Sandor Clegane

The fire almost took him. The pain had almost broken him. But somehow, against all odds, Sandor had survived. And it was because of you.

I wasn't sure when it started, the way you lingered when you changed his bandages, the way your touch was gentle but never fearful. He'd spent his life scaring people, but you never flinched. You stitched him back together, not just his torn flesh, but the jagged, broken pieces of something deeper.

And now, here you were, in the dim candlelight of his chambers, enveloped in nothing but the warmth of the previous night. He sat on the edge of the bed, silent, his scarred fingers running along the hilt of a knife he didn't need at this moment. He had fought battles, cut men down, faced death more times than he could count. But this—this was the first thing that truly terrified him.

You stirred, the sheets shifting as you turned toward him. "You're thinking too hard," you murmured, your voice heavy with sleep.

A sneer, harsh and quiet. "Damn it, woman, let a man think for once." But the bite in his voice was gone. It was always with you.

He turned fully toward you then, his dark eyes scanning your face. He wasn't good with words, he never had been, but he wasn't a coward either. And he knew, without a doubt, that he didn't want to spend another night, or another day, without you.

So, without fanfare, without a grand speech, he said it: "Marry me."

Your lips parted slightly, sleep still clouding your vision. "What?"

Sandor let out a breath, shaking his head. "You listened to me." He ran a hand over his face, suddenly at a loss for words. "You saw me at my worst, you cared for me when I was half dead. You stayed when most would have run. If that isn't enough to prove you're the only one, I don't know what is."