Author's Note: This story will take place in the television universe, with very little (but some) use of the book universe. This will eventually be AU, and will be for Mature audiences due to adult themes (read; smut, violence, language).

I do not own Game of Thrones, nor do I make any profit from this work of fiction.

CHAPTER ONE

Fire is never a gentle master. -Proverb

SANSA

"You won't hurt me."

"... No, Little Bird, I won't hurt you."

She lay awake at night sometimes, thinking of those words. She should have left with him. She'd be with her mother and brother. She'd be free.

She'd be with him.

And now… Now...

Sansa lay a hand over her eyes and tried to forget her mistakes.

SANDOR

As he watched Beric Dondarrion's sword come alight with flames, Sandor found himself suddenly glad, for the very first time, that he'd not forced Sansa Stark to come north with him.

This was no place for his Little Bird.

As men yelled and jeered, as Arya Stark screamed for his death, as fire caught to his shield and the flames of Beric's sword came dangerously close to his face, he thought of her.

Of her eyes full of tears. Of her damn helpless cries as she was beaten or taunted by the King and his men. Of her words, spilling gratitude at him for delivering her from her would be rapers, accusing him of being hateful, or telling him the truth of the matter- which was that he would not hurt her.

Mostly though, he thought of her hair, long and wild when it wasn't in some ridiculous pile on the top of her head that was deemed fashionable by the court. Hair like silk. Hair like fire.

The only fire he had never feared.

SANSA

It may have been humiliating, the way Joffrey had forced her to kneel and receive Tyrion's cloak. But the heaviness of the fabric, the weight of it on her shoulders, it was impossible not to think of The Hound once doing this, albeit in different circumstances.

Sandor, she corrected herself silently. If you ever see him again, call him by his name. Not Ser, not Lord… Sandor Clegane.

She stood and wiped away a tear as inconspicuously as she could, giving a tremulous smile to her new husband.

And for the first time she wished that it was someone else, someone specific, that stood next to her. Someone brave and gentle and strong, as her father had said he would match her with. She wished…

Her heart seemed to tumble.

She wished that it was her Hound, Sandor, draping his cloak over her shoulders, murmuring reassurances to her, and calling her Little Bird once more.

Instead, she said her vows to Tyrion Lannister.

SANDOR

He studied the young Stark girls face. Limp brown hair, angry grey eyes, blood splattered on her cheeks. She didn't look a thing like Sansa. Arya was more Stark, more like her father in looks.

"You don't have a bit of Tully in you, do ya girl," Sandor stated.

Arya sneered at him. "My sister got it all."

Sandor chuckled and vaulted onto his horse, watching as Arya did the same.

"You've got more spunk than her, more fight."

He glanced back in time to see Arya fighting down a smile.

They rode in silence for a while, Sandor lost in thought, his mind on copper hair and bright blue eyes.

"Do you think she's alright?"

Sandor glanced back at Arya and grimaced. "How would I know?" he snapped.

Arya's lip curled. "I didn't ask if you knew, I asked what you thought."

Sandor grunted at her, and was quiet so long that Arya thought he'd not answer her.

Then he said, in a voice so quiet Arya almost missed the words, "I hope so, girl. I hope so."

SANSA

They were dead.

Robb. Her mother.

Everyone she loved had gone.

And there was no comfort for her, no person she trusted to guide her, or show her compassion. She was left alone to grieve, to try and find a way to process this shock. As the door shut behind Tyrion a sob escaped her, and Sansa cried out words that came unbidden.

"I wish The Hound were here."

Then her cries overtook her, and there was no cloak to be laid over her shoulders for comfort, no harsh words that spoke truth.

Only her cries, and a castle full of enemies.

SANDOR

"The King is dead!" yelled a sellsword to the tavern. Every eye shifted to the man who'd made the proclamation, and that included Sandor Clegane and Arya Stark.

They had both heard of this already by Rorge at the ransacked farm, but the sellsword was going into detail of Joffrey's death by poison, and with the telling they got a more descript version of events. The girl next to him relaxed her posture, and a smile spread onto her face as the man told the bar of how Joffrey had turned purple and blue in the face, gasping his last breaths as poison coursed through his veins.

Sandor chastised her quietly, "Enough of that smirkin' girl, or you'll be hanged for treason."

Arya's expression fell then, but her eyes were alight with a happiness that was not well hidden. Sandor sighed and emptied Arya's cup of water onto the floor. He then filled it halfway with ale from his own tankard. She looked up at him, and Sandor raised his glass and knocked it against her own.

"Long live the King," he intoned with amused sarcasm, and Arya laughed and took a bracing gulp of the ale he'd poured her, spluttering only minimally.

They sat in amiable silence after that, Sandor trying to ignore the pain in his neck and keep well to the shadows, and as it always happened his thoughts turned to Sansa. While he hoped that the death of the boy King would help her situation, he'd heard from travellers a few days back that she had been forced to wed The Imp. It had made his blood boil, made the bread in his mouth taste like ash. He'd elected not to tell Arya this news, and still held the information from her, though he was not sure why.

Best not to upset her and hear her mouth, he told himself with discomfort, knowing it was partly a lie. Best not to upset her, yes. But also, best not to worry the girl.

He was worried enough for both of them.

Ah, Little Bird, he thought. What have you gotten yourself into?

SANSA

Things has gone so wrong. The king was dead, her husband stood accused, and floors above her the exaggerated screams of passion emitted by her Aunt made their way into her own bedroom.

This is disgusting, she thought, sure that the sounds Aunt Lysa was making were an elaboration.

Maybe they aren't, a small voice seemed to say. Maybe this is what true pleasure sounds like.

She scoffed audibly at this, knowing somehow that it was untrue. A man and his lady were expected to join in union, but never had she heard of this sort of reaction. It was a duty for the bearing of children. In the songs there was talk of passion, but Sansa had since deemed them as false. She has not lied to Sandor all that time ago; she had no songs left to sing. For Sansa there was no longer such a thing as love, or passion, or pleasure, not in the way the fables described. For her, there was only the will to endure, to survive, until The Stranger came to claim her.

And besides, it sounds fake, she thought, putting her hands to her ears in an effort to drown the noise.

Her mind wandered then, trying to take hold of some line of thought that would distract her from her current situation.

I wonder where Sandor is…

Her mind grasped this particular thought with vigor, and she speculated on the places he might be, the danger he could have gotten himself into, and the regret she felt for not being with him now.

I wonder if he thinks of me so?

This was not the first time she'd had that particular musing. He seemed to crowd her mind at times, as though his height and stature could take up space not only in reality. Was he worried for her? Was he angry with her? Gods, she'd been so stupid, so childish, there was no reason for him not to be angry with her- she was angry with herself!

You have to stop being so weak, she told herself sternly, and a bit of Sandor seemed to leak into the thought- as though he might be the one to say this to her, from wherever he was. You have to be smarter, more aware.

She wondered what he'd think of her now, holed up in The Eyrie with Petyr Baelish and her aunt. She wondered what he'd think of Robin Arryn, and knew the answer quickly enough that she gave a silent laugh- he'd despise the child. She wondered if he was well, if he was whole. And, unbidden, she wondered if he would make a woman sound this way, in the throws of passion.

This reflection had come seemingly out of nowhere, and it hit Sansa like a blow to the stomach, knocking the breath from her.

Completely unlady like, she chastised herself. Absolutely inappropriate!

And before she could think on it more, a particularly loud and animalistic howl came from her Aunt, and it ripped her out of reverie.

SANDOR

Death. He was begging for it. He was sobbing for it.

The she-wolf had gone. Brienne of fucking Tarth had gone.

All that remained were the crows.

"Fuck," he moaned, wishing The Stranger would get on with it. He'd yelled and cried himself hoarse, the taste of copper flooding his mouth. He closed his eyes and tried to calm himself. The pain was horrible, mostly emitting from his leg, but he'd had worse. Any injury was better than being set afire.

Fire.

Sansa.

"Oh Little Bird, I'm sorry," he whispered, the apology encompassing all the wrongs he'd done her, all the harsh words and coarse glances. All the times he'd stood by and let her be tortured and beat.

He should have taken her away.

He should have told her…

Even in death he could not bring himself to think the words.

"Sansa…"

He closed his mouth then, resolved that her name would be the last thing he'd ever speak to this world. And then the crows could have him.

SANSA

"Lady Sansa, do you take this man?"

Bolton. She was about to become Sansa Bolton.

Not Stark. Not Lannister. Not Baelish.

Not Clegane.

A Bolton. The name of traitors. The name of men who tortured and murdered and flayed.

I'm never going to see The Hound again. The realization seemingly came from nowhere, flying into her thoughts and taking root there.

They were waiting for her to answer, and it had been too long already.

Not for the last time, she wished Sandor Clegane were here.

"I take this man."

Author's Note: Leave a review and tell me what you think. Until then, I'll be writing!