Sansa entered the room, pushing the door closed behind her, and stood for a moment with her back to the door, letting her head knock against the heavy oak. Her knees sagged a little as the enormity of this night washed over her. With her eyes closed, she sent a silent prayer to the Gods, pleading for deliverance from whichever swarming, murderous horde ended the night victorious.

She wished her father were here. Or Robb. Or Loras Tyrell, or even Jon Snow, or anyone who could shield her from Stannis' justice or Ser Ilyn Payne's silent, gleaming alternative. She whimpered, and opened her eyes to see her chambers in greenish darkness - but for the window, which was a bright, jade rectangle of seething horror.

Terrified, but feeling somehow drawn toward the faint screams of men and horses and steel, Sansa crossed to her window, and her lips parted in shock. Outside, far away - and yet far, far too near - the world was on fire. Land, ships, water, men - all were ablaze. Sansa had heard that wildfire did not discriminate, but the reality was more horrifying than anything she could have imagined. The areas where the fire had not reached were no better. It seemed that the whole of King's Landing had become a maelstrom of roaring violence, a chaotic race toward defeat for everyone involved. A tear slipped down Sansa's cheek, unheeded.

In the forgotten darkness of her chambers, there was a sudden movement. Sansa whirled around to face the sound, hands trembling violently as she gripped the ledge of her window. I bolted the door, I bolted the door - Oh Gods, did I bolt the door? A mad, half-formed thought darted across her mind: it would not do for a Stark of Winterfell to die huddled and shaking against the wall. Raising her chin and forcing herself to stand alone, Sansa drew herself up as the figure raised itself unsteadily from her bed. He was big, too big, far too big - it was the Hound. Sansa's eyes widened in surprise as he moved towards her, thoughts tripping over one another and scrambling into nothing as she tried to search for something to say. Was he sleeping on my bed?

The Hound advanced in a great hulking mass of armour and blood, and Sansa saw his face for the first time as he stepped into the poisonous green light. His black hair was plastered to his face with sweat, and she thought perhaps his nose had been broken. He had sustained a deep gash above his eye. The burned side of his face was covered entirely in dark, crusting blood, partially masking his terrible scars. But far, far worse than the scars were the eyes. Silver and glinting like a blade, they narrowed upon Sansa, full of anger and heat and the mad, feverish kind of drunkenness which could drive a man to do anything. Perhaps his blood is up like the Queen said and he is come to rape me. Sansa realised that she could not look away from him, and as the smell of blood and sweat and vomit and fire and fear which emanated from him surrounded her, she found her eyes upon his face once more. They looked at one another for a long moment, Sansa's breath coming rapidly and Sandor Clegane's rasping out from under his chest plate. Then, quick as a sword from a sheath, he grabbed Sansa's wrist and wrenched her around so that her back was pressed against his chest. A huge, calloused hand which tasted of iron was clamped over her mouth. His hot breath tickled her neck. "If you scream I'll kill you. Believe that."

She did believe it, and yet it had not entered Sansa's head to scream. The Hound hated her chirping, and who would she scream for anyway? Her wrist hurt. She tried to twist it out of his grasp, knowing it wouldn't work. Instead, the Hound drove her to the bed and deposited her clumsily on it, so that he stood imposingly over her as she she sat as primly as their proximity would allow upon the edge of the mattress. She badly wanted to ask who was winning the battle, but she was afraid of the answer. "I thought...I thought you would be leading the sorties, Ser."

"Bugger the sorties. Half my men were killed or wounded and the other half were not fools enough to try to fight fire with swords."

Of course. He's afraid of fire. He's afraid. "But-the king…" maybe Joffrey was dead. She couldn't see another way the Hound would desert him.

"Fuck the King. I'm going."

"Going?"

The Little Bird repeats whatever she hears. Going, yes."

"Where will you go?" The Hound scared her, but it could not be good news for her if he was to leave King's Landing. He was all that stood between her and Joffrey, he said it himself, and he never lied.

"Away from here. Away from the fires. Go out the Iron Gate, I suppose. North somewhere, anywhere."

"But...then why did you come here?"

"You promised me a song, Little Bird. Have you forgotten?" His hand came heavy down upon her shoulder and gripped her hard.

"I can't...let me go, you're scaring me."

"Everything scares you. Look at me." He brought his hand up around her neck, his thumb pushing up her chin.

And she did look at him, because it wasn't true - not everything scared her, not since they had cut off her father's head and made her watch and not since she'd been beaten and stripped, and especially not since the battle of the Blackwater had come in through her window. She tried to wake the blood of the wolf in her veins. Sansa looked at him long and true, and saw that he was not as angry as he was afraid or sad or desperate. He looked back.

"I could keep you safe," he rasped. "They're all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again, or I'd kill them."

Sansa closed her eyes to keep another tear from escaping, because it was all so hopeless. Surely he would not really take her North and keep her from harm? Cersei's earlier words from the ballroom echoed back to her now. All she knew of life she learned from singers. Perhaps he would sell her or kill her instead.

"Still can't bear to look, can you?" The Hound's voice brought her back to her chambers as he shoved her down upon the bed, leaning heavily over her. "I'll have that song. Florian and Jonquil, you said." He brought his dagger up and laid it across her throat, pressing hard enough that Sansa wondered if he was drawing blood. He was mad, she couldn't sing now, you don't sing when the world outside is a hell and you're covered in blood and there is a knife at your neck. I could keep you safe. A hound will die for you, but never lie to you.

Slowly, without quite knowing what she was doing, Sansa raised her hand to the one which held the dagger and laid it gently over his. And he'll look you straight in the face. She made herself raise her eyes once more to his. "You won't hurt me."

Slowly, softly, she gripped his hand and brought it away from her throat, never looking away from him. Something in Sandor Clegane's manner seemed to falter, and he let her move his arm. "No, Little Bird, I won't hurt you." His voice cracked. The anger in his grey eyes had broken too, and now he simply looked lost. Without thinking, Sansa moved her hand up to his bloodied, burned face, and cupped his cheek. At the same time, the Hound had straightened and lifted Sansa to an upright position, so that without warning his hands were around her back and hers were on him, one stroking his face and the other gripping the fabric at his shoulder to steady herself. Their faces were much closer together than Sansa had intended. Her breath caught in her throat.

For a long moment, they regarded one another silently, wide deep blue into narrowed flinty grey, as the cries of dying men sounded outside. A flash of orange light brought the Hound's face into sharp relief, and he was roused to movement. Releasing Sansa and turning his back on her, she watched as he ripped the stained cloth of his Kingsguard cloak from his shoulders and tossed the material gently onto her lap. Sansa bowed her head, twisting her fingers into the folds of the garment. How strange that his cloak was so white and pure such a short while ago. Like me. It was almost funny. Another tear rolled down her cheek as she heard the Hound scraping back the bolt she had locked herself in with.

"Wait."