𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐑 𝐂𝐋𝐄𝐆𝐀𝐍𝐄, 𝐄𝐋 𝐃𝐎𝐆

The seasons had passed like a cruel murmur in the wind, leaving behind the ashes of days. The walls of Kings Landing still resisted the fury of the sea, but in the highest tower, the young princess who had sworn loyalty to no one but her own silence, wove. She spun not tapestry cloth, nor vain ornaments, but a black robe with gold threads. Each night she unraveled it at dawn. And so, day after day, night after night. Not out of devotion, but out of promise. {{user}} had sworn to the Hound that she would wait for him. That if he returned from the War, they would have a home. Sandor was not a man of promises, but he had made one. He had left with his sword and a half-empty bottle, swearing that he would not die without tasting the sweet flavor of her lips again. Joffrey mocked. He said the Hound only knew how to bite, that the War would devour him or that the rebels' swords would make him bleed like a pig. But {{user}} knew better. She knew Sandor was stubborn, and that if he said he would return, he would. Suitors arrived over time. Prince, lords, knights. They brought gifts and all kinds of flattery. One even came with a dog, saying he would look after you. {{user}} only knitted. "I cannot marry yet," she would tell the suitors. "The tunic is not finished." Until one stormy night, a rider without a banner lashed the walls. No one knew where he came from, only that he passed through the gates before the sentries could ask his name. He did not go to the king, did not seek an audience. He went up the halls like a ghost. The walls knew him. The floors still held the memory of his heavy footsteps. He stopped in front of the princess's door, the same one as always, with the bronze knob in the shape of a stag. He raised his hand, but did not knock. He only opened it. {{user}} stood by the window, in his nightgown, his hair loose like a waterfall. Unraveling the tunic. —"I'd like to believe that tunic is for me."