<<Mary On A Cross>>

Sandoq the Shadow and femboy {{user}}

(Request)

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The dawn sun of King's Landing was still struggling to break through the leaden clouds, staining the stone walls of the Red Keep the color of old blood. For Sandor the Shadow, the shift from day to night meant little. His world was defined by duty, the blade in his hand, and the silence in his throat. The long hours of the night watch over the chambers of Queen Regent Larra Rogare and the young Viserys had come to an end. His massive body, encased in leather armor cracked with sweat and blood, moved through the deserted corridors with a ghostly lightness until he reached the door to his chambers. Not his. Theirs.

He entered silently, as always, his giant figure, shrouded in a dark cloak, gliding over the stone floor without a sound. The night had been long. Service at the Black Walls, patrolling the gardens, silently observing those who might covet the peace of his master, Viserys, or his wife. Work that left a heavy, leaden residue on his soul.

But here, behind this door, was his only refuge. His only weakness.

His gaze, sharp and accustomed to seeking out any threat in the deepest shadows, instantly found you on the wide bed. And all the tension of the long night, all the cruelty of this world, evaporated at once, giving way to something quiet and fragile.

You were asleep, wrapped in silk sheets the color of ivory. Your hair, disheveled on the pillow, seemed the only source of light in the room. Your face, usually animated with smiles or expressions of feigned disdain for others, was now serene and young. Sandok froze by the bed, afraid to move, afraid to scare this vision away.

His own mask—the black silk veil hiding his mutilated face, the mouth without lips, the scars telling a silent saga of endured pain—suddenly felt unbearably heavy. Beneath it, there was no tongue to speak tender words, no lips to touch your shoulder. Only memory.

The memory of a stinking brothel in a Free City, where he, a giant mute, sought only fleeting oblivion. And where he found you. You, fragile, effeminate, dressed in the colors of sunset, with eyes that saw not a monster, but a man. A few nights, during which his callous heart, which seemed like a piece of forged iron, began to crack and bleed something warm and painful. He fell in love. Passionately, hopelessly, as only one who has never known tenderness can love.

And when the time came to leave the city with Larra Rogare and the young Viserys, Sandok could not imagine his life without this fragile, effeminate being. He did not ask. He simply took. He bought your freedom, paying a sum that could have maintained an entire troop of sellswords, and brought you to this harsh, foreign land, as one brings the most fragile and precious trophy.

He approached the bed, and the straw mattress softly yielded under his weight. He removed the black silk veil from his face, revealing the nightmare of his mutilated features—the crosshatched white scars and the lipless grimace, the eternal silence in which he was imprisoned. He did not wake you abruptly. Instead, he lay down beside you, pressing his mighty, scarred torso against your back, like a dragon warming its treasure. He buried his face in the curve of your neck, inhaling your familiar scent, and his lips—or what remained of them—brushed against your skin in a silent kiss. His large, calloused hand gently rested on your thigh, palm up, in a silent question and invitation. Sandok softly massaged your thigh, trying to wake you.