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[queenunderthemountain22]

Scars and Flame Chapter List

Hi, everyone!

Here is the chapter list for Scars and Flame.

This story follows Seryna, the secret daughter of Elia Martell and Rhaegar Targaryen, who was rescued as a child during the Sack of King’s Landing by none other than Sandor Clegane. Hidden away in Dorne and raised as Oberyn Martell’s bastard, Seryna grows up unaware of the full weight of her lineage. Scars and Flame explores the forbidden love of a girl born of fire and tragedy, and the broken "knight" who once saved her life. This is a slow-burning ache of a love that defies fate itself. They are star-crossed lovers. They are each other's flame and ruin.

If you're enjoying the story and want me to keep writing, let me know! I'm always open to suggestions, ideas, or just hearing what you think. This has been such a comforting distraction from all the studying I’ve been buried in lately — and sharing it with you makes it even better. 😊

P.S. I’ve always loved Daenerys Targaryen and Sandor Clegane (The Hound). They’ve been my favorite characters from Game of Thrones since the beginning. And yes… I’m still heartbroken over how they ended Daenerys’s story. She deserved the Iron Throne. She earned it.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14 (spicy stuff ;-) hehehe)

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28 - NSFW ;-)

[queenunderthemountain22]

The Hound's Broken Lady - Part III (The Finale)

Part I. Part II.

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They arrived just before dusk.

The hills had swallowed the road hours ago, and the woods grew thicker with every mile. The sky had turned violet and bruised, the air sharp with the scent of pine and earth. In the clearing ahead stood a small, slanted farmhouse with smoke curling from its chimney and a rusted weathervane creaking overhead.

Sandor dismounted first. She stayed pressed against him a moment longer than needed before sliding off the saddle.

A man stepped out from the cabin, tall and broad-shouldered, hair going gray at the temples. He squinted as Sandor approached.

“Well,” the man muttered, “I’ll be damned. Thought you were a ghost.”

“Still breathing, Harwin,” Sandor replied gruffly.

Harwin’s eyes slid to the woman beside him. She stood wrapped in his cloak, hair tangled, face worn but radiant in the fading light.

“You always did find trouble with a pretty face.”

Sandor didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Harwin simply nodded. “You’re welcome to stay. I don’t ask questions, and I don’t open my door to strangers unless they come with steel and a death wish.”

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That night, they were given a room of their own. Small, quiet, and tucked beneath sloping beams, it held little more than a narrow bed, a shuttered window, and the scent of woodsmoke lingering in the walls. The air inside was warm, but heavy with unspoken thoughts.

She sat at the edge of the bed, her toes curled against the worn floorboards, firelight flickering across her bare feet. Sandor stood across from her, his back to the wall, arms crossed. Watching. Brooding. The worry etched into his brow was unmistakable.

He was thinking of what could still come. Who might still come.

“They won’t be looking for me,” she said quietly, breaking the silence.

His gaze lifted, wary.

“I left a note,” she added, voice steady but distant. “Before I jumped. Told them I was ending my miserable life. I said goodbye. Signed it in my own hand.”

He didn’t speak, but the flicker in his eyes gave him away. His jaw clenched. The fire cast long shadows across his face, deepening the sorrow there. The thought of losing her - really losing her - hung in the air like smoke.

“I meant it,” she whispered. “When I wrote it, I meant every word.”

Still, he said nothing. Just looked at her, stricken, as if the truth of it was too much to carry.

“But I didn’t die,” she said, softer now. “Because of you.”

Sandor moved toward her slowly, as if drawn forward by something he didn’t quite understand. He knelt before her, large hands settling gently on her knees.

Her breath caught.

She met his gaze. “Do you wish I had?”

“No,” he said at once, voice raw and thick with feeling. “Gods, no.”

He shook his head, and for the first time in years, there was emotion in his eyes that wasn’t rage or pain.

“I’ve never been more thankful for anything,” he said. “You being here. With me. Alive.”

She reached for him, brushing her fingers along his face, first the whole side, then the scarred. He didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned into her touch.

“I felt like a ghost back there,” she said, her voice trembling now. “Every day, I walked through that place feeling like I didn’t exist. I wanted someone, anyone, to look at me and see it. To understand. If they knew what it was like in my head, maybe then they would have let me go.”

She paused, then looked him straight in the eye.

“I don’t know what comes next. I don’t know where we go from here. But tonight…” Her voice grew quieter, more vulnerable. “I don’t want to sleep alone.”

He kissed her.

It was nothing like the ones before. This kiss was urgent, hungry, full of unspoken things. She clung to him, fingers twisting in his hair, pulling him closer as his hands slid up her thighs, bunching her dress at her hips.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasped against her mouth.

“I’ll never say that.”

He stood just long enough to lift her from the bed and lay her back down, covering her with his body. He kissed her neck, her jaw, the hollow of her throat, each touch slower than the last, like he wanted to memorize every inch of her.

She gasped when his hand slid beneath her shift and found bare skin. He explored her like she was something precious, dragging his fingers up her inner thigh until she arched into his touch.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured. “You always have been.”

He peeled the shift away, baring her inch by inch. Her breath trembled. But when he looked into her eyes, she wasn’t afraid.

He kissed her chest, her stomach, the soft space just above her hips. She tangled her fingers in his hair as his mouth found its way lower, teasing, worshipful, unhurried. She cried out softly when he touched her with his tongue, her thighs trembling around him.

“Sandor,” she breathed. “Please.”

He came back up slowly, kissing his way along her ribs and collarbone, dragging his body over hers. She reached between them and helped undo the ties of his trousers, her fingers shaking.

She needed this. Needed him.

When he entered her, they both gasped. Not from pain, not from surprise, but from how right it felt. He moved slowly, deeply, every thrust a quiet promise. His hands gripped her hips, her thighs, then her face, like he didn’t know where to touch her first.

She wrapped her legs around him, pulled him deeper, nails digging into his back as his rhythm grew more urgent.

She moaned his name - not Rowen’s. His.

That undid him.

He buried his face in her neck, murmuring things he couldn’t say in daylight. That he needed her. That he never thought he could love again. That she made him feel like more than a scarred shadow of a man.

She came first, her body shaking, back arching as she clung to him. He followed soon after, her name slipping from his lips in a hoarse, reverent whisper.

After, they lay tangled beneath the blanket, her head on his chest, one of his arms tucked beneath her body. Neither of them spoke.

There was no need to.

She traced the scars along his chest with gentle fingers, and for the first time, he didn’t shy away.

“I want to stay here,” she said, sleepily. “Just for a while. With you.”

His arms tightened around her.

“We’ll stay as long as you want.”

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The first thing she felt was his breath on her neck.

Warm. Slow. Steady.

The second thing was the weight of his arm draped around her waist, large and rough-palmed, yet gentle as it rested against her bare stomach. Her back was tucked to his chest, their legs tangled beneath the blanket, and their clothes were scattered somewhere across the room.

She opened her eyes slowly. Morning light spilled in through the cracks in the shuttered window, painting golden lines across the wooden floor.

For the first time in months, she felt… calm. Safe.

She closed her eyes again and allowed herself to enjoy it. The steady thrum of his heartbeat against her back. The way he exhaled like he had finally let himself rest.

“You’re awake,” he murmured behind her.

She smiled. “So are you.”

“I was watching you sleep,” he admitted.

“Creeping on me already?”

He huffed a low laugh against her skin. “I like the way you look when you’re not scowling.”

“I do not scowl.”

“You do,” he said, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “But you’re beautiful when you do it, so I don’t mind.”

She rolled onto her back to look at him, the blanket slipping down just enough to reveal the tops of her breasts. His eyes flicked down, then back up. He didn't hide it.

“You’re staring again,” she said, teasing.

“Can you blame me?” His voice had gone lower, rougher. He reached over to brush a strand of hair from her face. “You look like something out of a fever dream.”

“And you look like a bear who forgot how to shave,” she said with a grin.

He growled softly, pinning her down with his body. “Keep talking, girl, and I’ll show you exactly what bears do when they wake up.”

She laughed before gasping as he kissed her again. His mouth was warm, slow but purposeful. She arched into him, arms curling around his shoulders, legs parting without hesitation.

He slid over her, fitting perfectly, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him harder now, hungrier. She loved the way he tasted — smoke, sweat, and something uniquely him.

His hand slid down her side, over her hip, and between her thighs. She was already wet, already ready, and he groaned against her mouth.

“I haven’t even touched you yet.”

“Then stop wasting time,” she whispered.

He pushed into her slowly, deeply, making her gasp. She clung to him, fingers digging into his back, nails leaving faint trails as he began to move. This time was different, less desperation, more rhythm, more exploration. Their bodies moved together like they’d done this for years, like they already knew what the other wanted.

She kissed him everywhere. His jaw, his neck, the scarred side of his face. He groaned when she licked the sensitive edge of the burn, his hips stuttering for just a moment.

“Don’t stop,” she breathed.

“Never.”

His pace quickened. The sound of skin against skin, the soft moans, the panting breath. It all filled the room like a song only they knew.

She wrapped her legs around him tighter, pulling him deeper, and the moment she whispered his name — Sandor — he came undone.

He spilled into her with a deep growl, burying his face in her neck, arms wrapped tight around her like he couldn’t bear to let her go.

When they came down, she lay beneath him, chest rising and falling, one hand tracing circles over his shoulder.

“You didn’t ask,” she said softly.

“Ask what?”

“If I regretted last night.”

He looked at her then. “Do you?”

She smiled. “Not even a little.”

He kissed her forehead, then rolled onto his back and pulled her with him so she lay on his chest, limbs draped across him like ivy.

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Days passed quietly on the farm.

The world outside felt distant, like a half-forgotten dream. No kings. No thrones. No whispers of war or duty. Just soft mornings, long walks to the river, and the hush of wind through tall grass.

She had begun to smile more. To laugh without flinching. Her eyes no longer darted to the trees in fear, and her shoulders had lost the tension they once carried like armor. She helped Harwin’s wife gather herbs and peel vegetables, let chickens peck at her boots, and once even danced barefoot in the rain when no one was watching, except Sandor, who stood at the doorway like a statue carved from fire and longing.

At night, they slept tangled together. Some nights full of soft moans and whispered pleas, others simply quiet, her head resting on his chest while his hand stroked her back until she fell asleep.

It was peace. Not permanent, maybe. But real.

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One morning, Harwin leaned against the fence, chewing a stalk of grass as he watched Sandor split firewood with brutal precision.

“She’s good with animals,” Harwin said.

Sandor grunted.

“And she cooks better than my wife,” he added with a grin.

Sandor smirked. “Don’t let her hear you say that.”

Harwin chuckled but didn’t look away. “So… who is she?”

Sandor paused. The axe hovered in his hand, the question heavier than the wood.

Harwin continued, voice a little more careful now. “I’ve heard talk. Word from the city is Tywin Lannister’s youngest girl is dead. Some say she threw herself from a cliff. Others say it was murder. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

Sandor lowered the axe slowly and wiped the sweat from his brow. His voice was quiet but steady.

“She’s my wife.”

Harwin’s brows shot up. “You’re married?”

“Few weeks now.”

For a moment, Harwin just stared, then gave a slow nod. “Well, shit. Never thought I’d live to see the day the Hound took a wife.”

Sandor didn’t smile. His voice was softer now, almost reverent. “She’s not like the rest. Not to me.”

Harwin studied him, something thoughtful in his gaze. Then he clapped a strong hand to Sandor’s shoulder.

“You’re lucky, Sandor. Don’t fuck it up.”

Sandor gave a single nod, grateful and serious.

Harwin stepped back, voice dropping lower. “No trouble will come to you here. Not from me, not from anyone I call a friend. If someone comes knocking, they won’t find who they’re looking for.”

And with that, Harwin turned and headed back toward the farmhouse. He didn’t ask again.

Sandor watched him go, then turned back to the axe and the wood and the quiet hum of the life he never thought he’d have.

Later that day, she found Sandor sharpening his sword behind the barn, sleeves rolled to his elbows, sun catching in the curve of his shoulders.

“You told him I’m your wife?” she asked, arms folded.

He looked up, eyes unreadable. “It was easier than the truth.”

She stepped closer. “Do you wish it was the truth?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then, setting the blade down, he said, “Yes.”

Something stirred inside her. Not fear. Not grief. Something warm. Something terrifying.

She reached for his hand. He laced his fingers through hers, rough and callused but gentle.

“I think I do too,” she whispered.

That night, they sat together on the porch steps, watching the stars. She leaned against him, her head resting on his shoulder, their hands still entwined.

“Do you think we could stay here?” she asked softly. “Forever?”

“I’d stay anywhere you are,” he said.

She closed her eyes, and for the first time since Rowen died, she didn’t feel haunted. She felt home.

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The morning sun spilled through the window in golden streaks, painting the sheets in warmth. Her skin glowed in the light, hair mussed, lips kiss-swollen, and Sandor couldn’t stop staring.

She lay on top of him, her cheek pressed to his chest, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the lines of his scars. He was still buried inside her, softening now, but neither of them had moved.

They had woken wrapped around each other, and one soft kiss had turned into another. Her shift had slipped off her shoulders and then off entirely, replaced by his hands, his mouth, his body pressing her into the mattress in slow, deep thrusts that left her gasping. It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t wild.

It was worship.

And now, with her breath still uneven and her legs tangled with his, she whispered, “I could stay like this forever.”

He kissed the top of her head. “So stay.”

She lifted her head, chin resting just above his heart. “You’ll get tired of me.”

“Never.”

“You say that now.”

“I’ll say it every day if I have to.”

She smiled, but something passed through her eyes… a flicker of doubt. He saw it but didn’t press. Not yet.

Later, they worked the farm side by side, feeding the hens, hauling buckets of water, trimming vines that had grown wild over the fence. She moved slower than usual, wiped at her forehead more often, and once bent over with a wince that made Sandor stop mid-step.

“You all right?” he asked.

“Just a little dizzy. I haven’t eaten enough, maybe.”

He frowned. “Go lie down.”

“I’m fine.”

But she wasn’t.

She lasted another hour before she collapsed in the dirt near the edge of the garden, her hands bracing herself before her knees buckled completely.

Sandor was at her side in seconds.

“Hey, hey, look at me. What’s wrong?”

Her face was pale, her body trembling. He scooped her into his arms with ease, ignoring her weak protests, and carried her back inside the house. Harwin’s wife, Marta, followed close behind, ushering them into the bedroom they’d shared for the past few weeks.

Sandor laid her down gently, brushing the hair from her face, his hands shaking.

“What’s wrong with her?” he asked.

Marta was already placing a cool cloth on her forehead. She checked her pulse, pressed a hand to her belly, and looked at her eyes.

“Have you bled?” Marta asked gently.

She blinked. “Not in… I don’t know. A while.”

Marta’s expression changed.

Sandor stood frozen at the foot of the bed.

“What?” he asked. “What does that mean?”

Marta hesitated, then looked at the girl in the bed. “I think you might be with child.”

The words hit the room like thunder.

Her eyes filled with something unreadable. Not joy. Not yet. Maybe fear. Maybe awe.

Sandor stared at her, speechless.

She sat up slowly, pressing a hand to her stomach. “No… that can’t be…”

But she knew. Deep down, she knew.

Marta placed a gentle hand on her arm. “You should rest. I’ll bring you something warm to drink. You’ll need your strength.”

She left, giving them privacy.

Silence filled the room.

She looked at Sandor, her voice barely a whisper. “Are you angry?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Scared?”

He came to her side, kneeling beside the bed. “I’m scared all the time when it comes to you.”

She swallowed, eyes searching his. “I didn’t plan this.”

“Neither did I,” he said. “But if it’s true… if you’re carrying my child…”

He reached for her hand, covering it with both of his.

“Then I’ll take care of you. Of both of you.”

Tears welled in her eyes. She didn’t let them fall.

“I don’t know if I can be a mother,” she whispered.

“You can,” he said. “You’re strong. And if you want it… we’ll face it together.”

She leaned forward and pressed her forehead to his, breathing him in.

And for the first time since that terrible night in the Godswood, she didn’t feel afraid of what came next.

She felt… ready.

Or maybe just not alone.

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The days passed slowly on the farm, the kind of slow that felt like healing. The kind of slow that made her start to believe this life might actually be hers.

Her body changed first in small ways.

She tired easily. Her appetite shifted. Her breasts grew more sensitive, fuller beneath her dresses. Sandor noticed everything.

He never said much. But she saw it in the way his eyes lingered, the way his hand always found its way to the small of her back, or rested low on her belly while they lay in bed. Protective. Worshipful.

One afternoon, they sat on a fallen log beneath the tall trees behind the farmhouse, the golden haze of late sun wrapping around them. She leaned into his side, and he traced slow circles on her arm.

“We should build a place of our own,” he said.

She looked up at him, surprised.

“A house,” he clarified. “Not far. Something small. Somewhere quiet. No one would bother us.”

“You’d build it?”

“With my own hands,” he said. “Every beam. Every stone. For you. For… our child.”

She pressed her forehead to his shoulder, eyes closing. “That sounds like home.”

“It is home,” he said. “You’re mine. Always were. I just didn’t know it.”

That night, he touched her like a man who had waited years for the right to do so.

The room was quiet, lit only by the fire’s glow. She lay on her back, hair spilling over the pillow, body already starting to change in ways he couldn’t stop admiring.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, his voice gravel and silk.

“I’m different.”

He bent to kiss the swell of her breast, the soft curve of her belly. “You’re ours.”

She gasped as his hand slid beneath her nightdress, fingers tracing her thighs before slipping between them. He knew every inch of her now, where she was softest, where she needed him most.

She arched into his hand, whimpering, thighs parting further as his fingers teased her, slow and steady.

“Sandor…”

He moved above her, the weight of his body pressing her into the mattress, their skin brushing, breaths mingling. She reached down to guide him inside her, and when he entered, they both sighed, as if the world had fallen back into place.

He moved with reverence, deep and unhurried, letting her feel all of him. She clung to him, fingers dragging down his back, legs wrapping around his hips.

“I can feel you,” she whispered. “Everywhere.”

He buried his face in her neck, groaning softly. “You take me so well. Always have.”

She kissed his shoulder, his jaw, the scarred side of his face. There was no shame. No hesitation. Only love.

Their rhythm quickened, her moans growing louder, his voice rough and low as he told her how good she felt, how much he needed her. When she came, she cried out his name, body trembling beneath him, and he followed seconds later, spilling inside her with a hoarse breath and a groan pressed to her throat.

They didn’t speak right away. He lay on top of her, still joined, still hard, holding her like he might never get the chance again.

“You’re shaking,” he said, kissing her temple.

She laughed, breathless. “I can’t feel my legs.”

“I’ll fix that,” he muttered. “Just give me a minute and I’ll ruin you all over again.”

She laughed again, louder now, her hands cupping his face. “I love you.”

The words fell like honey, thick and warm.

He kissed her… slow, deep, full of everything he couldn’t say.

And in that moment, the whole world felt small.

Just firelight, sweat-slick skin, whispered promises, and the steady thrum of new life blooming between them.

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Things weren’t always easy. Her body was changing, and so were her moods. It began with sharp words over nothing, little sparks of frustration that flared before she could stop them.

The sun was barely up. Sandor had returned from chopping firewood, his arms dusted with bark and sweat. He stepped inside, setting the axe near the door, and found her in the kitchen furiously kneading bread dough with more aggression than necessary.

"Morning," he muttered, stripping off his outer layer.

She didn’t look up. “You tracked mud inside again.”

He blinked. “It’s a farm.”

“That’s not an excuse,” she said sharply. “I just swept.”

He frowned. “Didn’t mean to. I’ll clean it.”

“Don’t bother.”

She slammed the dough onto the table. He watched her for a long moment.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine.”

But her jaw was tight, her eyes already glossing over, and before he could ask again, she dropped the cloth over the bowl and stormed out into the garden without another word.

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Gods help me…”

Later, when she didn’t come back for a while, he went looking for her. He found her sitting under the willow tree near the river, arms wrapped around her knees, eyes red.

“You all right?” he asked quietly.

“No.”

He sat beside her, careful not to crowd.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she whispered. “I’m angry. I’m tired. I cried this morning because the bread was too dense.”

He didn’t laugh. He just looked at her with quiet patience.

“I don’t feel like myself.”

“You’re growing a person,” he said.

She sniffed. “A very demanding one.”

He reached out, brushing a leaf from her hair. “You’re allowed to be difficult.”

She gave a faint smile. “You’ve been more patient than I expected.”

“Because I love you.”

She leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

“I’d rather you snap than stay quiet.”

They sat in silence, her hand slipping into his. After a while, she said softly, “Have you thought about it?”

“About what?”

“The baby.”

He nodded.

“What do you think they’ll be like?”

He was quiet for a long time. She didn’t push.

Then, “I hope they have your laugh.”

She looked up at him.

“I hope they’re stubborn like you. Brave. Soft-hearted, even if they try not to be. And if it’s a girl…” He exhaled. “I’ll build her a sword before she can walk. Teach her to fight so no bastard ever makes her feel small.”

Tears pricked her eyes again. But not from sorrow.

“Do you think we’ll be good parents?”

“I think we’ll love the child more than anything,” he said. “The rest… we’ll figure out.”

She climbed into his lap, straddling him, burying her face in his neck. He held her close, his hands resting protectively on her lower back.

And for the first time, they weren’t grieving what they had lost.

They were dreaming of what could be.

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Weeks passed, the house was finally theirs.

It stood on a quiet hill just outside the forest, with wildflowers climbing along the stone walls and smoke curling gently from the chimney. Sandor had built most of it with his own hands — the beams, the hearth, the walls thick enough to hold warmth through winter.

She said it felt like safety.

Now, in the low amber glow of firelight, she stood in the small bathing room they had added last, belly round with child, body aching, heart full.

The tub was filled with warm water and crushed lavender petals, a gift from Harwin’s wife. Steam rose gently in the air. She let the cloak fall from her shoulders and stepped in, sinking down with a soft sigh.

The water eased the heaviness. She leaned back against the smooth wooden edge, eyes closed, fingers drifting across the rise of her belly.

Then she heard the door open.

She looked up.

Sandor stood there, shirt half-laced, boots already off. He took one look at her… glowing, curved, powerful and froze.

“You’re staring,” she murmured.

“Can you blame me?” he said softly.

She smiled. “Come in.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t. You never do.”

He stepped closer, slowly unfastening the rest of his shirt, then slipped into the tub behind her, the water rising slightly around them. She leaned back against his chest, his arms immediately wrapping around her, hands resting over the swell of her belly.

He pressed a kiss to her shoulder. Then another just below her ear.

“I missed this,” she whispered.

“You’ve had me every night.”

“I know,” she said, turning her face to his. “But I’ve missed this.”

She shifted, turning enough to face him, her body slick and glistening in the water. He looked down at her, her full breasts, her swollen belly, the gentle curve of her hips.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, voice husky.

Her eyes flickered. “Even now?”

“Especially now.”

She reached for him, her wet fingers brushing down his chest, lower still, until she found him already growing hard beneath the water. He hissed softly.

“Tell me if I need to stop,” she said.

“You won’t need to.”

He lifted her gently, guiding her to straddle him in the water, her belly pressing between them. She sank onto him slowly, gasping, eyes fluttering shut as he filled her inch by inch.

The water sloshed gently around them, steam curling up into the lamplight. He held her hips, steady and strong, letting her set the pace.

It was slower than before. More reverent. Every movement full of unspoken promises.

She kissed him, long, deep, soft,  as her hips moved in lazy circles, her fingers digging into his shoulders. He moaned her name into her mouth, one hand rising to cup her breast, thumb grazing the sensitive peak.

“You’re so warm,” he groaned. “So perfect.”

She whimpered, biting her lip as the pleasure built slowly, wrapped in heat and heartbeat and water.

“Touch yourself,” he whispered. “Let me watch you come.”

She obeyed without shame, her fingers moving between her thighs, breath trembling, her eyes never leaving his. Her movements grew frantic, her moans louder, echoing off the stone walls until she cried out, legs shaking, body clenching tight around him.

He came right after, his grip tightening on her hips, head dropping to her shoulder as he groaned low and deep.

They stayed like that for a while, still joined, breathless and soaked, bodies flushed and glowing.

After a long silence, she whispered, “Do you think they can hear us in the village?”

“Let them,” he said.

She laughed, leaning in to kiss him again, softer this time. “I love you.”

He stroked her back slowly. “I’ll never stop loving you. Even when we’re old. Even if you try to throw me out.”

“You’d like that,” she teased. “I’d chase you with a cane.”

“And I’d let you catch me.”

She smiled against his chest, her hand resting protectively over the child growing between them.

And in that moment, nothing else existed, only warmth, water, and the life they had built together, wrapped in love they never thought they’d find.

❀~❀~❀~❀~❀~❀~❀~❀~❀~❀~❀~❀~❀~❀~❀

The storm came in the night.

Rain pounded the roof. Thunder shook the walls. And deep within the small stone house, she woke with a gasp.

“Sandor,” she whispered, one hand clutching the sheets. “Something’s wrong.”

He was up in an instant.

“What is it?”

She sat up slowly, face pale, drenched in sweat. “It’s starting.”

His heart stopped.

“No… now?”

She let out a low sound, not quite a sob, not quite a scream, and doubled over, one hand on her belly. “It hurts.”

Panic rose in his throat like bile. He rushed to her side, lifting her gently, carrying her to the birthing cot they had prepared by the fire. His hands trembled. His mind raced. He could face a dozen men with swords and not flinch, but this… this was something else entirely.

“I’ll get Marta,” he said. “Stay here, don’t…”

She grabbed his arm, her grip surprisingly strong.

“No time. There’s no time.”

Lightning split the sky outside, illuminating the fear on her face and his own.

He knelt beside her, pressing a damp cloth to her forehead. “I’m here. I’m not leaving. Gods, I don’t know what I’m doing.”

She cried out again, her legs trembling as another contraction tore through her.

“Just breathe, little lady. You’ve fought harder things. You’re strong. So damn strong.”

“I’m not…” she gasped. “I’m scared.”

“I know,” he whispered, brushing her hair back. “So am I.”

Hours passed like lifetimes.

She screamed. She sobbed. She cursed the gods and his name and the storm and the pain. And through it all, Sandor stayed.

He wiped her brow. Held her hand. Spoke in that low, gruff voice that grounded her when she felt like slipping under.

“You’re doing so well,” he kept saying, though he wasn’t sure if it was for her or himself. “You’re almost there. I can see the head.”

She let out a ragged cry, bearing down with everything she had.

“Come on,” he begged. “Come on, little one. Let her rest.”

One final push. One last scream.

And then… silence.

The storm outside seemed to pause.

And then the child cried.

Sandor’s breath caught.

A girl.

Tiny and red-faced, she was a fierce little thing. A perfect blend of them both. Her eyes, bright green and unblinking, her hair dark as night. And her cries rang out loud and strong, like she’d entered the world ready to conquer it.

He wrapped her in a soft cloth and placed her gently on her mother’s chest. She was trembling, sobbing, smiling all at once.

“She’s perfect,” she whispered.

Sandor knelt beside them, staring at the tiny thing with wide, terrified eyes. “She’s… ours.”

He reached out with shaking fingers, brushing them over the child’s soft cheek. The baby let out a sleepy grunt and nestled closer.

“I thought I’d lose you,” he whispered.

“You didn’t.”

He bent his head, pressing a kiss to her forehead, then one to the baby's.

“I was never afraid of death,” he said softly. “But the thought of losing you… or her…”

“You didn’t,” she whispered. “We’re here.”

And for the first time in his life, Sandor Clegane cried.

He cried not from pain or rage, but from joy. From relief. From love so overwhelming it nearly broke him open.

He held them both that night, the woman who had saved him, and the daughter who would forever remind him why it was worth surviving.

❀~❀~❀~❀~❀~❀~❀~❀~❀~❀~❀~❀~❀~❀~❀

Thank you for reading!

[queenunderthemountain22]

The Hound’s Broken Lady - Part II

Read Part I Here

They made camp just off the main road, beneath a grove of willows that leaned like old ghosts over the grass. The stars had begun to appear, scattered across a velvet sky, and the night air was cool and crisp, carrying the scent of pine and smoke.

Sandor had built the fire quickly. Efficiently. His hands were rough but practiced. She watched him from where she sat on a fallen log, her knees tucked beneath her, the cloak still wrapped around her shoulders.

They hadn’t spoken much since midday. She hadn’t needed to. There was peace in the silence.

But now, with the fire crackling and no sound but the wind and distant owls, she finally said, “You’re not what I expected.”

Sandor didn’t look up from the flames. “What were you expecting?”

She smiled faintly, the expression small and shy — but real. The first in what felt like a lifetime.

“A monster, maybe.”

He grunted.

“Everyone said you were one,” she added. “When I was younger. The Hound. I used to wonder if you slept standing up with a sword in your hand.”

“I don’t,” he said. “Not always.”

That made her laugh. It caught her off guard, soft and sudden, like it had surprised her too. She looked at him, really looked this time, and something inside her fluttered.

He glanced over at her. “There it is.”

“What?”

“The smile.”

She looked away, a little too quickly, cheeks warm.

“I don’t do it often,” she said.

“You should,” he replied. “It suits you.”

She fell quiet again, her gaze drawn to the flames. They danced between them, painting his face in gold and shadow. He looked older in the firelight. Stronger. And gentler.

“I was supposed to be happy,” she whispered. “I was supposed to have a life. A home. A family with Rowen. Then one sword ruined everything.”

He didn’t speak. He knew that kind of pain. Some wounds were too deep for words.

She looked at him again. Her eyes were bright with the reflection of the fire, but not with tears this time.

“Do you think it’s possible?” she asked. “To start again?”

His answer came without hesitation. “Yes.”

She nodded slowly, letting that truth settle into her chest like warmth from the flame.

Then she stood and stepped toward him, her bare feet silent in the grass. He watched her as she crossed the small space between them, until she stopped just in front of him.

She reached out and touched his cheek — not the scarred side, but the other. Gently. Like she was trying to learn the shape of his face.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “For everything.”

He swallowed. “You don’t owe me thanks.”

“I know,” she replied. “That’s why it means something.”

For a moment, they simply stood there. Her hand still on his face. His eyes locked to hers. The world held its breath.

She leaned in, her lips barely an inch from his.

But she stopped.

She didn’t pull away, not fully, but she rested her forehead against his, her eyes closing. A soft sigh escaped her lips.

It was not a kiss. But it was almost. It was a promise. A beginning.

When she pulled back, she smiled again, wider this time. Stronger.

“I’m tired,” she said, voice quiet.

He nodded. “Get some sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

She walked to the bedroll he had laid out, settled beneath the stars, and pulled the cloak tighter around her.

And for the first time in six months, she closed her eyes without crying.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She woke to birdsong.

The sun had just begun to rise, casting a golden haze across the clearing. The fire had burned low, its embers still warm, and dew clung to the grass like tiny crystals. She blinked slowly, the scent of pine and smoke still lingering in her cloak.

And him.

Sandor sat a few feet away, feeding twigs into the fire. His hair was damp, dark curls clinging to his neck. He had removed his armor, down to his tunic, sleeves rolled up past his forearms. His hands moved with quiet focus, and for a moment, she just watched him.

She didn’t know when he had become familiar. But he had. And she liked it.

“You sleep like a rock,” he said without turning.

“You didn’t.”

“Didn’t need to.”

She sat up, the cloak slipping off one shoulder. She made no effort to fix it. His eyes flicked to her collarbone, just for a second.

“You should eat,” he added, tossing her a small bundle wrapped in cloth. “Found some berries. And bread from the village before.”

She caught it, lips twitching. “You’ve gone domestic.”

He grunted. “Shut up and eat.”

But she smiled, and this time, he didn’t look away.

They ate in silence, sitting near the fire, knees nearly touching. The tension between them was quieter than it had been the night before, but thicker somehow. He could smell her skin, faintly sweet, and the way she licked a smear of berry juice from her finger made him shift where he sat.

“You’re staring,” she said.

She leaned in a little, just enough to make his breath catch. “Do you want to kiss me again?”

He looked at her and something dark and tender flickered in his eyes.

“You kissed me,” he said.

She laughed, soft and low. “That’s true.”

She leaned back on her palms, letting the morning sun kiss her face. He watched the way her chest rose and fell, the slight arch of her spine, the hair falling down her back in loose waves. Her shift had dried overnight, but it still clung to her in ways that made his mouth go dry.

“You never answered,” she said.

He cleared his throat. “Yes.”

Her gaze snapped to him.

“I want to kiss you again.”

She didn’t speak for a moment. Then she sat up straighter and crawled forward, slowly, until she was kneeling in front of him. She was close enough now that he could feel her breath, warm against his cheek.

“Then why haven’t you?” she whispered.

He stared at her lips. His hand twitched at his side. He wanted to touch her. Gods, he wanted to pull her into his lap and make her forget every man who came before him.

But he didn’t.

“Because if I kiss you again,” he said, voice low, “I won’t want to stop.”

She swallowed. Her cheeks flushed, but she didn’t move away.

“Then don’t.”

He hesitated. Not because he didn’t want her, but because this was her choice. And he knew how much had been taken from her already.

“Are you sure?”

She reached up and placed her hand on his chest, right over his heart. “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

And then he kissed her.

Not rough. Not desperate.

Just right.

His hand cupped the back of her neck, his mouth moving slowly against hers, reverent, almost aching. She melted into it, letting her fingers curl into his shirt, holding him close like he was the only solid thing in the world.

And maybe he was.

The kiss deepened, breathless, heated. Her lips parted beneath his. His other hand slid to her waist, pulling her a little closer, her thighs brushing his. She felt the tension in his body, the restraint barely holding him back, and it made her dizzy.

When they finally broke apart, she was trembling.

He rested his forehead against hers, breathing hard.

“You’re not broken,” he said quietly. “Not to me.”

She closed her eyes.

And for the first time in a long, long time… she believed him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They rode through the day in silence, as if distance could bury the past or dull the ache that lingered between them. The road behind them faded with each mile, but the weight they carried never truly left.

When night fell, they found a quiet glade tucked beneath the trees, the sky above them painted in stars. The fire crackled low, its warmth fading, leaving the air crisp and biting against their skin. Still, neither spoke. Words felt too small for what pressed heavy in their hearts.

She stood at the edge of the clearing, fingers combing slowly through her unbound hair. Her cloak hung loose around her frame, barely shielding her from the chill. In the moonlight, her hair shimmered like silver, her figure caught between shadow and light... part ghost, part goddess, entirely unforgettable.

Sandor laid out the bedroll, a thick blanket of wool and another beneath it for insulation. He had only one. They both knew that.

When she turned and walked toward him, her eyes found his and held them.

“I don’t want to sleep alone tonight,” she said.

“You don’t have to.”

She stepped closer. “Will you stay with me?”

“I will.”

No hesitation.

She didn’t say anything else. Just slipped beneath the blanket, curling onto her side with her back to the fire. Her heart pounded so loudly she was sure he could hear it.

Sandor moved in beside her, slow and careful. The bedroll was narrow, barely wide enough for one, and their bodies pressed together by necessity. His warmth was immediate, steady and solid, and she exhaled like she had been holding her breath all day.

“Is this all right?” he asked, his voice low, almost a whisper.

She nodded against his chest. “Yes.”

For a while, that was all. Just breathing. Just the rise and fall of their chests, the feel of his fingers brushing lightly against her back through the thin fabric of her shift.

Her hand slid over his ribs, then up to rest on his chest, right over his heart.

She tilted her face up toward his. Their eyes met.

“Sandor,” she said softly.

“Yes.”

“Kiss me again.”

He didn’t need to be asked twice.

Their mouths met slowly, lips parting in a kiss that deepened with every second. It was gentle at first, but there was hunger beneath it. Want. Her hands moved to his shoulders, then tangled in his hair. His arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer until her leg hooked over his, until she was pressed against the length of him.

He groaned against her mouth.

She could feel him. Hard. Wanting. Trembling just slightly from restraint.

She pressed her forehead to his. “I want this,” she whispered. “I want you.”

His voice was rough. “You’re sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

Her hips shifted, seeking more. He responded instantly, hand sliding down her thigh, gripping it with the kind of care she hadn’t known a man could have.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he breathed.

“You won’t.”

He paused, searching her eyes. “Have you done this before?”

She shook her head, almost shy. “No... Is that bad?” Her voice wavered, uncertain, like she feared it would change the way he saw her.

His expression softened. “No. It’s not bad at all.”

He kissed her then, slowly, sweetly, as if to erase any doubt she carried. She reached for his tunic. He helped her, undressing slowly, reverently. Her shift slipped off her shoulders, her skin warming beneath his calloused hands. He looked at her like she was something holy.

She kissed him, slower now, and began to tug at his tunic. He let her. Helped her. Their clothes were shed in pieces, tossed aside without care. She touched his scars. Not with pity. With reverence.

He entered her slowly, carefully, watching her face. She gasped softly, clinging to him, letting her body open around his.

It wasn’t perfect. It was raw and tender and real.

She breathed his name. He whispered hers like it meant everything. Their bodies moved together, slow and unhurried, learning each other through every shiver and sigh. She had never known what it felt like to be held like that, not owned, not possessed, but seen. Loved.

When release came, it was quiet and overwhelming, her fingers gripping his back, his arms wrapped around her like he never wanted to let go.

They didn’t speak at first. Just lay tangled in the dark, skin to skin, the fire casting soft gold on her bare shoulder.

After a while, he brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Are you all right?”

She nodded against his chest, her voice small. “I think I am. With you... I think I’m home.”

He kissed the top of her head and held her close.

And when she fell asleep, she didn’t dream of the dead.

She dreamed of him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She woke to warmth.

Not from the fire, which had long since faded to glowing embers, but from the solid weight of the man beside her. His arm was draped around her waist, his chest rising and falling steadily against her back, his breath soft against the curve of her neck.

For a moment, she didn’t move.

The world felt still. The wind rustled gently through the trees beyond their little clearing, birds beginning to stir above them. And for the first time in a very long time, she didn’t feel the urge to run. To escape. To disappear.

She only wanted to stay here, wrapped in the scent of woodsmoke and him.

Carefully, she shifted to face him. He was still asleep, or nearly, his brow relaxed, his mouth slightly parted. Without the tension that usually held him like armor, Sandor looked almost… peaceful. Human. Handsome. Beautiful in a quiet, rough-hewn way.

She reached up and traced a fingertip lightly over his jaw.

His eyes opened.

He didn’t startle. Didn’t jerk away. He just looked at her.

“Morning,” he said, voice hoarse and low.

She smiled. “Morning.”

He reached for her instinctively, palm finding the small of her back, pulling her closer until their legs tangled again. Their bodies, still bare beneath the blanket, pressed flush. She let out a quiet breath.

“Are you sore?” he asked gently.

“A little.”

“Did I hurt you?”

She shook her head. “No. It was perfect.”

He leaned in and kissed her… slow, lingering, full of something unspoken that no longer needed words. His hand slid up her back, then down again, tracing the curve of her hip, his thumb brushing softly across her skin.

“You don’t have to hide from me,” he murmured, eyes dipping toward the blanket she held over her chest. “Not after last night.”

Her cheeks flushed. “It just feels… strange. New.”

“It should,” he said. “Because it meant something.”

She nodded, fingers tightening in his shirtless side. “It did. It does.”

He kissed her again, deeper this time. She melted into it.

And when he rolled her gently onto her back, when his hand slid over her stomach and down between her thighs, she didn’t stop him.

She opened for him like she had the night before — but this time without fear.

He touched her with reverence, fingers parting her slowly, circling where she was already warm and slick from just his kiss. She gasped softly, arching up into his palm.

“You’re already wet,” he growled into her ear. “Is that all for me?”

“Yes,” she whispered, breathless. “Only you.”

He took his time. Pressing kisses down her throat, her chest, his mouth closing softly around one breast while his fingers continued their slow, maddening rhythm. Her body trembled beneath him, thighs flexing, breath coming fast.

She came with a cry, hips bucking gently as he held her through it, whispering praise she’d never expected from a man like him.

“Beautiful,” he said. “You’re so fucking beautiful when you fall apart.”

She pulled him up to kiss her, moaning into his mouth as she reached down and took him in hand, guiding him to her.

He entered her with a low, guttural sound, both of them gasping as he slid in fully, slow, deep, deliberate.

She clung to him, arms wrapped tight around his shoulders, as he began to move.

There was no urgency. Only heat and rhythm, the brush of skin, the press of mouth to mouth. He worshipped her like she was the only soft thing left in his world.

She whispered his name over and over again, her eyes locked to his. When she came again, it was softer… a ripple through her entire body, her nails raking gently down his back.

He followed her over the edge moments later, burying himself deep and groaning into the crook of her neck, as if the sound of her had undone something in his soul.

They lay together for a long time after, limbs entwined, hearts beating fast and steady.

“I think I’m in love with you,” she whispered against his chest.

He didn’t answer right away. His arms just tightened around her, holding her like something precious, something he never thought he’d deserve.

Then he kissed her hair and spoke, voice low and raw. “I never thought I’d feel happy again. Not after everything. But lying here with you…” He paused, breathing in the scent of her skin. “It’s the first time I’ve felt like not dying. I want to live, little lady. With you.”

Her throat tightened.

Because she felt the same way.

It was as if he had reached into her mind and spoken aloud the very thing she hadn’t yet dared to admit…even to herself.

She looked up at him, eyes shining, and kissed him gently. Not because she needed to prove anything. But because she was finally home.

The fire had gone cold, but neither of them moved from the bedroll.

Sunlight filtered through the trees above, dappling golden patches across the earth. Somewhere nearby, a bird sang. The world, for once, felt slow. Still.

She lay nestled against Sandor’s chest, one leg hooked over his, their bodies comfortably tangled beneath the blanket. He traced lazy circles across her back, his calloused hand moving like he had nowhere else to be, and never wanted to be anywhere else again.

Eventually, she stirred, pressing a kiss just over his heart before glancing up with a sleepy smile.

“I’m hungry.”

He grunted. “You always are after wearing me out.”

She rolled her eyes, laughing softly. “Do you ever stop talking like a tavern brute?”

“No,” he said. “But I’ll make you something.”

She reached for her shift, pulling it over her head as he rose and dressed. They moved around each other easily now, like they’d done it a hundred times. Her stirring the fire back to life while he pulled out what little food they had left. Dried fruit, bread, salted meat. Nothing fancy.

But it felt enough. More than enough.

As they sat on a log, sharing bites and stealing looks, she went quiet. He noticed immediately.

“What is it?”

She hesitated. Then, “No one’s ever… looked at me the way you do.”

He frowned. “Like what?”

“Like I’m not broken,” she said. “Like I’m not just something to endure.”

He was quiet for a moment, then reached for her hand.

“You’re not broken. You never were. You’ve just been carrying too much alone.”

She swallowed. “When Rowen died… a part of me wanted to die with him. And when I didn’t, I hated myself for surviving. For waking up. For breathing.”

Sandor didn’t speak. Just held her hand tighter.

“I thought if I could throw myself at the world hard enough,” she continued, voice low, “I’d stop feeling. But it didn’t work. Until you.”

His voice was quiet. “What changed?”

“You never tried to fix me,” she said. “You just stayed.”

A long silence stretched between them… not uncomfortable, but heavy with meaning.

He leaned forward then, brushing a soft kiss to her temple.

“I stayed because I saw you,” he said. “All of you. And I didn’t want to look away.”

She rested her head on his shoulder, breathing in the scent of smoke, sweat, and safety.

They didn’t need anything more than this.

Not yet.

Just warmth. And words. And each other.

I will post the last part soon! Thank you for reading!

[queenunderthemountain22]

The Hound’s Broken Lady

Summary: As the youngest daughter of Tywin Lannister, you grew up lonely and sad. Soon after Cersei, Jaime and Tyrion's mother died, the court pressured Tywin to remarry. After a string of miscarriages, your mother died. Cersei loathed you, not for who you were, but for what you reminded her of: that her mother had been replaced, and far too easily. Jaime and Tyrion adored you, and Tywin loved you in his own way, although he never showed.

When your beloved betrothed was killed the day before your wedding, something in you shattered. You stopped hoping. Stopped caring. Reckless. Angry. Daring death to take you. And every time it came close, Sandor Clegane was there... pulling you back.

You didn’t ask to be saved. He didn’t ask to fall in love. But maybe… you both needed saving.

Can he save you from the edge, or will you be the one to pull him back from the dark? Can a shattered heart ever learn to love again? In the end, you have to wonder... who truly saved who?

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

She was the kind of woman the realm didn't know what to do with.

Born to Tywin Lannister long after Jaime, Cersei, and Tyrion, she had been neither groomed to wed nor positioned to rule. A daughter of poor timing, perhaps. Raised in the shadow of lions, she grew wild.

She was the only child of Tywin’s second wife, a quiet woman chosen more from political pressure than desire. His advisors had urged him to remarry. His eldest son had taken the white cloak of the Kingsguard. His second was a dwarf, scorned by both court and father alike. The line needed securing. His second wife bore him only one daughter before a string of miscarriages ended in her death.

Cersei loathed the girl, seeing her as proof that her mother had been so easily replaced. But Jaime and Tyrion loved her fiercely, in their own ways. Tywin loved her too, perhaps, but he never said it and never showed it. She grew up lonely. Sad. A shadow in a golden house.

Her only joy came with the promise of a future that had once seemed so certain.

She was eight when her betrothed was chosen, Ser Rowen Marbrand, son of Lord Damon. He was five years her senior, with a sharp jaw and an even sharper smile. They grew up side by side, best friends long before they were to be husband and wife. He trained her in secret, teaching her to ride, to strike, to parry. Not to make her a lady fit for court, but a fighter who could stand on her own. He had watched his sisters die at the hands of enemy steel, victims of conquest and cruelty, and he vowed no woman he loved would suffer the same fate.

Others called her reckless. He called her magnificent. She called him hers.

Tywin hated that his youngest daughter behaved like a man. Cersei seethed with envy. But Jaime and Tyrion watched her with pride.

Rowen died the morning before their wedding, cut down in a skirmish outside Goldengrove, his helm split in two. They brought his body back, and she did not cry. She had never cried. Not for her mother. Not for Rowen. She was never the same.

Only rage lived in her now… and recklessness.

Sandor Clegane first saw her in the yard, slashing at Jaime with a wooden sword as if she meant to kill him. She wore no dress, only breeches and a tunic soaked in sweat, her golden hair bound tight at the nape of her neck.

“She’s gone mad,” he muttered aloud.

“She’s grieving,” Jaime had said, rising from the dirt with a grin and a bruise blooming across his jaw. “Let her be.”

Sandor had only grunted then and turned away. But he found himself watching her more and more, the sadness in her green eyes, always rimmed red as if she’d just been crying; full lips that never smiled; a face meant for joy but worn down by sorrow. She was beautiful, yes, but there was something hollow in her… a broken heart she carried like armor.

And she noticed his stares.

"You again," she snapped, slamming the training sword back onto its rack. Her chest rose with effort, her cheeks flushed from heat and exertion. "What do you want now, dog? Come to drag me back to my chambers like the rest of them?"

She only ever called him that to provoke him, hoping one day it might be enough. Maybe he’d snap. Maybe he’d lose control. Maybe, if she pushed him far enough, he’d do what she couldn’t.

"I just called you a dog," she said, voice sharp and taunting. "I bet that made you angry. You want to shove your sword through my throat now, don’t you, dog?"

Sandor said nothing.

He saw through it, through all of it. She wanted a reaction, maybe even death, but not from him. Not truly. He remembered the way she had struck Joffrey for calling him the same name, remembered the fury in her eyes when others treated him like a beast.

He knew her heart was not cruel. It was tired. Bruised. And far too kind for this world, even if she buried it under blood and bravado.

So he didn’t flinch. He didn’t rise to her bait.

He just looked at her, steady and silent, and let the storm pass.

Sandor leaned against the post, arms folded. “You fight like you’re begging to be killed.”

She shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the worst fate.”

“You’re a bloody fool.”

She smiled. “Takes one to know one.”

He scowled but said nothing. She always riled him, not like Joffrey, who was all malice and cowardice beneath a crown, but in some other way. She wasn’t afraid of him. That was what he couldn’t get past.

The Lady of Lannisport, they called her. But there was no ladylike bone in her body. Not since Rowen. 

Sandor had seen her slap Joffrey once…hard, across the mouth, when the boy mocked a servant for stuttering. It wasn’t a scolding tap, but a full-handed blow that sent the prince stumbling backward. The court gasped. Joffrey shrieked and demanded her head. Cersei nearly obliged.

Then it happened again. In front of Tywin himself. Joffrey had sneered and called Sandor “Dog,” the insult heavy with cruelty. Before anyone could speak, she struck him across the face. “You. Need. To. Learn. Respect. For. Others,” she said, delivering a sharp slap with each word.

Cersei screamed for blood. But Tywin, with barely a glance at his daughter, turned to Joffrey and said coldly, “Perhaps now you’ll remember your place.”

And Sandor? He said nothing. But something shifted deep in his chest, something he hadn’t felt in years. She had defended him, not out of fear, not for favor, but because it was right. For a moment, he didn’t feel like a dog.

He felt seen.

Sandor was puzzled. What kind of girl behaved like this? Was she not afraid of death?

He saved her the first time during a royal hunt, when a wild boar charged her near the edge of the Kingswood. She had refused to ride sidesaddle, scoffing at the very suggestion, and had wandered off the trail alone. The beast burst from the trees without warning, tusks slick with blood from an earlier kill, its eyes locked on her.

She hadn’t screamed. Hadn’t run. She stood her ground and raised her spear.

But the spear wasn’t fast enough. He was.

She’d been furious.

“I had him!” she shouted, covered in mud, her hands clenched at her sides. “You ruined it!”

“You’d be dead if I hadn’t,” Sandor growled back.

“Then let me die!” she shouted, and that was when he saw it… not madness, not bravery.

Grief. Pure, undiluted grief. The kind that never healed. The kind that rotted inside the ribcage.

She fell silent then, stormed off alone.

He didn’t follow.

But he watched her, more than he should have. In the training yard, where she fought like she had nothing left to lose. At court, where she stood unbending amid silks and vipers. And in the godswood, where she sometimes sat alone with her eyes shut tight, as if praying to gods she no longer believed in.

He saw himself in her. That aching sense of not belonging. That quiet, familiar pull toward the edge of life. And somewhere along the way, without meaning to, he began to fall in love.

He wondered what it would feel like to touch her. To be touched by her. To show her she was not broken. That she was still whole, still wanted, still loved. That there was something left to live for, and someone willing to stay by her side.

She was a storm that refused to calm. He was a scarred thing, burned long before he ever met her. But when she looked at him, really looked at him, he no longer felt like a hound.

He felt like a man.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The second time he saved her was when she deliberately provoked four of Tyrion’s hired swords. Cutthroats and killers, the kind of men who would gut someone for sport. And that was exactly what she wanted. She goaded them with a wicked smile and a reckless wager, claiming that not one of them had the skill to kill her.

The insult struck deep. Their pride was sharp, but their tempers sharper. To be mocked by a girl, younger, smaller, unafraid, was too much for their egos to bear. Like starving dogs shown a scrap of meat, they lunged at the challenge.

She hadn’t expected to win. That wasn’t the point.

She struck one hard across the helm and sent another to the ground with a brutal kick to the knee. But she was slowing. Her breath came shorter. Her movements grew heavier. Still, she refused to yield.

Blood trickled from her lip. Her knuckles were split and raw. Yet she grinned through the pain, defiant to the last.

Then one of the cutthroats, humiliated and enraged, raised his blade. Not to bruise. Not to spar. To maim.

Sandor stepped in. Blade drawn. Voice cold.

“That’s enough.”

“She agreed to the fight—”

“She didn’t agree to die. Or do you truly want the blood of Tywin Lannister’s daughter on your hands?”

The threat landed. Their bravado faltered, faces paling as the weight of her name settled in. Tywin Lannister, the lion who never forgave and never forgot.

Without another word, Sandor shoved the cutthroat aside like he weighed nothing and bent to lift her off the ground, ignoring her flailing fists and furious protests. She beat at his chest, cursing him, but he didn’t let go.

Not this time.

“Put me down!” she shrieked.

He didn’t. Not until they were inside the armory, behind a thick wooden door.

She shoved him away, furious. “Why do you care?”

He stared at her, quiet.

“Stop saving me,” she said, her voice trembling now. “I don’t want to be saved.”

“You think he’d want this?” Sandor asked, eyes dark. “Rowen? You think he’d want you to die for nothing?”

Her eyes went wide, like he’d struck her. Then they narrowed, and she stormed out, leaving him alone with the echo of her breathless silence.

He found her days later in the stables, brushing her horse long after dusk. She didn’t look at him when he approached.

“You’re a fool,” she said, softly this time. “You don’t know what it feels like to lose everything.”

“I know more than you think,” he said.

She looked up. He saw something break there, something sharp give way to something soft.

“I’m not worth saving,” she whispered.

“Too bad,” he said gruffly. “I already did.”

And she, Tywin Lannister’s wild daughter, the girl who wouldn’t grieve, the girl who would rather bleed than cry, just stood there and let him be close.

She didn’t say thank you. He didn’t need her to. She didn’t run. That was enough.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Six months had passed since they buried Ser Rowen Marbrand.

Winter loomed on the horizon, and the court had grown cold in more ways than one. Rumors stirred like dead leaves. Some said Tywin Lannister’s youngest daughter had gone mad. Others whispered that she brawled with knights and cutthroats for coin, or that she wandered the halls at night speaking to ghosts.

Tywin summoned her to court on the first day of the new moon. The air in the throne room was dry and brittle. Sunlight filtered in through the high windows, cold and colorless.

She entered in breeches, boots, and the same scowl she had worn since the morning Rowen died. Her hair was tied back, her sword belted at her hip. She did not kneel.

"My daughter," Tywin began, voice as sharp and flat as a blade. "You were once promised. Now you will be promised again."

She did not flinch. "To whom?"

"Lord Martyn Westerling. A loyal house, once prosperous. He is widowed, without scandal. He will treat you well and has agreed to the match."

"I don't care if he is a saint." Her tone cut like frost. "I will not marry him."

A low ripple moved through the chamber. Jaime shifted his weight behind Tywin’s right shoulder. Cersei watched with quiet satisfaction. Tyrion looked down, expression unreadable.

Tywin did not blink. "You will. The banns will be posted before the week’s end. The ceremony before winter."

"No." Her voice trembled, but it was not weakness. It was fury. "You can't force me. I will never love again. I will never allow anyone to touch me. I will end my life before that happens."

Gasps echoed across the hall.

Sandor felt something inside him fracture. He had never believed in softness or second chances. But when he looked at her, he had dared to hope. He had wondered what it might be like to hold her without her pulling away. To be the one who showed her she was still whole, still worthy of love. That maybe, one day, she would look at him not with bitterness, but with trust.

Now she had spoken the words aloud. Never.

"You speak like a child," Tywin said, voice measured and cold. "Grief has made you proud. That pride has turned to defiance. But I will not allow this family to be disgraced by your stubbornness."

"Disgrace?" she snapped. "You think this is about disgrace?"

"This is about duty," he said. "You will do as I command. You will marry Lord Westerling before the first snow falls. That is final."

"No."

"Enough." Tywin stood. The hall fell silent.

She did not move. Not right away. Her eyes burned, but she held her ground. Then she turned and walked out, each step loud against the marble floor.

The godswood was silent that night, cloaked in fog and frost. Moonlight filtered through the weirwood branches in pale ribbons, and the face carved into the white bark watched with ancient, empty eyes.

She sat beneath it, curled in on herself, clutching a bloodstained shirt torn at the seams. Rowen’s shirt. The last he had worn in the training yard before he left for Goldengrove. The fabric was stiff now, the blood dark and cracked with time, but she held it like something sacred.

Her shoulders shook.

For days, she had fought. For months, she had bitten back the scream that lived in her chest. But here, under the watch of the old gods, she broke. The sound that escaped her was raw and guttural, not the cry of a lady but the cry of a wound torn open too many times. Her grief had no shape, no end, only sharp edges.

Sandor saw her from the shadows.

He had not meant to follow. He had gone to clear his head, to walk the night like he always did when sleep refused to come. But the sight of her there, small and broken in the dark, shattered whatever resolve he had.

He stepped forward.

She heard him. Did not turn. “Leave me alone.” Her voice was hoarse.

He stayed where he was.

She looked up then, eyes swollen and glassy. Her lip trembled. “Unless you’re here to gut me, leave me be.”

The words hit him like a blow to the chest. He said nothing at first, only lowered himself to the ground a short distance from her, keeping space, giving her the choice.

He let the silence stretch before speaking. “I know how you feel.”

Her fingers gripped the shirt tighter.

“I loved once,” he said, voice rough. “Years ago. She was… soft. Kind to me when no one else was. My brother didn’t like that. Thought it made me weak. He hated seeing any glimmer of happiness in me. He killed her. In front of me.”

She turned her face away, but he saw her jaw clench. Her breath hitched again.

“I thought I would never get past it,” Sandor continued. “I wanted to die every day after. I didn’t speak to anyone. Didn’t eat for days. Just waited for someone to end me in a fight or for the pain to stop on its own.”

She still said nothing, but he could tell she was listening.

“It will get better, little lady. Not all at once. Not for a long time. But it will.”

Her fingers relaxed just slightly around the shirt.

“I knew Rowen. He was my friend. A good man. Too good for war. He… he used to talk about you.”

She looked at him now. Just barely.

“He said you were like fire and wildflowers. That no one would ever tame you. And that he hoped they never would.”

That broke something in her. She pressed the shirt to her chest and turned her face into her knees, trying to muffle the sobs that escaped her throat. Her body trembled as the ache poured out in a single, breathless stream. Sandor said nothing. He only sat there and listened as she cried for the boy she loved, for the life they never had, for the years she would now face alone.

When her cries quieted, she whispered, “I will not marry some fat old lord.”

“You don’t have to,” Sandor said gently. “But you should meet him. Just once. To calm your father down. Let him believe you’re considering it.”

She scoffed through her tears. “And if he orders the wedding anyway?”

“I won’t let that happen,” Sandor said. “I swear it. I’ll help you any way I can.”

She did not look at him.

He wanted to reach for her. To place a hand on her shoulder. To brush the hair from her face, to hold her and let her know she wasn’t alone.

But he didn’t. He rose slowly, left her with the gods, and walked back into the dark.

Behind him, she clutched the bloody shirt, breathing through her grief in silence.

And for the first time in months, she was not alone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They dressed her in silk. A deep crimson gown, tight at the waist, with golden stitching along the hem. Her hair was brushed until it shone, left to fall in soft waves over her shoulders. A chain of rubies circled her throat. She looked every inch the lady her father had always wanted her to be.

And she hated it.

Sandor stood near the far wall of the hall when she entered. Conversation quieted as eyes turned to her, to the transformation that had taken grief and dressed it in polish. She walked slowly, her face unreadable, a careful smile pinned to her lips like a brooch too heavy to wear.

She stopped beside Tywin, who gave her a single approving nod before gesturing to the tall man waiting in front of them.

“Lord Martyn Westerling,” Tywin said. “May I present my daughter.”

The lord bowed. He was not grotesque or cruel, merely plain and plump with thinning hair and the eyes of a man who’d spent too long in halls full of wine and whispers. He offered her his hand. She gave it politely.

Sandor watched her closely. She tilted her head, said all the right things, offered a small smile. But he saw the truth. He saw the tremble in her fingertips and the way her eyes darted to the exit. The smile never reached her eyes. Her voice never held warmth.

It was not conversation. It was survival.

When the lord finally took his leave, she turned on her heel and walked quickly out of the room.

Sandor followed, keeping to the shadows. No one noticed. He was good at not being seen when he wanted.

He trailed her through the corridors, past the great hall, and up the winding stairs to her chambers. When she reached the door, she pushed it open with trembling hands and vanished inside.

A moment later, he heard it.

The sound was soft at first. Then louder. Muffled cries, choked by fists pressed to her mouth. He stood outside, fists clenched at his sides, helpless.

He did not knock. He did not go in. He stood there, listening, until the crying stopped.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was near midnight when he saw her again.

He had returned to the cliffs beyond the edge of the keep, a place he often went when sleep refused him. The sea crashed below, dark and endless, lit only by moonlight.

She stood near the edge.

Her gown was gone. She wore only a shift now, her hair loose, clinging to her face in the wind. Her bare feet gripped the rocky edge, arms at her sides.

“Stop,” Sandor called out, voice low but firm.

She turned her head slightly, but she didn’t move.

“You don’t want to do this.”

“I already did,” she whispered, almost to herself.

And then she stepped forward.

Sandor ran.

The scream lodged in his throat. He reached the edge just as she disappeared into the black. Without a breath of hesitation, he leapt after her.

The sea swallowed them both.

The cold was brutal. The current pulled hard, trying to drag her under. But he found her, arms slack, face pale beneath the water. He grabbed her, kicked upward, and broke the surface gasping. Waves battered him from all sides, but he didn’t let go. He held her with one arm and swam toward the distant shore with the other.

When they reached the beach, he pulled her onto the rocks, coughing and breathless. Her body trembled. Her eyes fluttered open.

She looked at him. And something in her gaze changed.

“Rowen?” she whispered, voice cracked and soft.

Sandor froze.

She reached for him, her hand brushing his face. “You came back.”

Before he could speak, she leaned in and kissed him.

It was desperate. Breathless. Full of longing and grief. Her lips tasted of salt and sorrow, and her hands trembled as they touched his chest.

Sandor didn’t move. He let her kiss him. He let her believe, for one fleeting moment, that her heart had not been broken.

Because maybe, just maybe, it was the only way she could survive the night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She woke to the sound of waves.

The sky above her was pale gray, streaked with the first light of dawn. Her body ached from cold and salt, her shift soaked through and clinging to her skin. She felt the scrape of stone beneath her and the heaviness of limbs that had nearly given up the night before.

Beside her, a fire crackled low. Someone had built it from driftwood and dried seaweed. Its warmth barely reached her, but it was enough.

She blinked and turned her head.

Sandor sat a few feet away, hunched with his elbows on his knees, staring out at the sea.

For a moment, she just looked at him.

Memories came in fragments. The cliff. The jump. Water swallowing her whole. Arms pulling her back. A mouth on hers.

And then she remembered what she had said.

Rowen.

She sat up sharply. Her breath caught in her throat.

Sandor turned, his dark eyes meeting hers.

“I…” She swallowed hard. “I thought you were…”

“I know who you thought I was,” he said quietly.

Shame burned in her cheeks. She looked away.

“I didn’t mean to—” Her voice cracked. “That kiss—”

“You don’t need to explain.”

Silence settled between them. Only the ocean moved.

He stood slowly, grabbed his cloak from the ground, and draped it around her shoulders. She didn’t stop him. She didn’t speak.

“I brought a horse,” he said. “It’s waiting just up the path.”

She nodded but didn’t move. Her hands gripped the cloak tighter, eyes on the waves.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“You were drowning,” he replied. “I’d rather be kissed by a ghost than drag your body from the sea.”

She winced.

He turned to leave, but paused.

“I meant what I said,” he added without looking back. “I’ll help you, any way I can. Even if it’s just to make sure you keep breathing.”

Then he walked up the path, leaving her alone with the sea. 

As he walked up, he kept playing it over in his mind. The way she had looked at him. The way her lips had felt. The way she had said another man’s name with such desperate love. He had wanted her to see him.

Not as a hound. Not as a shadow. As a man. A man who cared for her. A man who would kill for her, and die for her, and never ask for anything in return.

But she hadn’t seen him. Not really. She had seen Rowen.

And maybe that was all he would ever be to her. A body to fall into when the grief got too heavy. A silent guardian. A ghost with a heartbeat.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She sat in silence for a long moment, wrapped in his cloak, the fire crackling softly beside her. The waves rolled and crashed, the tide beginning to rise. The sky was lightening by the minute, the sun threatening to break over the horizon.

“Sandor,” she called out.

He stopped.

She stood now, unsteady on her feet, the wind tugging at her wet hair.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice rough but clear. “For the fire. For the horse. For... not walking away.”

She stepped forward, just enough for her voice to carry. “But I’m not going back up there.”

His brow furrowed.

“I can’t return to the Keep. To the court. To him.” Her voice shook. “I don’t know where I’ll go. Somewhere far away from here. Somewhere I can breathe.”

She met his eyes. There was pain there, but something else too. Resolve. A flicker of freedom.

“You can go back,” she said. “You’ve done more than enough. Truly.”

He looked at her for a long time, then took a step closer. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but he cut her off before she could.

“Rowen would never forgive me if I left you alone.”

She blinked.

“Wherever you want to go,” Sandor said, his voice low, steady. “I’ll take you.”

The wind howled between them. She stared at him, uncertain. Somewhere inside her, something twisted. Not in pain this time — not entirely.

She didn’t want to drag him down. Didn’t want him to see how far she might fall again. And yet... she wanted him near.

He wasn’t Rowen. But he was here. Solid. Honest. Unmoving.

She nodded once, just barely. “All right,” she whispered.

Sandor said nothing more. He only turned and walked toward the waiting horse, knowing she would follow.

And this time, she did.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They left at dawn.

The Red Keep was still asleep behind them, veiled in mist and distance. The path ahead was uncertain, but for once, neither of them cared. There were no guards. No demands. No court watching with eager eyes.

Only the road and the sound of hooves over damp earth.

They rode in silence at first. Her arms wrapped loosely around his middle, her head tucked just beneath his shoulder. Sandor didn’t speak. He could feel her breathing, slow and steady, and he didn't want to break the moment.

After some time, when the capital had shrunk behind them and the trees grew thicker, he asked, “Where do you want to go?”

She hesitated, resting her chin lightly against his back.

“Somewhere quiet,” she said. “Somewhere lonely. I don’t want to be around people. Not yet.”

He nodded. That was all he had ever wanted too — to be away from noise, from cruelty, from eyes that judged and mouths that mocked. Somewhere safe. Somewhere still.

“Aye, I can do that,” he said.

He meant it. He would take her anywhere she asked. He would carry her across every road in Westeros if it meant she could breathe again.

They continued on for another hour, moving slowly through a patch of dense forest where the air was damp and cool. Her shift had mostly dried beneath his cloak, but she still held it tight around her, fingers brushing his ribs.

“Next chance I get,” Sandor said, his voice low, “I’ll find you a horse. You won’t have to ride with me like this.”

She didn’t answer right away.

Then, softly, “Sandor… I don’t want another horse.”

He glanced back, just enough to see her eyes.

“If it’s all right with you,” she added, “I’d like to ride with you. A little longer.”

He said nothing. But his hands gripped the reins just a little tighter.

She didn’t say it, but she liked the way it felt — her chest pressed to his back, his warmth surrounding her. It made her feel safe in a way she hadn’t felt since Rowen. Not even then, really. It was different. Calmer. Less golden flame, more steady fire.

And there was something else too. A tension that grew with every bump in the road. Every time the horse shifted and her thighs pressed tighter around his hips. Every time she felt his muscles move beneath her hands. She found herself staring at the back of his neck too long, at the shape of his shoulders beneath the rough fabric of his tunic.

She hated how much she liked it.

He was not soft. Not delicate. Not a prince or a golden knight. But he was real. And he had not left her. Not once.

“Thank you,” she said suddenly.

Sandor looked back again. “For what?”

“For jumping.”

He didn’t smile. Not really. But there was something softer in the lines of his face.

“I would have done it again,” he said.

She looked at him, at the scarred side of his face, and her chest tightened.

She wasn’t ready. Not fully. But a part of her, the part that had been frozen for six long months, was beginning to thaw. And it was thawing for him.

Part II

[queenunderthemountain22]

Scars and Flame

Chapter 28: What promise?

Night had fallen gently over King’s Landing.

The city hummed with the quiet exhaustion that follows celebration and chaos — only the flicker of distant torches and the hush of waves against Blackwater Bay remained.

But within the royal guest wing, behind heavy carved doors, the world had shrunk to something quieter still. Something intimate.

Seryna sat in the deep marble tub, knees drawn to her chest, her dark hair pinned loosely atop her head. Steam curled upward like silk, fogging the sconces and gilded mirror, and the scent of Dornish rose oil lingered heavy in the air.

The water shimmered around her bare skin, golden in the candlelight. Her lips — still pink from the training yard — were slightly parted. Her breath slow. She was waiting.

And she heard him before she saw him.

The soft scrape of stone. The creak of the secret passage. Footsteps she could name in a heartbeat.

A corner of her mouth curled. “You’re late.”

Sandor Clegane stepped from the shadows, already tugging off his cloak. “You keep summoning me, girl,” he growled, “one of these days someone’s going to notice.”

“And yet, here you are.”

He didn’t answer. Just stared.

She was breathtaking. Steam had flushed her cheeks, kissed her collarbones. Water beaded along her shoulders, gliding down to her breasts like prayer. Her thighs gleamed beneath the surface. Her scarred lip only made her more real — more hers.

“You’re playing with fire,” he murmured, voice low and rough.

Seryna tilted her head. “Then join me in the flame.”

Sandor exhaled sharply through his nose. “Don’t tempt me, girl.”

“I’m not tempting,” she said, swirling the water with her fingers. “I’m offering.”

That made him still.

Seryna leaned back slightly, exposing more of her skin above the waterline, her chest rising and falling slowly. “I’m yours, Sandor. I’ve always been.”

His eyes darkened.

He stripped.

Not in haste — but with deliberate quiet. Tunic, boots, breeches. His scars were bathed in gold light. Every line of him was carved by war, by pain, by survival. And still… he was beautiful. Massive and solid, like something meant to be leaned on. His body told a story of fire and fury. And when he stepped into the water, her breath caught.

He was warm. Alive. There, with her.

Seryna’s eyes fell — and widened.

He was… well-endowed was too polite a phrase. He was impossible not to notice. And utterly unbothered by her staring.

She bit her lip.

He noticed.

“Don’t look at me like that, girl,” he warned softly, sinking into the tub across from her. “I made you a promise. I’m not breaking it.”

She moved closer, letting her legs drift across the water to touch his. “What promise?”

He reached out, brushed a damp strand of hair from her temple. “That I wouldn’t take your virtue till you were mine fully. Not claimed behind closed doors. Not whispered like a secret.”

Her hand rose and touched his chest — where his heart thundered beneath rough skin.

“I am yours fully,” she said, voice barely more than breath.

Their eyes met.

And the moment split.

He surged forward — not rough, not rushed, but full of pent-up ache. Their mouths collided in a kiss that wasn’t gentle, wasn’t polite — it was everything. Weeks of longing poured into it. Months of silence. Every unfinished sentence and aching glance. Her fingers dug into his back. His hands cupped her face as if it were something holy.

The bath sloshed, water licking over the edges.

Seryna pressed her chest to his, skin to skin. “Take me.”

Sandor groaned, forehead against hers. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I do,” she whispered. “I want all of you.”

Still — he didn’t take her in the bath.

He lifted her instead, arms beneath her thighs and back, and carried her — dripping, flushed, lips swollen — to the bed they’d only shared in fragments.

He laid her down with reverence.

Her hair spilled like ink across the sheets. She reached for him, mouth parted. Their kiss was softer now. Slower. She wrapped her legs around his waist, and he let himself sink into her embrace, chest against chest, hip against hip — until she gasped and froze.

He was hard. Throbbing. Positioned between her thighs, pressing against her in a way that made her body tremble.

But he didn’t move forward.

He kissed her neck, her collarbone, the slope of her breast. “Not yet,” he whispered. “Not like this.”

She whimpered. “Why?”

He looked at her — and in that gaze was the answer.

Because he loved her too much to take her in a moment of fever and heat. Because he wanted her first time to be sacred. Because he was afraid, maybe, that once they crossed that line, he’d never be able to let her go — not even for her safety.

So instead…

He kissed down her body, slow and worshipful.

And when he reached the place between her thighs, he did not hesitate.

Seryna cried out — not in pain, but in shock, in pleasure so raw it unspooled her.

His mouth was careful, patient. Tongue teasing, lips soft. He murmured something between strokes, his voice vibrating against her. She twisted in the sheets, gasping his name, fingers buried in his hair, legs shaking around his shoulders.

And when she came — it was not quiet.

She said his name like a command, like a song, like she’d never said anything truer in her life.

Sandor didn’t stop until she pulled him up by the shoulders, kissed him deeply, tasting herself on his lips.

Then she reached for him — her hand wrapping around him, guiding, stroking, careful and eager.

His breath shattered. He grunted against her shoulder, bracing his weight on one forearm as her hand worked him in slow, firm pulls. His hips twitched. His mouth moved along her throat — words breaking apart in heat.

“Girl—” he growled. “You’ll undo me.”

“Then let me.”

And when he did — when he spilled into her hand, trembling, mouth caught in hers — it wasn’t just release. It was surrender.

They collapsed together, limbs tangled. Chest to chest. Breath against breath.

No more promises.

No more waiting.

Just this. Just them.

[queenunderthemountain22]

Scars and Flame

Chapter 27: Blood and Breath

The knock was not a knock. It was a battering.

Boom. Boom. BOOM.

Seryna jerked awake, heart stammering. Her breath caught as she sat up, sheets pooling around her bare skin, hair tumbling loose down her back.

“Gods—” she gasped, scrambling for her robe.

Beside her, Sandor stirred with a low groan, arm flopping over the empty side of the bed she had just abandoned.

Another bang. Louder this time.

“Seryna?” came Oberyn’s unmistakable voice through the door. “You’d better not be dead, girl.”

Sandor blinked groggily at the sound, then grinned — half-asleep, half-wicked. “Should I get the door?” he rasped, voice still hoarse with sleep.

“No!” she hissed, eyes wide. “Gods, Sandor, move! Out the back!”

He sat up, chuckling under his breath. “You’re panicking, girl.”

“I am not— I am absolutely panicking!”

He was already up, tugging his trousers on, amused as ever. “Let him in. We’ll tell him I’m helping you with sword practice. Or bedding technique.”

She hurled a pillow at his face.

He dodged it and disappeared through the back passage with one last grin, mouthing, “You owe me.”

Seryna flung on her robe properly and yanked open the chamber door, heart hammering.

Oberyn stood in the doorway, brow lifted, arms crossed.

“You’re late,” he said smoothly. “For training.”

“I… didn’t sleep well,” she offered, rubbing at her temple. “Was reading.”

“Reading,” he repeated.

She nodded. “History of the Rhoynar. Dry stuff.”

Oberyn tilted his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You look flushed.”

“I’m in a robe.”

He looked her up and down, clearly suspicious, but let it slide. With a sigh, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“Get dressed. We’ll be in the courtyard,” he murmured. “Don’t keep me waiting again, little flame.”

“Yes, Uncle,” she whispered, exhaling only after he had turned and disappeared down the hall.

The courtyard was already alive when she arrived. Steel clanged. Sunlight gleamed off polished breastplates. The air smelled of sweat and dust and iron.

Oberyn was waiting in a loose crimson tunic, spear resting against his shoulder. “You’re improving,” he said as she picked up her sword. “Let’s see if you remember how to move your feet.”

She grinned. “Do I get a lecture with every lesson?”

“Only if you make the same mistake twice.”

They sparred. Her form was tighter now. Faster. He tested her with sweeping lunges and feints, and she countered with nimble footwork, her blade light and sharp in her hands. She flowed rather than forced, and Oberyn smiled with genuine pride.

“Well done,” he said. “Again.”

But before she could begin, a knight stepped forward from the crowd — broad-shouldered, thick with armor that clinked as he moved.

“Let me try,” he said, voice smug. “I’ve yet to see if the Dornish girl can hold her own against a man.”

Oberyn looked at her. Then at the knight. “What do you say, Seryna?”

She hesitated. “He’s twice my size.”

“And half your speed. Stay calm. Trust your training.” He touched her shoulder, firm and warm. “Make him regret asking.”

The crowd quieted as the knight raised his sword. Her grip tightened on her hilt.

They circled.

He lunged first. Fast and brutal.

She dodged, barely.

His next strike clipped her shoulder. Then another, aimed too high, forced her to spin off balance. He was using his weight to drive her back — rougher than necessary, arrogant and angry that she didn’t yield.

And then came the kick.

It slammed into her ribs and sent her flying. She hit the ground hard, blood spilling from her lips.

Oberyn took a step forward, face dark.

But Seryna stood.

Spat blood.

Raised her sword again with fire in her eyes.

The knight charged.

She twisted, ducked, pivoted. Her blade slid past his guard, slicing across his thigh. He roared and swung blindly — she ducked, stepped in, and drove the pommel of her sword into his gut with all the fury she had left.

He crumpled.

She stood over him, blood on her mouth, chest heaving — eyes wild and proud.

The crowd erupted.

Oberyn was laughing. “Well done, little flame.”

But it was Sandor, lurking at the edge of the yard in shadow, whose heart thundered in his chest.

She was blood-streaked and radiant.

And he had never wanted her more.

She found a quiet alcove to clean the gash on her lip. The sting of the cloth made her hiss.

“Let me,” said a low voice behind her.

She turned just as Sandor stepped into the shadows, eyes blazing.

Before she could protest, he gripped her waist, pulled her flush against him, and kissed her — hard and hungry, his mouth crashing into hers like he’d been waiting hours, days, a lifetime.

Her blood was still on her lips, and he tasted it, licked it, groaned low in his throat.

“Gods, girl,” he growled, lips moving to her throat. “You looked so damn good fighting. You make a man forget his vows.”

She panted, fingers curling into his shirt.

“I thought about taking you right there in front of them.”

She pulled back, breathless, a wicked grin on her lips. “Then why didn’t you?”

He growled. “Don’t tease me, girl.”

“Then don’t say things you don’t mean.”

His hand slid down to her hip, possessive. “I mean every godsdamn word.”

Her fingers tugged at his collar, drawing him down to kiss her again, this time slower — not rushed, but reverent. A claiming. A promise.

She felt the tension in his arms, the way he held back. Not because he didn’t want her. But because he wanted her too much.

“Tonight,” she whispered, lips brushing his. “Come back to me.”

His hand cupped her cheek. “I never left.”

Chapter 28 - NSFW ;-)

[queenunderthemountain22]

Scars and Flame

Chapter 26: Flame and Oath

The ride back was quiet.

Seryna leaned against Sandor as the night wind cooled their flushed skin, Serathys gliding in slow, lazy arcs above. The world felt both smaller and impossibly vast. No words passed between them, but they didn’t need words.

Not after what had been shared.

When they reached the outskirts of King’s Landing, she pressed her hand over his heart before they parted. “Whatever comes next... we face it together.”

Sandor watched her disappear into the shadows of the Keep, her presence still lingering like heat beneath his armor.

He did not return to his chambers. He wandered.

The night air clung to his skin, thick with the scent of smoke and dew. He passed guards, torches, statues. None of it registered. All he could see was her face when she touched the dragon, the way the beast had bowed its head to her—and the way she had smiled, like the world had finally allowed her to breathe.

She was power. She was fire wrapped in gentleness. And she had chosen him.

He sat beneath the godswood tree that night, something he hadn’t done since the day he first believed he was damned. The red leaves hung still in the air, the faces in the bark weeping.

He thought of her.

Not just her lips or the curve of her waist. But the girl who had cradled broken children in the streets. Who stitched wounds and knew all their names. Who had healed his wound, long before his body ever knew her touch.

Sandor had spent his whole life being told what he wasn’t. Not a knight. Not worthy. Not wanted.

But Seryna had never looked at him that way.

She looked at him like he was something rare. Something human.

He rested his head against the tree bark and whispered her name. Not like a prayer. But a promise.

By morning, everything had shifted.

He trained harder. Watched more carefully.

When he escorted Tommen, his eyes scanned not for threats to the boy king, but for any that might reach her. He lingered at the garden gates when she picked herbs. Positioned himself near the practice grounds when she sparred.

He didn’t speak much. But he didn’t hide anymore.

And when she passed him in the halls, her fingers sometimes brushed his.

The world didn’t know.

But they did.

And that was enough.  For now.

Even as Sandor guarded the boy king’s chambers, his heart was no longer with the crown.

It was with the girl who had once hidden her dragon from the world. And now carried the fire of queens in her blood.

He would follow her through flame. He would fight for her against the gods themselves.

He had made his choice.

_________________________________________

The nights belonged to them now.

Behind bolted doors and candlelight, between velvet shadows and whispered laughter, Sandor and Seryna built a world of their own. Sometimes it was her chambers, sometimes his—he knew the secret passages well enough to slip through stone like a ghost. But wherever they ended up, they always found each other.

They would talk for hours. About the day. About the war. About nothing at all. He would lay on his back, arm around her waist, and she would trace the old scars across his chest with soft fingers, asking for stories behind each one. He told her only some—the rest he let fade, replaced by the warmth of her skin against his.

One night, while she nestled against him, the moonlight catching the curve of her smile, he said with a grunt, “You are to marry King Tommen. We shouldn't be sneaking around like this.”

Seryna sat up slightly and smacked his chest. “Don’t you dare.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What? I’m only saying what the Queen Mother wants.”

She rolled her eyes. “I won't marry him. There is only one man I want.”

He looked over at her, a flicker of hope in his eyes. “Who?”

She leaned close, lowering her voice to a mock whisper. “He's fierce, strong, and the best fighter in Westeros... Meryn Trant.”

Sandor sat bolt upright.

“What?”

She couldn’t keep the laughter in.

“You little--!”

He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her down beside him, both of them laughing so hard they couldn't breathe. When the laughter faded, their lips found each other again. This kiss was deeper. Slower. It carried no urgency, only the ache of familiarity. When they finally parted, Seryna tucked herself beneath his chin, her fingers curled loosely around his.

“If I were to take the Iron Throne like everyone seems to want,” she whispered, “you know what that would make you?”

“What would that make me?” he murmured.

“King Sandor Clegane,” she said.

He let out a dry laugh. “Gods help the realm.”

“Would you like that?” she asked.

He didn’t answer immediately. His thumb brushed across her knuckles.

“I’d like to be wherever you are.”

She smiled into his chest.

They lay in silence for a while. Then her voice returned, quieter, tinged with guilt.

“I was so angry with Oberyn. For telling you to leave me. For trying to end this before it began. But... I understand now. He was scared. I was all he had.”

Sandor nodded, his fingers sweeping through her hair. “He was trying to protect you. Even if it meant hurting you.”

She blinked up at him. “You both have that in common.”

He didn't answer. Just kissed her forehead and pulled her tighter.

They lay in the hush of night, drifting close to sleep, when her voice rose again. “Sandor,” she whispered, serious now. “Littlefinger knows.”

He tensed.

“Knows what?”

She looked up at him. “Who I am. He didn’t say it outright, but his words... they were laced with meaning. He said I reminded him of Elia Martell. That he remembered her eyes. Her smile. He said it like a compliment… but it felt like a warning.”

Sandor's jaw clenched. “If he squeals, I will kill him.”

She looked at him, surprised, but not shocked.

“You’d risk everything?”

“For you?” he growled. “Always.”

Seryna leaned up and pressed her lips softly to his. “I’m not afraid,” she whispered. “Not with you beside me.”

There was a war coming. But for now, the world outside could wait. In the stillness of the night, beneath soft linen and softer breaths, they chose peace.

Each other.

Chapter 27

[queenunderthemountain22]

COSTCO CHICKEN SHIRT ACTUALLY WORKS!!! #ojm #funny #costcofood #comedy #...

This is basically Sandor Clegane if he ended up in the 21st century. 🤣🍗🐔🐓

[queenunderthemountain22]

Scars and Flame

Chapter 25: The Secret She Chose to Share

The moon was high when she knocked.

Sandor opened the door without hesitation, and the look on his face—half-expectant, half-relieved—made Seryna’s heart skip.

Neither spoke.

She stepped inside, and before the door could close, they were in each other’s arms. His mouth found hers, desperate and soft, the kind of kiss spoken in truths they could never say aloud in daylight. Her hands clutched at his tunic. His fingers traced the line of her back like a man afraid he was still dreaming.

When they finally parted, she looked up at him with shining eyes.

“There’s something I want to show you,” she whispered.

Sandor blinked. “Now?”

“Now.”

She didn’t say more. Just reached for his hand.

They rode out together, cloaked in night and secrecy, leaving behind the stone walls of the Red Keep and the watchful eyes of the court. The wind was cool against their cheeks, the world hushed. Seryna led them to a secluded glen far beyond the city—where moonlight kissed the surface of a quiet lake, and the stars seemed close enough to touch.

When they dismounted, Sandor followed her into a clearing ringed with wildflowers and ancient trees. His eyes never left her.

“There’s something I’ve never told anyone,” she said, voice low. “Not in full. Not like this.”

He frowned, stepping closer.

“This is the biggest secret of my life,” she continued. “And I want to share it with the person I love the most.”

Sandor froze.

Then she smiled—soft and true—and his heart nearly stopped.

“You love me?” he asked, hoarse.

She nodded.

And he kissed her again—slower this time, reverent. As if the words she’d spoken had lit something inside him that would never go out.

But then the ground trembled beneath them.

A sound—deep, ancient, thunderous—shook the trees. A roar that was not wind or beast but something older, something primal. Sandor immediately stepped in front of her, drawing his sword.

“Stay behind me,” he growled, eyes scanning the trees.

But Seryna gently touched his wrist.

“Relax,” she said softly. “She won’t hurt you.”

“She?”

And then the branches above parted, and the world changed.

Serathys landed in a sweep of wings and firelight, her sapphire-and-gold scales gleaming under the moon. She was magnificent—powerful, radiant, terrifying. Her eyes glowed like molten gold as she stalked forward, tail flicking, wings folding.

Sandor stood frozen, jaw clenched, sword still in hand.

But Seryna walked forward without fear.

The dragon lowered her head, and Seryna pressed a hand to her snout with a soft word in Valyrian. Serathys let out a low purr, rumbling through the glen like thunder turned to silk.

“She’s beautiful,” Sandor murmured.

Seryna turned, smiling. “Come. She wants to meet you.”

He hesitated.

But Serathys’s eyes locked on his, and for a moment, he swore she was judging him—measuring him.

He stepped forward slowly. Then, ever so gently, lifted a hand to touch her.

Her snout was warm beneath his calloused fingers, breath huffing from her nostrils. She didn’t growl. Didn’t flinch. Just watched him.

“Gods,” Sandor breathed. “You’ve had this… this power all along.”

“I didn’t ask for it,” Seryna said. “But she’s mine. And I’m hers.”

He looked at her again—this woman who carried fire and gentleness in equal measure. Who could command dragons and still whisper with healers. And he asked the question that had burned in him from the start.

“You could rule the world. But you chose me. Why?”

Seryna walked back to him, her voice trembling with truth.

“Because everything I have… is because of you. My life is a gift from you, Sandor. The stars, this dragon, my freedom—they all came after you.”

He couldn’t speak.

He just kissed her again—deeper, with aching reverence. The dragon turned away, respectful in a way only a creature of magic could be.

And for a few hours beneath the stars, it felt like they were the only two people in the world.

Chapter 26

[queenunderthemountain22]

Scars and Flame

Chapter 24: The Moon Remembers Her

Oberyn Martell knocked once, then again.

No answer.

“Seryna?” he called softly, pushing open the door to her chambers.

The room was dark, empty. Her bed untouched. Her cloak missing.

He frowned.

She’d always told him when she went out, even if it was just a walk in the godswood or a late visit to the orphanage. But tonight—no word. No note.

He moved through the room, checking the balcony, the wardrobe. Nothing.

Worry began to coil inside his chest.

By the time he stormed down the winding hall toward the guest quarters, Oberyn’s composure had fractured. For the first time in many years, he felt panic clawing at his throat.

He knocked on Sandor’s door like a battering ram.

The door opened moments later, and the Hound stood there, shirtless, bruised, and blinking through sleep.

“What?” Sandor growled, already half-alert from the tone.

“She’s gone,” Oberyn said tightly. “Seryna. She’s not in her chambers. No one’s seen her. No note. Nothing.”

Sandor froze, all the blood draining from his face.

“What do you mean gone?”

“I mean vanished. And if something happens to her—”

There was silence.

Then Sandor moved. Fast. Grabbing a tunic, lacing boots. He didn’t say anything more until he’d strapped his sword to his hip and pushed past Oberyn.

“I think I know where she went.”

She had ridden out alone, past sleeping guards, past the weight of courtiers and whispers. Her lungs had needed this air. Her heart had needed this silence.

It had been here — beneath these stars — where she and Sandor had first kissed. Where they had once dreamed a dream too fragile to speak aloud in the daylight. A house. A life. Love without bloodshed.

Now, with the weight of Tommen’s courtship and Littlefinger’s veiled threats pressing on her chest, it felt like that dream had never belonged to her at all.

She didn’t hear the horse until it was close.

She looked up, and there he was.

Sandor.

He dismounted quickly, his eyes never leaving her, jaw tight and breath uneven. He looked as if he had run the entire way on foot.

“Seryna,” he said, voice low, hoarse.

She stood slowly, lips parted in surprise, then relief. “You came.”

“Oberyn said you were missing.” He swallowed hard. “I knew you’d come here.”

Her smile was faint but real. “It’s the only place I’ve ever felt free.”

A silence fell between them. The waterfall roared quietly in the distance. Somewhere beyond the trees, the world continued — with its thrones and poisons and lies.

But not here.

Here, only truth remained.

She looked back up at the stars. “I’m afraid, Sandor.”

He stepped closer, hands clenched at his sides. “Tell me.”

Her voice trembled. “I don’t want to die like my mother. I don’t want the realm to tear me apart over a name I didn’t ask for. I’m not strong enough to carry a crown that kills everyone who touches it.”

He crossed the final step between them. “You’re wrong.”

Her eyes met his, wide and glassy.

“You are strong,” he said fiercely. “You’re stronger than all of them. Stronger than your father, your brother, your bloody ancestors. You care. You fight for the ones no one sees. That makes you dangerous in all the right ways.”

She shook her head, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I lost half my heart when you walked away.”

His expression shattered. “It wasn’t because I stopped loving you. It never was.”

He cupped her face with trembling hands, thumb brushing away her tears.

“Oberyn came to me,” he confessed. “He told me to let you go. Said I wasn’t worthy. That you’d need banners, not blades. That you’d be queen.”

Seryna’s eyes widened, fury igniting in her. “He what?”

“I thought he was right,” Sandor whispered. “So I stayed away. Every day it killed me.”

Without warning, she slapped his chest. Then again.

“You bloody fool,” she hissed through her tears. “You broke me.”

“I know,” he said. “And I’ll spend every day proving I won’t again.”

Her hands clenched his tunic, and then she was kissing him — not gently, but desperately. With months of unsaid longing behind it. With every breath they had held since that night under the stars.

Sandor groaned into her mouth, holding her tightly, arms wrapping around her like he was afraid she might vanish again. Their kiss deepened, slowed, then deepened again, mouths opening, breaths shared.

He sank to his knees before her, pressing his face against her stomach, as if in apology, in prayer. She threaded her fingers through his hair, whispering his name, again and again.

They touched each other with reverence. Her hands cradled his scarred cheek. His thumb traced the curve of her lips. They lay back on the grass, wrapped together, their cloaks a tangled shelter.

He whispered what he had always dreamed of: her carrying their child. Their small home by the sea. Her laugh echoing down hallways. She whispered the same dreams back.

His hands explored, reverent and slow — over her arms, her waist, the soft dip of her back. She pressed kisses along his throat, tasting salt and starlight.

“I want all of you,” she murmured, as she wrapped her legs around his waist.

“Not yet,” he said, forehead resting against hers. “But soon. I’ll make you mine in every way that matters.”

They lay there for hours, kissing, whispering things only the moon heard, their bodies pressed close, their hearts finally beating in the same rhythm again.

And when the sun began to rise behind the trees, Sandor promised her one more thing.

“I’ll never leave you again,” he said.

And this time, she believed him.

_______________________

The gates of the Red Keep yawned open just as the first light of dawn brushed the horizon.

Sandor rode hard through them, his face determined, jaw tight, eyes fixed forward. Behind him, nestled in his cloak, Seryna clung to his back, her arms wrapped around him not just for balance—but for everything she could not say.

They didn’t speak on the way back. There was only the steady rhythm of hoofbeats and the weight of what had been lost—and found.

At the stables, Oberyn was waiting.

He strode forward the moment they dismounted, his face pale, lips set in a grim line.

Sandor lowered Seryna gently to the ground.

“She’s safe,” he said, his voice hoarse. “No one followed us.”

Oberyn placed a hand on his niece’s shoulder, eyes scanning her face for injury. Seryna looked at him—her jaw locked, eyes sharp—and stepped away from his touch.

Sandor saw it and stepped back. Without a word, he turned and left them in the courtyard, his boots heavy against the stone.

Oberyn reached for her again, but this time she recoiled. “How dare you,” she said coldly.

He froze. “Seryna—”

“No,” she snapped. “Don’t ‘Seryna’ me. You told him to forget me. To leave me.”

“I did what I thought was right,” he said carefully.

“For whom?” she demanded. “For me? Or for your precious legacy?”

Oberyn’s face hardened. “You are not just you, Seryna. You are Elia’s daughter. Rhaegar’s blood. Seryna of House Targaryen. The rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. You carry the weight of a realm on your shoulders whether you want to or not.”

“I never asked for that,” she said, voice trembling with rage. “I never asked to be anyone’s heir or symbol or last hope. I only ever asked to live. To choose for myself. And you took that from me.”

“I was trying to protect you.”

“No. You were trying to control me.”

He fell silent.

“I loved him,” she said, her voice cracking. “I still do. And you told him he wasn’t good enough for me. That I belonged to something higher. What gave you that right?”

Oberyn’s mouth twisted in pain. “Because I’ve seen what the world does to the people I love. Because I watched Elia bleed for her marriage. And I swore I would never let that happen to you.”

“Then you’ve failed,” she whispered. “Because I’ve already bled for it.”

They stood in silence.

Finally, Oberyn said, “What would you have me do, Seryna? Let you throw your life away for a man who can’t protect you when the realm turns its teeth on you? What future does Sandor Clegane offer you?”

“I don’t want it,” she said. “I don’t want the throne. I never did.”

Oberyn’s eyes narrowed. “Then what do you plan to do?”

She looked at him, calm now. Quiet and dangerous.

“I have a large dragon,” she said. “I’ll fly to Essos. I’ll find Daenerys Targaryen and pledge myself to her cause. Let her take the Iron Throne if she wants it. She was born to it. Not me.”

“Seryna—”

“No,” she said. “No more debates. No more hiding. No more deciding for me.”

Oberyn said nothing. His expression unreadable.

“I won’t be my mother,” she said. “I won’t be another Elia, handed over like a prize to die for a kingdom that never loved her. And I won’t let you use me as a piece in your vengeance.”

Her words hit like daggers.

Oberyn lowered his gaze.

The silence between them was heavier than any war drum.

At last, he nodded.

And said nothing.

Chapter 25

[queenunderthemountain22]

Sexiest men in Game of Thrones!

[queenunderthemountain22]

Scars and Flame

Chapter 23: The Veil and the Vulture

The morning mist hung low over the Red Keep, curling through the marble corridors like breath held too long. Seryna walked the gardens alone, her fingertips trailing the petals of blooming starflowers, trying to calm the ache that never left her since Sandor turned away.

She barely noticed when Petyr Baelish emerged from the shadows near the arbor, hands clasped behind his back, a smile far too knowing painted across his lips.

“My lady,” he said smoothly, “the gods are cruel, to give such beauty to a girl destined for secrets.”

Seryna’s spine stiffened. She turned, polite and unreadable. “Lord Baelish.”

“I can’t get over how you look so very much like someone I once knew,” he murmured. “A woman I saw only once… but never forgot. Princess Elia. Her eyes, the shape of her face, her kindness… her grace.”

He stepped closer — not too close, but enough that his presence lingered like smoke. “It’s said that dragon fire can be buried for a time. But never extinguished. That sooner or later, it always rises.”

Seryna said nothing. But her silence was answer enough.

Baelish smiled thinly, eyes sharp. “Don’t worry. I have no interest in robbing the world of wonder. Not yet, at least.”

Before she could reply, the sound of approaching boots scattered the tension like a snapped string. Tommen came into view, flanked by a pair of guards — and Sandor Clegane.

“Lady Seryna!” the young king called brightly. “I was looking for you. I thought perhaps we might feed the cats together later?”

She smiled softly. “I’d like that, Your Grace.”

Sandor stood behind them, silent, eyes burning a hole through Baelish. He had seen her face as she spoke with Littlefinger — too poised, too still. He knew her well enough now to sense when she was afraid.

And he hated that he couldn’t storm forward and put his body between her and that man.

Baelish bowed slightly. “I’ll leave you to your royal duties, Your Grace. Lady Seryna.” He offered one last cryptic glance. “It’s always fascinating to watch history repeat itself.”

When he was gone, Seryna turned to Tommen with a smile, but the color had drained from her face. Sandor caught the faintest tremble in her hand before she tucked it behind her skirts.

He wanted to go to her. Ask her what he said. Who hurt her. But she looked through him as if he were just another guard. As if he hadn’t once held her heart in his hands.

Later that evening, news spread like wildfire across the court.

Cersei had made a proclamation in the great hall — clear, loud, and final.

“In honor of the friendship between House Lannister and House Martell,” she had said, voice like silk stretched over steel, “King Tommen wishes to court Lady Seryna of Dorne as his future queen.”

The hall erupted in whispers. Seryna stood frozen, expression unreadable, Oberyn at her side.

Sandor was in the shadows, jaw clenched.

No one noticed how tightly he gripped the hilt of his sword. Or how he didn’t breathe for a long, long time.

Oberyn didn’t speak — not yet. But his eyes met Seryna’s.

And for once, even the Red Viper looked afraid of what would come next. 

Later that night, in the moonlit hush of the palace gardens, the air hung thick with the scent of roses and quiet dread. Seryna stood alone near the fountain, the soft trickle of water the only sound—until footsteps crunched over gravel.

Cersei approached, regal and smiling.

“Tommen is quite smitten with you,” she said, her tone deceptively gentle. “You’ve enchanted him, my dear. He talks of you constantly.”

Seryna turned, her voice calm but firm. “Your Grace, I am deeply honored the King feels that way. But I fear I cannot return his affections in that manner. I care for him, truly—as one would a younger brother. But I do not see him as a future husband.”

Cersei’s smile didn’t fade, but something colder slipped behind her eyes.

“Love,” she said smoothly, “is not always the foundation of a good match. A queen learns to love her king in time. And Tommen… he is gentle. He will treat you with kindness and respect. That’s more than most women receive these days.”

Seryna said nothing.

Cersei took a step closer, voice softer, more pointed. “We all do our duty to the realm, Lady Seryna. I’m sure a girl raised in Dorne knows how dangerous it is to say no too loudly.”

She turned and walked away, her gown sweeping the stones like smoke.

Seryna remained by the fountain, her hands clenched at her sides, the moonlight glinting off her rings.

How do you escape a trap when it’s wrapped in gold and sewn into smiles?

She did not yet have the answer.

Chapter 24

[queenunderthemountain22]

Scars and Flame

Chapter 22: The Man Who Knows Too Much

Sandor Clegane had always known his place.

Behind the throne. Behind the swords. Behind the men who played at power with crowns like poisoned chalices.

But these days, he found himself behind her—always a few steps too far, a moment too late.

Tommen had taken a liking to Seryna. That much was clear. What had started as innocent company had grown into daily walks, long conversations, tea under the arbor, laughter that was soft and free. And Sandor was always there—lurking in the shadows, pretending to be nothing but the Queen’s Guard.

But he saw it all.

The way Tommen looked at her—like she was the first flower of spring.

The way she smiled back, kind but distant.

And it ate at him.

He knew she didn’t love Tommen. Her heart was not so easily swayed. But she was kind, too kind to wound the boy who saw her as a goddess. She let him talk, and she listened. Gods, she listened. The way she tilted her head, hands folded delicately as she let others speak—it was a mercy, the kind Sandor never learned to give.

And he hated it.

He hated that he couldn’t claim her in the way he wanted. That Oberyn’s warnings still echoed in his mind like chains around his neck. That everything in him screamed to act—to take her and run, or fall at her feet and beg her to stay.

But he did nothing.

Until that day in the gardens.

The sunlight filtered through the orange trees. Tommen and Seryna sat under the flowering arch, a tea set between them, golden cakes untouched. Sandor stood behind, still as stone, watching her laugh politely at one of Tommen’s awkward jokes.

Then he arrived.

Littlefinger.

Petyr Baelish walked with the grace of a spider—too soft, too silent. His smile was practiced, his voice slick with sugar and venom.

He bowed low, but his eyes never left Seryna.

“My lady,” he said, with a voice like oil. “What a vision you are in this light. You must forgive me—I don’t mean to intrude.”

Seryna, ever gracious, offered a small smile. “You are not intruding, Lord Baelish.”

Sandor’s jaw clenched.

Baelish turned his eyes to her more sharply now, studying her. “You remind me of someone.”

Seryna’s smile faded slightly. “Do I?”

“Your eyes,” Baelish said softly. “I’ve seen them before. Long ago. I was only a boy, but I remember.”

He leaned in just slightly. “Elia Martell.”

Seryna stiffened.

Baelish went on, slowly, deliberately. “She was… breathtaking. I saw her once, passing through the halls of court. And those eyes—sunset and sorrow. Just like yours.”

Silence fell.

Even Tommen sensed the sudden shift.

Seryna forced a quiet laugh. “I’ve been told I resemble many of my kin.”

Baelish’s smile didn’t falter. “Indeed. But it’s uncanny.”

Sandor took a step forward, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Not because he intended to use it. Not yet. But because he wanted Baelish to see it. To feel the weight of his presence.

Baelish noticed.

He offered Sandor a shallow nod—mocking, measured. Then he turned back to Seryna.

“A tragedy, what happened to your aunt,” he said softly. “And her children.”

Seryna’s face was unreadable now. But Sandor saw the flicker in her throat, the tightness behind her eyes.

“Excuse me,” she said gently. “I believe I need some air.”

She rose, dipped her head to Tommen, and walked away without looking back.

Baelish watched her go, his smile slowly fading.

Sandor didn’t wait.

He brushed past Tommen with an excuse, past the tea table, and followed her.

He found her alone in the hallway just outside the gardens, her back pressed to a marble column, one hand clutched at her chest.

“Did he say something?” Sandor asked, voice low, rough.

She didn’t meet his eyes. “No. Just memories. That’s all.”

But her voice trembled. And it undid him.

“I don’t trust him,” he said. “That man… he smells like rot beneath perfume.”

She looked up at that, and for a moment their eyes locked—his filled with fury, hers with fear.

“Be careful,” he said.

“You too,” she whispered.

He wanted to take her hand. Pull her away. Hide her somewhere the world could never reach.

Instead, he walked away—because that was the only thing he seemed to know how to do anymore.

But behind him, Littlefinger watched from the shadows, eyes sharp.

And whatever game he was playing, it had just shifted.

Littlefinger did not sleep that night.

He sat in his chambers with quill and parchment, candlelight dancing across maps and letters only he could decipher. The look in her eyes had unsettled him. The resemblance was more than passing. It was uncanny. Unnatural. And inconvenient.

He’d spent years turning secrets into coin, names into weapons. But this?

This was power.

True, dangerous, Targaryen power—hiding beneath Dornish silk and deep, storm-dark eyes.

Could it be? No… it couldn’t. The realm had seen the bloodied remains of Elia and her children. He had seen them, or what was left.

And if Seryna Martell was who he suspected she was… he would find out. And he would own the knowledge before anyone else did.

Oberyn found her in the solar, fingers pressed to the glass window, watching the city below as the sun crawled over rooftops.

“You look like her,” he said gently, stepping inside.

Seryna turned, startled.

“Who?” she asked.

“Elia,” Oberyn said simply. “Especially when you’re trying to hide your sadness.”

She smiled faintly. “I’m not sad.”

He didn’t reply. Just walked over to the table and poured two cups of Dornish wine.

“I know what Baelish said to you.”

Her shoulders tensed.

“I know the way he looks at people,” Oberyn continued. “He doesn’t speak unless he has something to gain. He saw a glimmer of truth, and now he’ll dig.”

“I don’t want to lie anymore,” she said quietly. “But I’m scared. If they find out who I really am…”

“They will try to use you,” Oberyn said. “Twist you into a banner, a blade, a bride.”

Seryna nodded slowly. “And what will you do?”

He set the wine down untouched.

“I will protect you. Always. Even if that means sending you far from here, beyond the reach of kings and whispers.”

Her eyes welled.

“I never asked to be anything more than myself,” she whispered. “But now everyone sees something else when they look at me.”

“Not everyone,” Oberyn said. “Some still see the girl who healed wounded birds and cried when the rains ruined your garden.”

She laughed softly. “You remember that?”

He smiled. “You made me build a new one.”

They fell into silence.

Finally, she asked, “What happens now?”

“We wait. And we watch. Baelish will make a move. When he does, we strike first.”

And far below, a raven landed on the balcony of the Tower of the Hand.

Petyr Baelish smiled as he read its message.

“Fire and blood indeed.”

Chapter 23

[queenunderthemountain22]

Scars and Flame

Chapter 21: A Queen for the Kind King

The Red Keep shimmered under candlelight that evening, soft golden hues spilling across marbled floors and carved columns. The halls were quieter now, the tension of the previous days giving way to strange stillness. Joffrey was gone. Tommen was crowned. And Seryna? She felt more out of place than ever.

She emerged from her chambers dressed in a pale lavender gown, her damp hair falling in loose waves down her back, scented faintly of Dornish rosewater. She hadn’t worn anything elaborate—still she looked radiant, glowing from the bath, her skin kissed with sun and soap. She didn’t dress for anyone. But she had noticed how her presence made the air stir.

Waiting outside her door was Ser Addam Marbrand, sent to escort her to dinner with the young king. She nodded politely and walked silently, unaware that her quiet grace had already captured half the castle.

In the royal dining hall, Tommen stood when she entered.

“You look… beautiful,” he said, his voice boyish but warm. “And you smell like summer.”

Seryna smiled gently, touched. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

Behind them, Sandor Clegane stood tall and still like a shadow carved in steel. His eyes, however, followed every step she took. He’d watched her walk a thousand times before, but tonight—tonight she glowed like something holy. She was still his flame, even if she no longer looked his way.

At the table, Seryna sat across from Tommen, their meal simple but well-prepared. She ate politely, smiled when Tommen tried to make conversation. The young king was trying. He wasn’t bold like Joffrey. He was gentle, sweet—and utterly smitten.

“I remember when we used to read in the gardens,” Tommen said, cheeks pink. “You would always correct me.”

“You always listened,” Seryna replied, her voice soft. “And you never stopped smiling.”

He beamed at the memory, but then his expression shifted as he leaned forward, his voice taking on a serious tone, as if trying to seem older than his years. “Is there anything I can do to make your time here a little…better? I know you wanted to leave for Sunspear—and with everything that’s happened, you’re stuck here now. I just want you to know… I’m glad you’re still here. If you ever need anything, truly, please tell me.”

She blinked, surprised by the question. Then answered with honesty.

“Your Grace,” she said, “there are orphaned children in the city. Sick, wounded. Forgotten. If it’s within your power… I’d ask that you help the orphanage. And the city maesters—let them heal the poor, not just the nobility.”

Tommen looked stunned by the sincerity of the request. “I will,” he promised. “I’ll do that. Whatever you need—just ask.”

Behind them, Sandor’s jaw clenched. He tried not to look. But when Seryna laughed softly at one of Tommen’s flustered jokes, the sound cracked something inside him.

Halfway through the meal, she dropped her fork. Before anyone else could react, Sandor stepped forward. He knelt, picked it up, and handed it to her.

Their hands didn’t touch.

But their eyes did.

For a breathless moment, Seryna looked into the storm of everything Sandor felt and never said. The longing. The ache. The desire.

She looked away.

The silence between them was louder than all the music in the hall.

After dinner, Tommen offered to walk her back. She agreed.

They strolled down the lantern-lit corridor, shadows dancing along the walls.

“My mother says I must marry soon,” Tommen said nervously, glancing at her. “That I’ll need a queen.”

Seryna smiled gently, her heart aching. “Your Grace, you’ll have many suitors. All the ladies of the realm will be honored to stand beside you.”

He flushed. “But I’d rather someone who already knows me. Someone who… likes cats. And stories.”

She chuckled softly. “That does narrow it down.”

They reached her chamber door.

“I was wondering,” he asked shyly, “do you… like me? I mean… would you want to be queen?”

Seryna looked at him—this boy growing into a kind man. A crown on his head, but kindness in his heart.

“That sounds wonderful,” she said gently. “I’ll think on it. But so should you. You deserve someone who chooses you for you.”

Tommen nodded, bashful. “Goodnight, Seryna.”

“Goodnight, Your Grace.”

When the door closed behind her, she leaned against it, sighing.

And down the hall, in the shadows—Sandor Clegane stood watching.

Alone. Yearning. Burning.

______________________________

The next morning, the sun spilled golden light across the stone walls of the Red Keep. A warm breeze stirred the silk curtains of Seryna’s chamber just as a gentle knock echoed at her door.

She stirred from sleep, hair tousled and loose across her shoulders, the linen sheet slipping slightly as she sat up. Another knock, more persistent now.

She rose, wrapping a robe around her quickly before opening the door.

Tommen stood there, hands clasped awkwardly in front of him, trying not to look too eager. Behind him, towering and brooding, stood Sandor Clegane.

For a moment, the world held its breath.

Even in the haze of sleep, Seryna looked radiant—her eyes still soft with dreams, her skin glowing from slumber. Sandor stared despite himself, his chest tightening.

“My lady,” Tommen said, offering a small smile, “I hope I didn’t wake you too early. I—” He glanced at Sandor, then back. “I was hoping you would take me to the orphanage today. To see the children. To help, like you asked.”

Seryna blinked, surprised, then beamed. “You truly want to go?”

“I do,” Tommen said, proud of his decision. “We should start helping today, shouldn’t we?”

She nodded, heart warmed by his earnestness. “Let me get ready. I’ll join you shortly.”

Within the hour, they rode through the city, flanked by guards. But the mood was light, even joyful. When they arrived at the orphanage, the children ran to Seryna like birds to springtime.

“Seryna! Seryna!”

She knelt, arms open, laughing as little ones clung to her, climbed into her lap, tugged at her braids. She held one babe with practiced ease, feeding her with gentle hums. Another child pulled at her hand, asking her to come see the new chalk drawing.

Tommen was amazed. He tried to help, passing out bread and helping carry a bucket of water. The children accepted him kindly—but they adored Seryna. She was their sun.

And behind them, watching quietly by the old stone wall, stood Sandor.

He couldn’t look away.

There she was—smiling as she rocked a baby, her gown a little dirty, her hair slightly undone. But she glowed. Gods, she glowed.

And something stirred in him.

A vision bloomed, unbidden.

Their small house tucked away beyond the mountains. A fire crackling in the hearth. Seryna standing barefoot in the kitchen, hair loose, holding a child—his child. Her laughter filled the air as she bounced the babe on her hip, teasing him while he stirred soup. Her skin flushed with warmth. A second child tugging at his leg, asking to be lifted.

Seryna looking up, saying, “Dinner’s nearly ready, my love.”

It hit him like a punch to the chest.

The dream of it.

The need.

He blinked hard. It was just a dream. Just—

“You going soft, dog?” came a sneering voice.

Sandor turned, eyes cold.

Ser Meryn Trant stood beside him, smirking.

“You watch her like a starving man,” Trant said with a sneer. “Careful. The court may start to notice.”

Sandor didn’t respond. Not with words.

His fist landed squarely on Trant’s face, dropping the knight to the dirt in one brutal blow.

“Say her name again,” Sandor growled, “and I’ll feed you your tongue.”

Tommen didn’t see. Seryna didn’t see.

But as they rode back to the Keep that afternoon, Sandor kept stealing glances at her—at the way her smile lingered when she looked at the children. At how she held the babe that wouldn’t stop crying. At how the sun lit the curve of her face like something holy.

He longed for her. Not just her body, not just her kiss. He longed for the life they could have had.

The one that still haunted his dreams.

Chapter 22

[queenunderthemountain22]

Scars and Flame

Chapter 20: Dust of the Lion’s Death

The bells tolled for Joffrey Baratheon, though no one wept for him.

King’s Landing did not mourn — it gossiped, it speculated, it whispered through its alleys and palaces like smoke seeping under a door. The King was dead, and in the wake of his demise, the capital seethed in confusion and unrest.

The banquet had ended in chaos. 

Now the dust of the Lion’s death settled over the city.

And Tommen — sweet, soft-spoken Tommen — wore the crown.

Tywin Lannister moved swiftly in the aftermath, as always. The boy king was seated, robed, and presented to the realm as the future. But even he could not resist letting his suspicion show.

“You’ve always had a fascination with poisons, Prince Oberyn,” Tywin said smoothly in a small council meeting three days after the funeral. “It would be tragic if that knowledge extended to practical demonstration.”

Oberyn leaned back in his chair, his smile lazy and poisonous. “I know many things, Lord Tywin. But if I’d wanted your grandson dead, I wouldn’t have left such a messy scene. Dornish poison is far more elegant than frothing mouths and bloated skin.”

Tywin's jaw clenched.

Oberyn raised his goblet. “Long live the King.”

Sandor returned to duty sooner than he should have.

His shoulder was still healing, his ribs bruised from the brawl that no one spoke of but everyone whispered about. He kept his armor tight and his mouth tighter. Now he stood behind Tommen Baratheon with a stillness that belied the ache in his bones.

But his eyes… his eyes wandered.

They always found her.

In the gardens, in the corridors, disappearing down some hallway with a basket of herbs and bandages.

Seryna no longer lingered near him. She moved like a ghost through the halls of the Red Keep, silent and dutiful, and never — never — did she look his way. Not after that night.

And it was killing him.

She had gone to him with love in her voice and pain in her eyes. And he had given her silence.

Now she gave him nothing.

He saw her in the gardens one morning, sunlight dancing off her hair as she knelt among the foxglove and poppy blooms, gathering what she needed for her poultices. A faint bruise marred her forearm. Another on her jaw.

Something in him snapped.

He stepped toward her, gruff, unthinking.

“What happened?” he asked. His voice was low but rough, like gravel scraped over steel. “Who did that to you?”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t even rise.

“No one,” she replied, not looking at him. “I’ve been helping in Flea Bottom. Some children wanted to spar.”

“Children don’t leave bruises like that,” he muttered.

She stood then, the basket held firmly to her chest, the hem of her gown dirt-stained and trailing in the soil.

“I can take care of myself,” she said. “Always have.”

He opened his mouth, a hundred things burning behind his teeth — I’m sorry. I should’ve said something. I still dream about you.

Instead, he said nothing.

And she walked away.

Each step she took tore something from him.

—

That evening, Seryna wandered the lower streets again, hood pulled low over her hair. She cleaned wounds. She fed orphans. She played with boys pretending to be knights and girls who wanted to be dragon riders. She laughed, even if it sounded hollow to her ears.

But every smile, every bandage tied with care, every child hugged — it was a prayer.

A prayer that one day, the ache would stop.

That one day, she wouldn’t love him so much it hurt to breathe.

And in the shadows above, Sandor watched her return to the Keep from the ramparts. Watched her disappear through the gates like a memory.

He drank himself sick that night.

Fought three Goldcloaks in a tavern near the Mud Gate. Broke one’s jaw. Took a blade to the ribs.

He didn’t care.

Pain, at least, felt honest.

He bled, because she would not cry.

He shattered, because she would not speak.

And neither of them could let go.

Chapter 21

[queenunderthemountain22]

Scars and Flame

Chapter 19: The Lion’s Last Toast

The sun was setting behind the towers of the Red Keep, casting amber light through the tall windows of the throne room, which had been hastily transformed into a grand hall for yet another of Joffrey Baratheon’s feasts. Music floated in the air, soft and lilting, at odds with the tension beneath every smile.

Seryna sat beside Oberyn, her hands folded tightly in her lap, her expression serene — but beneath the surface, a storm churned. There was no peace in her today. The realm was suffering; people were starving, dying of thirst and illness in the streets, while the crown poured gold into feasts and fanfare. Joffrey's endless celebrations felt less like joy and more like mockery — a deliberate show of opulence in the face of misery, as if to remind the realm who held the power, and who would never taste it.

They were supposed to sail to Sunspear in the morning.

Their trunks were packed. The servants instructed. Seryna had counted the hours, telling herself that leaving this place — leaving him — was the only way she would begin to breathe again.

But then came the feast.

A celebration, Joffrey had declared, to honor the strength of House Martell and its “gracious patience” during their stay.

It was never just a feast with Joffrey.

Wine flowed in gilded cups. Peacocks roasted whole on golden platters. Minstrels played Dornish melodies they barely knew. The King’s voice carried above it all, sharp and smug as ever.

And then he stood.

“I have an announcement,” Joffrey called, tapping his goblet with a jeweled knife.

The music stilled. Courtiers turned.

Seryna’s spine stiffened. Oberyn sipped his wine, expression unreadable.

“It is by royal decree,” Joffrey said, loud and proud, “that Seryna of House Martell, beloved bastard of Prince Oberyn, is to be henceforth recognized as a trueborn daughter of Dorne. A legitimate lady of the realm.”

A hush rippled through the room.

Seryna blinked, her breath caught in her throat. She had not asked for this. Not from him.

Oberyn lifted his goblet lazily in acknowledgment, though the flicker of a smirk danced at the edge of his mouth. The lion had no idea that the girl he legitimized with pomp and flourish was no Martell at all — but the daughter of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell, the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

How poetic.

Seryna offered a shallow nod, hiding the storm inside her. Across the hall, she searched for Sandor—half-expecting him to be standing behind the king’s chair, like always.

But his place was empty.

A ripple of unease crept through her chest. Was he hurt? Dismissed? Had he left without saying goodbye?

The celebration pressed on.

Joffrey drank heavily, mocked the musicians, then turned his tongue to Tyrion. The insults grew sharper, crueler, until even the courtiers stopped laughing. Seryna shifted uncomfortably, her stomach twisting. She hated this place. Its rot. Its sharp smiles.

And then—

The king began to cough.

It started low, and everyone ignored it — until it grew. Sharp, hacking, desperate. He clutched his throat, eyes bulging. His wine spilled, his limbs flailing. Screams erupted. Chairs scraped back.

Joffrey Baratheon collapsed beside his chair, his face turning a color no face should.

Poison.

Panic tore through the feast.

Guards rushed. Cersei screamed and accused Tyrion of poisoning her son. Tyrion was seized.

Seryna stood frozen, her heart racing — not for the king, but for the unraveling of fate. Her escape was gone. Sunspear would have to wait. The capital was a wound now, open and bleeding, and she was trapped inside it again.

She searched the chaos for one figure. One anchor.

But Sandor Clegane was nowhere to be found.

And that absence burned louder than the screaming.

_____________________________________________________

The night had not ended with a crown toppling.

It had only begun.

Seryna’s hands were still trembling hours after the feast. She had scrubbed them raw of wine and sweat, but the shaking remained — not from the chaos Joffrey’s death unleashed, not from the whispers slithering through the court about poison and traitors, but from one simple, hollow truth:

Sandor had not been there.

And she didn’t know why.

She moved through the Red Keep like a ghost, past courtiers still wide-eyed with shock, past scurrying servants and breathless guards. Her steps carried her toward the west tower — toward his chambers. She didn’t think. She didn’t hesitate.

She just needed to know he was alive.

When she reached his door, she paused, hand raised to knock — but the wood beneath her palm was already cracked.

She pushed gently.

The room inside was dark, lit only by a dying fire and the moonlight falling through the window. It smelled of blood and smoke.

And there he was.

Sandor sat slumped on the edge of his bed, shirt discarded, a deep gash stretching down his arm. Bruises bloomed across his ribs. Dried blood painted his knuckles.

Seryna’s heart twisted so sharply it almost stole her breath.

“Sandor,” she whispered.

His head lifted slowly.

He looked ruined.

His eyes were rimmed with red, his jaw unshaven, the sharp lines of his face drawn tight with pain he hadn’t spoken of. But when he saw her — truly saw her — something cracked in him.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said hoarsely.

She stepped in anyway, the door falling shut behind her.

“You’re bleeding.”

“I’ve bled before.”

She knelt before him, pulling open a cloth bag she’d left in his room before — bandages, salves, and a healer’s kit. Her fingers moved without thinking, practiced and gentle. She began cleaning his wound in silence, brushing dirt and dried blood from his skin.

“Why?” he muttered.

Her hands didn’t stop moving.

“Because I can’t stand to see you like this.”

His jaw clenched. “You shouldn’t care.”

“I do.”

He didn’t answer.

So she spoke again, softer now.

“I know you don’t feel the same about me. I know I was foolish. I thought we…” Her voice broke, but she pressed on. “I thought we were building something real, even if no one else would have understood it. But I was wrong. And I’ve accepted that. I just… I just needed to see you. Needed to know you weren’t hurt… or dying somewhere alone.”

She wrapped the bandage tightly around his arm, her touch trembling.

“I loved you more than anything once,” she whispered. “Maybe I still do. I don’t know. But please… let me do this. Let me take care of you. Just this once. And I’ll leave. You won’t have to see me again.”

She tied the final knot, but didn’t move.

Sandor stared at her. Something in him cracked open — wide and raw.

He reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “You were never wrong,” he said quietly. “Not about us.”

Her eyes filled.

He opened his mouth, ready to say everything he had swallowed for weeks — how he dreamed of a house by the sea, her laughter in the rooms, children with dark eyes and wild tempers. How he would’ve fought kingdoms to keep her safe. How he still would.

But before the words could come—

The door opened.

Oberyn.

The prince stood in the doorway, expression unreadable, a goblet of wine in one hand, a blade sheathed at his side.

Seryna pulled back immediately. Her eyes dropped. Sandor stood, teeth grit, as if he’d been caught doing something shameful.

Oberyn’s gaze moved between them. He said nothing for a moment — just took a long, slow sip.

“I was looking for my niece,” he said coolly. “It seems I found her.”

Seryna stepped back. “I was just—”

“Leaving,” Sandor said harshly, eyes on Oberyn, not her.

Her heart shattered. Again.

She turned quickly, and slipped past her uncle without another word.

Oberyn stepped into the room once she had gone. Closed the door behind him.

Sandor didn’t meet his eyes.

“Is this what you call protecting her?” Oberyn asked, his voice quiet and sharp as glass. “Letting her crawl to your door like a wounded thing, while you drink and fight yourself into ruin?”

“I never asked her to come,” Sandor muttered.

“But you wanted her to,” Oberyn said. “And gods help me, she wanted you.”

Sandor said nothing.

“She was crying,” the prince said softly. “I saw it. After you tried to speak to her in the corridor. She turned the corner and broke. Do you know what it is to see someone you raised like your own daughter crumble?”

Sandor closed his eyes.

Oberyn watched him a moment longer, then turned to leave.

“Think what you want, Sandor Clegane,” Oberyn said over his shoulder, voice low and measured. “You once saved her life — when it would’ve been easier to end it. You carried her to me through fire and death. For that, I owe you more than I can ever repay. But don’t let that gift turn to ruin. Don’t become the reason she bleeds now.”

He paused, then turned just enough for Sandor to see the fury behind his calm.

“She means more to me than anyone in this world. And if I ever see pain in her eyes because of you — if I see anyone stand in her way — I will end them. No matter who they are.”

He shut the door behind him.

Sandor sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, the firelight flickering against the silence, then rose. 

He stood there long after Oberyn’s footsteps had faded, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling with the weight of too much unsaid.

No one threatened him. Not without consequence.

And yet… he understood.

He turned toward the hearth, watching the flames dance in silence, the heat brushing against the cold fury in his chest.

Then, with a bitter breath, he leaned forward, resting his hands on the edge of the table — knuckles white, arms trembling.

He didn’t cry. He never cried. But the shaking came anyway.

Because in Oberyn’s words, he heard the truth that cut deeper than any blade.

He wasn’t afraid of the threat. He was afraid of proving the prince right.

Chapter 20

[queenunderthemountain22]

Scars and Flame

Chapter 18: The Suitor’s Smile

Two days remained.

Just two days before they were to return to Sunspear. Before Seryna would walk out of the Red Keep with everything unsaid still burning between them.

But the realm had other plans.

Word had spread after the feast — of the Dornish beauty in blue and gold, the girl with fire in her eyes and mystery in her step. Lords whispered. Courtiers gossiped. And one suitor moved.

Lord Meryn Velaryon, heir to Driftmark, arrived the next morning with a polished smile and a gift of sea-glass roses from the Stepstones. Handsome, charming, and highborn, his interest was immediate.

He had seen her at the feast. Danced with her once. That was enough.

Joffrey, ever eager to play the puppeteer, hosted him gladly. He entertained Meryn’s questions with smirks and half-truths. “A ward of Dorne,” he said. “Oberyn’s little flame. She is a bastard, but she has some fire in her, and no one’s claimed the blaze yet.”

Sandor was in the corner of the hall when Meryn said, “She’s unlike any woman I’ve met. I’d make her mine, if I could. And I would honor her like a queen.”

Joffrey’s lips twisted into a cruel smile. “You're welcome to her — if you can manage her tongue.”

Sandor was nearby, silent in his armor, but every word pierced.

“She will be mine,” Lord Meryn continued, undeterred by Joffrey’s mockery. “She laughed at my jest during the feast. I would give her jewels, ships, anything. She could come to Driftmark as my lady.”

After Lord Meryn left, Joffrey turned to Sandor, drinking his wine Joffrey said, too low for most to hear, “Ladies who marry my bannermen, do so with open legs — for their husbands and for their king. Think they’ll defy a crown if I ask to taste their pretty new wife? That little snake will share my bed whether she wills it or not. I want to hear her break.” He looked at Sandor, “And if you are a good dog, perhaps, I will share her with you too, after I am done with her.”

Sandor’s hands clenched so tightly around the hilt of his sword his knuckles went bone white. But he didn’t move. Not yet. Instead, he turned and left. The wine soured in his gut.

Oberyn was summoned to the Small Council meeting the next morning. The proposal had reached more ears — and while Joffrey treated it like a joke, others did not.

“The Velaryons are an ancient house,” Grand Maester Pycelle offered, eyes half-lidded. “And loyal.”

“They have ships,” said Lord Tyrell.

“They have ambition,” Varys murmured. “And an eye for what glitters too brightly.”

Oberyn sat in still silence, hands steepled beneath his chin. He knew what they wanted. Knew what they saw when they looked at his niece: an alliance, a symbol, a way to bind Dorne to the throne. A tool.

He agreed to the meeting, if only to delay more dangerous interest.

That afternoon, he brought the news to Seryna gently.

“There is a young lord who wishes to walk with you through the gardens,” he said. “Nothing more.”

Seryna, unaware of the truth, agreed without thought.

She wore soft blue, the color of calm skies. Her hair was loosely tied back, a few strands dancing in the breeze. She smiled politely when Lord Meryn bowed, and when he offered his arm, she took it.

They walked slowly, speaking of nothing: the sea, horses, poetry. He made her laugh once — genuinely. And for a moment, she let herself feel light again.

But across the courtyard, Sandor watched.

He had no right. No claim. But the sight of her, smiling at another man, felt like a blade buried in his chest.

He watched the way Lord Meryn leaned too close. How his hand brushed her waist. How she didn’t step away.

He didn’t know that Seryna had no idea this was a proposal — that she thought it was courtesy, not courtship.

All Sandor saw was her slipping from his grasp. And it tore something in him loose.

That night, when he returned to his chambers, her scent still lingered in his mind. The way her lips parted when she smiled. The sound of her laugh.

But her smile hadn’t been for him. And that truth was unbearable.

He couldn’t eat or sleep. 

________________________________________________________________

The laughter from the garden still echoed in Sandor’s ears long after the Velaryon lord had taken his leave. He had watched from the shadows—silent, bitter, aching—as Seryna smiled at another man. Not the smile she’d given him under the stars, soft and private, but a new smile. A practiced one. A stranger’s smile.

He hated it. He hated himself more for causing it.

She had tried to talk to him in the days after their last kiss, but he’d turned away every time. Not because he stopped wanting her—gods, he wanted nothing more—but because Oberyn had asked it of him. Begged him, for her sake.

“She’s the heir. Let her go.”

So he had. Or tried to.

But when he saw her with Lord Velaryon, all laughter and sun-drenched curls, it gutted him. That was supposed to be their life. Their walk. Their joy. And he’d handed it to another man.

Seryna had no idea why he had changed. Why his warmth had turned to frost. All she knew was that the man who once looked at her like she hung the stars now wouldn’t even meet her eyes. That hurt worse than any dagger.

She cried alone that night, staring at her ceiling, whispering to herself, I won’t be like her. I won’t love a man who won’t choose me.

She forced herself to be cordial with the Velaryon suitor the next day. Not because she wanted to—but because she had to survive. To move on. To grow her armor the way her mother never had. He made her laugh again, and for a fleeting moment, she hated herself for it.

Sandor saw it all. And it broke him.

He tried once—only once—to speak to her again. He found her near the stables, the place where they used to meet in secret. She looked at him with all the softness in the world, waiting, silently hoping he would say something true.

But his mouth betrayed him, his courage failed.

“I hope Lord Velaryon keeps you entertained,” was all he could manage.

Her breath caught, and something inside her shattered. She turned. Walked away without a word. And when she was far enough not to hear, she broke down.

Oberyn saw her from the terrace, her shoulders shaking in the garden shadows.

He did nothing. He said nothing. He knew the ache of a love torn by duty. And now she would too.

Sandor drank that night. Heavily. Like a man trying to forget his own name. He fought three men in the yard over a foolish insult and didn’t stop until they bled. Even when he bled too, even when the maester begged him to sit, he kept moving. Kept hurting.

Pain was easier than regret.

He staggered back to his chambers before dawn, bloodied and bruised, and collapsed on the floor like a broken thing. His hands were cut. His ribs ached. But none of it compared to the wound Seryna didn’t even know she’d left behind.

Because even now, even in silence and distance and shame, he still loved her.

And he always would.

Chapter 19