Chapter Text
You were playing a dangerous game.
Every glance was a risk, enough to make your body tremble and your heart thunder in your chest. King Joffrey’s voice washed over you like meaningless noise, a slurry of words you neither heard nor cared to understand.
Your fingers brushed lightly against your cousin Sansa’s arm. It was a small gesture meant to soothe her, to ground both of you. For a moment, you fixed your gaze on the stone floor, willing your breathing to steady, before allowing your eyes to wander once more.
It was all about counting seconds.
One second too long would be fatal. You had learned to measure your glances with precision, to look away before curiosity hardened into something visible. Only after enough heartbeats had passed did you dare again.
You had never been given a look in return. Perhaps once, by accident. You could never be sure. You did not know who might be watching, who might notice the smallest betrayal written in your eyes, and so you were careful.
And then, in that one impossible moment, the gaze was returned.
Your world stilled.
Your heart slammed against your ribs, your palms slick with sweat, breath caught somewhere between fear and longing. It lasted no more than a heartbeat, but it was enough. Your eyes met those of The Hound.
He likely thought nothing of it. If he noticed at all, perhaps he assumed it coincidence, or that you were merely another frightened courtly girl stealing glances at the king’s savage watchdog. Maybe he had not noticed your earlier looks. Maybe he had.
It was not your fault that the king’s hound fascinated you.
Not your fault that your heart betrayed you for a tall, scarred, brutal man carved from violence.
But it would be your fault if anyone else noticed.
And in this court, desire was not forgiven. It was punished.
Sansa’s fingers closed around yours.
The pressure was tight, almost desperate. She was unraveling, you could feel it in the tremor of her hand and in the way her shoulders were drawn inward as if she wished to disappear into herself. All you could do was stand beside her and be her anchor.
You brushed your thumb gently over the back of her hand, a silent promise that she was not alone. The two of you lingered at the edge of the hall.
You forced your gaze away again.
Across the hall, laughter burst out, sharp and cruel. King Joffrey had found amusement again. Another innocent soul to torment. The sound cut through the room like a blade, yet no one noticed the way you counted your heartbeats beneath it, one by one.
Then you dared another glance.
He stood as he always did. His armor was dark and worn, bearing the scars of real battles, not tourneys. His face was locked into that familiar scowl, one that warned the world not to test him. He did not belong in this court of silk, perfume, and lies. But he was bound to it, chained by duty just as surely as you were.
This time, he did not look away.
The shock of it almost stole the air from your lungs.
There was no softness in his eyes, no warmth to cling to. Only something sharp and watchful, a gaze that measured and weighed and warned all at once. As if he, too, had felt the shift in the air. As if he, too, knew this was already a mistake.
Your stomach twisted. You dropped your gaze at once, heat rushing to your cheeks, fear blooming fast and familiar in your chest. You knew that look.
It was not an invitation.
It was caution.
“That will be all,” King Joffrey’s voice rang out from the Iron Throne.
Your heart jumped.
“Dog,” he sneered, eyes glittering with malice, “escort my lady to her chambers. And her cousin as well.”
Sansa’s brows knit together, her grip tightening around your hand. Joffrey never missed a chance to grind his future wife into the ground, to remind her of her powerlessness, and tonight was no different. You felt her falter beside you.
Heavy footsteps approached.
Without a word, The Hound came to a halt before you. He did not look at either of you directly. There was no ceremony, no cruelty in his movements. Only obedience.
You turned and began to walk.
The hall swallowed the sound of your footsteps as you walked toward the chambers, tension coiled tight in your chest.
The doors closed behind you with a dull, echoing thud.
The corridor beyond the great hall was dim, lit only by flickering torches set deep into the stone. Their flames stretched shadows along the walls, making the passage feel smaller, more confined with every step.
The Hound walked behind you. His pace was steady, boots striking the stone. Close enough that you were acutely aware of him.
Sansa remained beside you, her hand still locked around yours. You could feel how cold her fingers had gone, how tense she was, every breath shallow. You squeezed back, grounding her, focusing on the rhythm of walking. Anything to keep your thoughts from spiraling.
No one spoke.
The silence was heavy, pressing in on all sides. Even the torches seemed to crackle too loudly.
You were aware of everything.
The sound of his breathing. The heat of his presence.
You kept your eyes forward. You had to. Looking at him now would be reckless. Looking at him now would be noticed.
When you reached the door to Sansa’s chambers, you all stopped. The Hound’s gaze was fixed somewhere above your heads, jaw tight. Duty, written plain in the rigid line of his posture.
Sansa hesitated, fingers tightening once more before she finally let go of your hand.
“Thank you,” she murmured, barely audible.
He inclined his head.
And then, just before the door closed between you and the corridor, you felt it again.
That unmistakable weight of his gaze, not on your face, but on the space where you stood.
“I can find my way on my own,” you muttered as Sansa slipped into her chambers and the door closed softly behind her.
“Of course,” came the rough reply.
Your chambers were only a few doors down. He turned without ceremony and walked away, boots echoing against the stone. You watched his retreating back for a heartbeat too long, pulse hammering wildly, until you finally released a careful, trembling breath.
Then you felt it.
Someone was standing behind you.
“My lady seems… very deep in thought,” a familiar voice observed smoothly.
You stiffened.
Varys.
“I suppose I am,” you replied dryly, schooling your face into calm.
A pause followed. Varys never wasted silence.
“And is he the one occupying your thoughts?” he asked gently.
Seven hells.
You should have known better. Of course he had seen. Of course nothing escaped those eyes.
“No,” you said.
But the hesitation came first, just a fraction too long, a breath where the truth hovered naked between you. It betrayed you far more surely than words ever could.
Varys smiled knowingly, hands folded serenely before him. His gaze drifted to the torches lining the corridor.
“Forgive me,” he said softly, “if I speak too plainly. It is a failing of mine.”
You did not answer.
He smiled faintly. “The court is not kind to those who linger too long in their own thoughts. Especially young ladies. Especially quiet ones.”
Your fingers curled into your sleeves.
“I was merely tired,” you said. “Tonight has been long.”
“Ah.” Varys nodded, as if you had confirmed something rather than dismissed it. “Yes. Weariness has a way of loosening the guard. It lets the mind wander where it ought not.”
He turned then, finally looking at you. His eyes were gentle. That was the most dangerous part.
“Tell me, my lady,” he continued, voice smooth as honey, “have you ever wondered why some survive this court… and others do not?”
You met his gaze carefully. “Because they learn when to be silent.”
A pleased hum escaped him. “Very good.”
He stepped closer. The corridor suddenly felt narrower.
“Silence,” he said, “is a powerful shield. But it must be paired with something else. Restraint. Discretion. The wisdom to know which thoughts are meant to stay thoughts.”
Your heart thudded painfully against your ribs.
“I have no dangerous thoughts,” you replied.
Again, that pause betrayed you.
Varys sighed, almost regretfully. “My lady… everyone does. Affection, curiosity, admiration… these are not crimes. Not on their own. But in King’s Landing, they are noticed. And once noticed, they are used. By people far crueler than I.”
The implication settled heavily between you.
“I ask only because I would hate to see harm come to you,” he said mildly. “You are kind to your cousin. That sort of kindness is… rare. And fragile.”
Your throat tightened.
“And if,” he added, as though it were an afterthought, “one were to find oneself drawn to someone unsuited to dreams… then restraint would not merely be wise.”
His eyes flicked briefly, deliberately, down the corridor where The Hound had disappeared.
“It would be necessary.”
Your pulse roared in your ears.
“I don’t know what you’re implying,” you said, too quickly.
Varys smiled again.
“Of course you don’t,” he said. “And I, naturally, imply nothing at all.”
He inclined his head.
“Sleep well, my lady. And remember, walls have ears, but so do corridors. Choose carefully what you allow them to hear.”
With that, he drifted past you, soft footsteps fading into the torchlit darkness.
You remained where you were, breath shallow, heart racing.
The next day, you stood once again in the throne room.
The Iron Throne loomed above you as King Joffrey ordered a public punishment for a servant. His voice carried easily through the hall, sharp with delight. It was never justice he sought, only spectacle.
Beside you, Sansa trembled.
You felt it through the thin space between your arms, the way her breath hitched as the cries echoed across the stone. You forced yourself to remain still, to look composed, to be strong enough for both of you. Leaning close, you whispered softly that afterward you could go to the library together, lose yourselves among books and silence, pretend that this place had never existed.
She shook her head.
Her eyes were glassy, unfocused, fixed somewhere far beyond the throne. She wanted only her chambers. Only walls and a locked door between herself and the world.
When Joffrey’s little performance finally ended, when the hall’s attention drifted elsewhere and the blood had been wiped from the floor, Sansa withdrew at once, moving quickly, shoulders hunched, as if she feared even the air might reach for her.
Just as he had the night before, Joffrey smiled.
“Hound,” he called lazily. “See my lady and her cousin to their chambers.”
He knew exactly what he was doing. He always did. The command was never about protection, only about fear. About reminding Sansa that there was no corner of the Red Keep where she could breathe freely.
As you walked, you felt The Hound behind you again. You sensed each step, each shift of armor, the quiet rhythm of his breathing. The corridor felt narrower than it had any right to be.
You wanted to turn.
To look at him.
To say something.
A foolish impulse, dangerous and aching, pressed against your ribs. Words crowded your throat, unsaid and unwise. You kept walking, hands clenched at your sides, knowing that silence was the only thing keeping you safe.
Yet every part of you strained toward him.
Sansa stopped first.
Her chamber door stood only a few steps away. She hesitated, fingers tightening briefly around your sleeve as if she might say something, but the weight of the day pressed too heavily on her. Without a word, she slipped inside. The door closed softly behind her, shutting out the corridor, the court, the world.
You were alone.
With him.
You drew a breath, heart hammering so loudly you were certain he could hear it. This was the moment. You turned slightly, lips parting, about to speak his name for the first time.
But just then…
“My, my.”
The voice slid through the corridor.
You froze.
From behind the corner emerged Varys, hands folded neatly, expression pleasant as ever. He looked from you to The Hound, and something sharp flickered briefly behind his eyes.
“How attentive our brave Hound has been,” Varys said lightly. “One might almost mistake it for… personal concern.”
Your stomach dropped.
The Hound did not move. His posture remained rigid, eyes forward.
“I do my duty,” he growled.
“Of course,” Varys agreed at once. “Duty is such a noble thing. Especially when it inspires such… devotion.”
His gaze shifted to you now, lingering just long enough to be dangerous.
“I couldn’t help but notice,” he continued softly, “that some eyes in the throne room today were far less fixed on His Grace than they ought to have been.”
Silence thickened.
“Fear makes people look anywhere but where they should,” The Hound said coldly.
Varys smiled. “Ah. Fear.” He inclined his head. “Yes, that does explain much.”
He took a small step closer, not toward him, but toward you.
“And yet,” he added gently, “fear alone rarely makes a young lady forget herself so entirely.”
Your pulse roared in your ears.
“I don’t know what you mean,” you said, though the words tasted thin.
“Of course you don’t,” he said pleasantly. “And neither does he.”
The Hound’s hand twitched at his side.
“Careful, Spider,” he warned.
“Oh, I am always careful,” Varys replied, unbothered. “That is why I speak now, before curiosity becomes affection, and affection becomes something far more… costly.”
His smile softened, almost kindly.
“This court devours careless hearts,” he said. “And it is particularly cruel to those who forget who belongs where.”
Then, with a courteous nod to you both, Varys stepped back into the shadows from which he had come, his footsteps fading into nothing.
The corridor was silent again.
The Hound turned his head just enough to look at you.
“I’m sorry,” you stammered, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “I don’t know what he was talking about.”
“Leave it, my lady.”
His voice cut through the corridor, stripped of anything that might be mistaken for kindness. He did not look at you as he said it. He simply turned away, as if the conversation had never existed at all.
As if you had not existed.
You remained standing before your door, hand hovering uselessly near the handle. You knew that he was aware of it. That he could feel you still there behind him, unmoving, watching. You did not open the door. You did not retreat. And that hesitation betrayed you just as surely as words ever could.
His footsteps echoed down the corridor.
You wondered if he could sense what churned inside you, if he could read the storm in your silence the way others at court read smiles and lies. He was no fool, far from it. He had survived battlefields and kings alike. Of course he understood more than he let on.
The question was not whether he knew.
It was whether you would ever dare to look at him again knowing that every glance now carried the weight of everything you had not said.