It was a choice.
And as you sit back down, as you reopen the logs and start scrolling through data that now carries a different weight, you understand that from this point on the problem is no longer just finding whoâs outside.
Itâs figuring out who stayed inside.
And that, more than any escape, is what makes the game truly dangerous.
For a few seconds, no one says anything.
The sound of the computers seems louder than usual, or maybe itâs just the way the silence has grown thicker, more present. Mark slowly goes back to his desk in the other room, already immersed in the data again, while you stay where you are, your gaze still fixed on the board, as if staring at it long enough might force it to give you an answer.
It doesnât happen.
It never works like that.
You hear the metallic click of the lighter before you even see the motion.
A small sound. But sharp.
You turn only slightly.
Javier is near the window, his back against the wall, a cigarette between his lips while the flame lights up his features for a second. He shouldnât be doing it. He knows it. You all do.
And yet he does it anyway.
The first drag is slow, almost deliberate. The smoke disperses quickly in the cold air slipping in through the crack in the window, but not enough to erase the smell.
You watch him for a second too long.
Then you turn back to the screen.
âYou know you canât smoke in here,â you say, with no real emphasis.
It isnât a reprimand.
Itâs an observation.
He exhales slowly, unhurried. âI know.â
He doesnât apologize.
He doesnât put the cigarette out.
And that, more than the gesture itself, irritates you.
Or maybe not.
Maybe it isnât irritation.
Maybe itâs just the fact that he keeps doing exactly what he wants, even now, even with everything thatâs happening.
âIf DiĂĄz comes inââ
âHe wonât,â he cuts in, with a certainty you canât tell is calculation or plain stubbornness.
His tone isnât provocative.
Itâs calm.
Too calm.
You tilt your head slightly, your gaze drifting back toward him. âHave you started predicting his movements too?â
One corner of his mouth lifts a fraction. âNo. Just yours.â
The sentence hangs between you.
It isnât meant to flirt.
It isnât meant to hurt.
Itâs stated like a fact.
And thatâs what makes it more dangerous.
You lower your eyes to the monitor, but youâre not really reading anymore. The coordinates in front of you lose meaning for a moment.
âThen you should know Iâm working,â you reply.
âI know.â
Another pause.
The smoke slowly dissolves, but its presence remains.
Javier pushes off the wall and takes a step toward the desk. Not enough to invade your space. Enough to change the distance.
âYouâve been working since we left the briefing,â he adds. âWithout stopping.â
âItâs my job.â
âNot like this.â
At last, you look up. âLike what, Peña?â
His name comes out colder than you intended.
He notices. âThe way youâre using it.â
The answer hits harder than you want it to.
Your fingers tighten slightly on the mouse. âUsing what, exactly?â
Javier stops a step away from the desk. The cigarette is burned halfway down now, smoke drifting slowly between you.
âThe work,â he says simply. âSo you donât have to think.â
Something in the way he says it gets under your skin.
Not because itâs wrong.
Because itâs too close to the truth.
âYouâre not in a position to make that kind of assessment,â you shoot back, a thread of stiffness in your voice.
He doesnât back off. âIâm not assessing you.â He falls silent for a moment before adding, âIâm observing.â
A faint half-smile escapes you, but it isnât amused. âWorse.â
The silence that follows is no longer tense the way it was before. Itâs even more⊠charged.
Javier drops his gaze for a second, then lifts it to you again. âDo you remember what you said in the conference room?â
You donât answer.
Not right away.
âThat Monteiro isnât running,â he continues, âheâs repositioning.â
You nod faintly. âYes.â
âYouâre doing the same thing.â
The sentence hits without warning.
And for a moment, you donât have an answer ready.
You just look at him.
âDonât confuse the two,â you say at last, quieter.
âIâm not.â
Javier takes another half step, then stops. This time the distance is minimal. Not enough to touch you. Enough to make everything else secondary.
âIâm saying youâre much more like him than youâd like to admit.â
That one lands.
Not because itâs offensive.
Because itâs dangerous.
âWatch what you say,â you murmur.
His gaze doesnât waver. âI am.â He goes still for a beat, then continues. âJust not enough to lie to you.â
Time seems to slow again, the way it did with the photograph.
Only this time thereâs no paper, no ink.
Thereâs just the two of you.
And everything youâre both refusing to say.
The cigarette burns slowly between Javierâs fingers.
For a moment it stays there, suspended, as if neither of you wants to be the first to break that silence that is no longer just silence.
You lower your eyes to the screen, but the lines of code have lost coherence. Not because theyâve changedâbecause youâve stopped really reading them.
Heâs too close.
Not enough to touch you.
Enough to remind you exactly what happens when he does.
You straighten almost imperceptibly, as if that small movement were enough to put things back in order.
âIf youâre done,â you say, turning back to the monitor, âwe have a more urgent problem than me.â
The sentence comes out harsher than it needed to.
Javier doesnât answer right away.
He crushes the cigarette calmly, then drops the butt into the improvised ashtray by the window. When he turns back toward you, something in his expression has changed.
Not less intense.
More controlled.
âYouâre right,â he says.
No provocation.
Just work.
And that unsettles you more than before.
Because the tension hasnât gone away.
Itâs only shifted.
âLetâs go back to the logs,â he continues, stepping toward the desk without invading your space anymore. âIf the override came from an internal terminal, I want every workstation active in that time window.â
You nod, already back in operational mode. âNot just active ones. I want the ones marked inactive too, if theyâve had recent access.â
Mark comes back in without making a sound, the tablet still in his hand, as if he kept working even while moving from one room to another.
He stops near his station but doesnât sit right away. First he listens, his eyes moving quickly from you to Javier, as if trying to understand where things stand.
âWe could check the inactive terminals too,â he says, more cautious than confident. âThe ones that show as offline but had recent access.â
You turn slightly toward him.
âDormant terminals,â you repeat, more to organize the thought than in approval.
Mark nods, this time with more certainty. âYes. If someone knows the system well enough, itâs the easiest way not to get noticed.â
âExactly,â you confirm. âIf someone knows the system, they can use a station that isnât regularly monitored.â
Mark turns fully to his computer, his fingers moving faster over the keyboard now. âGive me a minute.â
Javier remains by your desk, but this time he keeps a very precise distance. Measured.
âIf we find a discrepancy,â he says, âwe donât report it right away.â
You look at him. âYou want to work it first without bringing in DiĂĄz.â
It isnât a question.
He nods once. âUntil we know what we actually have.â
Mark speaks without taking his eyes off the screen. âThat could be risky.â
âIt is,â you answer. âBut so is moving too soon.â
A brief silence.
Then Mark stops.
Not completely.
But enough to notice.
âWait.â
You donât look up right away.
Youâve learned to recognize the difference between when someone thinks theyâve found something and when they actually have.
This is the second one.
âTalk.â
Mark enlarges one of the screens, then turns the monitor slightly toward both of you.
âThree terminals show as inactive during the override window,â he explains. âBut one of them⊠has a micro-access logged a few minutes earlier.â
You step closer.
Javier does the same.
Neither of you looks at the other.
You both look at the screen.
âMicro-access?â you ask.
âShort login. Under four seconds. No official activity recorded.â
Javier tilts his head slightly. âLong enough to authenticate.â
âAnd to open a command window,â you finish.
Mark nods. âThen exit without leaving an operational trace.â
Your heart slows instead of speeding up.
A sign youâre entering that mental zone you know well.
The one where everything reduces to logic.
To sequences.
To possibilities.
âWho had access to that terminal?â you ask.
Mark hesitates. Just for a second.
âSeveral people.â
That answer doesnât help.
âNarrow it.â
He swallows lightly, then opens another window.
âTechnical maintenance shift. Shared access.â
Javier lets out a quiet breath. âPerfect.â
Not sarcasm.
Just recognition.
âSo we donât have a name,â he says.
âNot yet,â you reply.
You donât step back from the screen.
You donât move.
âBut we have a point.â
The silence that follows is different from the ones before.
Less personal.
More⊠dangerous.
Because now itâs no longer an idea.
Itâs a direction.
Mark runs a hand through his hair, then adds, âIf we want to narrow it further, we can cross-reference the access with who was physically in the building.â
âAnd with who shouldnât have been,â Javier adds.
You nod.
âDo it,â you tell Mark. âBut local only. No central servers.â
He looks at you. âTo keepââ
ââwhoever it is,â you cut in, âfrom seeing what weâre looking for.â
He understands immediately.
âOkay.â
He starts typing again.
Javier steps half a pace away, drifting back toward the window without lighting another cigarette.
This time he follows the rule.
And you donât know whether that reassures you or irritates you more.
You stay where you are beside the desk, your eyes still on the monitor, but your mind already beyond it.
Monteiro isnât running.
Heâs building.
And someone on the inside is preparing the ground for him.
This is no longer about finding a lead.
Itâs about understanding how solid it isâand how close it really is to you.
Mark finally sits down, the screen casting a faint glow across his face as he opens a new set of windows. His fingers move quickly, but not chaoticallyâthereâs structure to it, even if itâs still unpolished.
You donât move right away.
You remain by the desk, your eyes fixed on the scrolling data, but your mind already a few steps ahead. Youâre no longer looking for a mistake.
Youâre looking for a choice.
And that changes everything.
âIf he used a dormant terminal,â you say slowly, âit wasnât random. He avoided the monitored points.â
Javier leans back against the edge of the window, arms crossed. He doesnât smoke. Not this time.
âSo he knows the internal layout,â he adds.
âOr someone gave it to him.â
You donât look at him when you say it.
You donât need to.
Mark tilts his head slightly, focused on the screen. âIâm cross-referencing access logs with physical presence in the building⊠badges, entries, exits.â
A beat.
âThis will take a few minutes.â
You nod faintly.
Time, in that room, seems to change consistency. Itâs no longer something that passesâitâs something that builds.
You move slowly toward the board, picking up the marker again. You donât write immediately. You hold it there, as if carefully deciding what deserves to be fixed in place.
Then you draw a sharper line beneath the timeline.
Below it, you add a single word: ACCESS.
Not âerror.â Not âanomaly.â
Access.
Javier watches the gesture. âYou donât think it was a weak point,â he says.
âNo.â You turn slightly toward him. âI think it was a chosen one.â
The way you say it settles the matter.
Youâre not looking for a flaw.
Youâre looking for someone who opened a door.
Mark pauses.
Not completelyâbut enough for you to know something caught his attention.
âWait.â
You donât look up immediately.
You let him continue.
âIâm narrowing down the people present on that floor during the override window.â
A pause.
âFewer than I expected.â
You step closer.
Javier pushes off the window at the same time.
You both end up behind him, without coordinating.
âHow many?â you ask.
âFive.â
Too many. And too few at the same time.
âShow me.â
Mark splits the screen into sections: badge access, terminal activity, timestamps.
âThese are the officially logged ones,â he explains.
You follow the rows.
Names.
Times.
Movements.
All clean.
Too clean.
âAnd these?â you ask, pointing to a second column.
Mark hesitates for a fraction of a second.
âSecondary access.â
âNot official.â
âNot tracked at the same level.â
Javier leans in slightly. âSo someone couldâve been there without showing up in the main logs.â
âYes.â
The silence that follows is brief, but enough.
You break it. âThen weâre not looking for who was there.â You straighten. âWeâre looking for who shouldnât have been.â
Mark nods immediately, but this time thereâs something different in the way he does it. Not uncertainty.
Focus.
âI can cross-reference with unscheduled maintenance routines,â he says.
âDo it.â
He turns back to the screen, but for a moment his fingers hover over the keyboard, as if weighing something.
Then he resumes.
Javier watches him for half a second.
He notices.
And you, without looking directly, feel it.
Not because itâs obviousâbut because youâre used to reading the smallest shifts.
You return to the board. Add another mark beneath ACCESS.
Just a line. Open.
âIf itâs someone internal,â you say, more to organize your thoughts than to share them, âthis isnât the first time.â
Javier answers without hesitation. âNo.â
âSo theyâre not afraid.â
âOr they know theyâre not being watched.â
Mark speaks, still focused on the screen. âOr they know exactly where we donât look.â
The sentence lingers.
And for the first time, itâs not just a technical hypothesis.
Itâs about you.
You stop. Look at him. Just for a second.
Then you go back to work. âThen we start looking there,â you say.
And as the room starts moving again, as the data begins to flow and the connections multiply, you realize the problem is no longer just finding a breach in the system.
Itâs accepting that someone, from the inside, already knows all of yoursâ and that, up until now, theyâve always been one step ahead.
Hours pass without you really noticing.
The light beyond the windows has grown darker, more even, as if the city has slowed down along with the rest of the team. Only a few people remain in the open space now: a couple of keyboards still active, distant voices, the steady hum of systems that keep running even when people start to give in. Mark is at his station, focused on a set of cross-checks that now move almost automatically beneath his fingers, while you havenât really stopped at all.
You never do when you find something to hold on to.
And yet, this time, itâs not just the work keeping you there.
âIf you keep going like this, youâre going to miss exactly what youâre looking for.â
Javierâs voice comes from the doorway of your office, low but enough to cut through your thoughts. You donât turn right away; you let the words settle, find a place among the data and the hypotheses youâre trying to hold together.
âI donât think so,â you reply at last, keeping your eyes on the screen.
Javier remains leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on you. The earlier tensionâthe sharper kindâis gone, replaced by something else, more controlled, as if he has deliberately chosen not to push the distance.
âYou always do this,â he adds.
You finally look up, more out of fatigue than any real intention to engage. âDo what, exactly?â
He doesnât answer immediately. He studies you, unhurried, as if carefully choosing his wordsâor deciding how far heâs willing to go.
âYou focus on what you can control,â he says, âso you donât have to look at what would make you lose it.â
The sentence lingers between you, free of any open accusation, and precisely for that reason harder to dismiss. You turn back to the screen, seeking refuge in something concrete.
âWeâre working on an internal access, Peña. Thatâs what matters.â
âI know,â he replies without moving. âBut youâre working on everything except that.â
Your fingers still on the keyboardânot hesitation, but a moment of suspension you canât fully control. âYou donât know what youâre talking about.â
âNo,â Javier admits, with a calm that disarms more than any insistence, âbut I know itâs not Monteiro thatâs making you react like this.â
That forces you to really look at him. Not in passing, not defensivelyâbut to understand how far heâs gone.
âHe is the problem,â you say, keeping your tone steady.
âItâs what he represents,â he corrects.
The silence that follows isnât empty; itâs filled with something shifting just beneath the surfaceâsomething you have no intention of bringing up. Javier tilts his head slightly, never breaking eye contact.
âAnd what does he represent?â
You could end the conversation right there. Go back to work. Let the question drop as if it carries no weight. It would be the easiest choiceâthe most consistent with everything youâve built so far.
But you donât.
âSomeone who thinks he knows how I work,â you answer, your voice lower than you intended.
âAnd that bothers you.â
âNo.â
The answer comes too quickly, and you know it the moment you say it.
Javier doesnât push, but he doesnât look away either. âIt bothers you because itâs not the first time.â
This time, youâre the one who falls silent. Not for lack of wordsâbut because the right ones arrive before youâve really decided to use them.
âThereâs always someone convinced they know exactly where to hit,â you say at last, your gaze dropping slightly. âAnd that theyâre right.â
The words come out with a naturalness that surprises you almost as much as saying them aloud.
âAnd sometimes you donât even have to do anything,â you add after a beat, âbecause it happens anyway.â
The room feels emptier, stiller, as if everything else has momentarily stepped back to leave space for that moment.
Javier speaks only after a few seconds. âItâs not the same.â
You shake your head slightly, not really looking at him. âYou donât know that.â
âNo,â he concedes, finally stepping into the room, âbut I know youâre not the cause.â
The sentence hits you with a precision you didnât expectâfar more than any direct question. You look up, and for a moment your expression loses that perfect rigidity you keep for everyone else.
âDonât say that.â
Itâs not an order. Itâs not anger.
Itâs something more fragile. More dangerous.
âWhy?â he asks, without raising his voice.
You hesitate for a second, then answer with a sincerity you hadnât planned. âBecause it doesnât work like that.â
You donât add anything else.
You donât need to.
The silence that follows is no longer as tense as beforeâbut it isnât resolved either. Javier doesnât push further, doesnât try to force a full explanation, and maybe thatâs exactly what makes the moment more real than any direct confrontation.
He stops there.
And for the first time, youâre not the one ending the conversation.
You turn back to the screen, but the data in front of you is no longer just numbers and sequences to reconstruct. Somewhere, among those accesses and anomalies, thereâs someone who knows the system well enough to move without leaving tracesâsomeone who chose exactly where to enter and when to disappear.
Monteiro isnât running.
Heâs building something.
And if itâs true that thereâs always someone convinced they know exactly where to strike, then this time itâs not just about stopping him.
Itâs about understanding how deep heâs already gone.
And, more importantly, whetherâby nowâheâs already learned how to use your own rules against you.
