A/N: My first multi-chapter SanSan fic. Woo!

Sansa thought of her sister often.

Since they were children, Arya had always been the wilder one – the adventurous one, the one who was never afraid. She had possessed a keen fight or flight instinct that always seemed to be right on the mark. There was no gray area for Arya. You either ran away to safety or you stayed and fought the battle. Admittedly, those battles had been small when they were children. Taking a bath, finishing needlework, getting hair styled appropriately. But Arya always knew when to scurry off to the safety of her father's arms, and when to stand her ground with her mother.

Although Sansa usually found it infuriating, she had grown to admire it more as they'd gotten older. Not that she would have ever told Arya that.

When their father was killed, Arya ran. Sansa liked to imagine what her sister might be doing now – what sort of grand adventures she had on her way back to Winterfell. For surely that was where she would go. And Sansa willed her to get there safely, as if by imagining Arya's homecoming enough times, she could make it true. It was a comfort to believe that at least some small part of her family was together again, even if she was not among them.

Sansa had never known when to run and when to fight. She was good at being obedient, and obedience left very little room to choose one's path. It had been easy to be obedient to her mother and father. They were kind and wise, and she knew that she could trust them. But here in King's Landing, things were different. Sansa was still obedient. That trait had saved her life more than once. But it was not because she loved and respected those who commanded her. It was because she feared them. Fear, she found, was an entirely different motivator. She also found that, even if she did not know when to flee or fight, she did know how to survive.

She was good at surviving, and in her new world that was truly the only thing that mattered. She knew how to act, how to speak, how to walk, how to exist in such a way that no one would find fault with her. With the exception of Joffrey, of course, but that was only because he delighted in her shame. Sansa had even learned how to take his punishments in a way that pleased him most. It was painful, but she did it. She got through it, because she wanted to survive. As long as she survived, there was hope.

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His cloak was heavy on her shoulders. Sansa knelt there, willing herself to maintain some sort of composure. That's what her mother would want her to do. Starks were strong, even in the face of adversity. She would not break down in front of the whole of court. A lady maintained dignity, she reminded herself, even as tears sprung up in her eyes.

Thank the Gods for Tyrion Lannister. She never imagined she would think those words, but the imp had saved her from what would surely have been the most shameful experience of her life. And the Hound … no one had moved when Tyrion demanded that she be covered. No one but him. She clutched the cloak more tightly around herself, taking the hand Tyrion offered her.

"Tell me the truth," Tyrion said quietly, "Do you want an end to this engagement?"

Her response was so rehearsed, so automatic, that Sansa didn't even think about it.

"I am loyal to King Joffrey," she said, and her voice sounded dead even to her own ears. "My one true love."

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"What the hell does he think he's doing?" the Hound growled, "He was willing to strip a girl naked in court. His future wife."

Tyrion eyed the scarred man in front of him. He shared Sandor's rage, but he controlled it.

"Hopefully my … arrangement will curb his appetite for pain and replace it with something more useful," he replied evenly.

The Hound slammed his hands down on the table. "And do you think he will be gentle with that?" he asked angrily, "Do you think he will turn into a sweet, sensitive boy? All this will do is introduce him to new ways to hurt her."

"Temper, temper," Tyrion replied, pouring them both a glass of wine, "Need I remind you that you're speaking out of turn?"

Sandor fumed, but kept his mouth shut.

"Let us at least try this," Tyrion said, "Honestly, I don't know if it will change the way he treats the Stark girl at all. But it might. I don't want to see her hurt anymore than you do."

"What makes you think I give a damn?" Sandor asked.

"Are we really playing this game? No one would help her today, you know. Except you."

"Someone had to do something. I did not relish being the one to do it."

Tyrion shook his head, knowing he could not convince the Hound otherwise. And there would be no point to it, at that.

"Go and make sure everything is in place for Joffrey's present," he said instead, waving Sandor away.

"Oh, and by the way," he added, "Do not forget what happened today. Whether you relish it or not, you may well be Sansa's only protector in this place."

The door slammed loudly behind the Hound.

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Sansa ordered her maids to draw her a bath, dismissing them as soon as it was prepared. She needed to be alone. She needed to nurse her wounds, physical and emotional. Most of all, she needed to cry. But the tears that seemed so close to the surface would not come. Had she trained herself that well? The hot water eased the pain of her aching limbs. She looked at her pale skin, wondering how long it would take before Joffrey's tortures left scars. How could she marry this man?

She longed to be free. She longed to be with Arya, who she still imagined forging her way through the forest, bound for Winterfell. She longed to be with her family, away from the never-ending horror of King's Landing. She cursed herself for once begging her mother to ensure an engagement to Joffrey. She had been a stupid child, idiotic and naïve, thinking that every prince was like the ones in her stories.

The Hound's cloak lay draped over a chair in the corner. Sansa had felt like a bird stripped of its feathers when she had finally taken it off. Strange though it seemed, the weight of it on her shoulders had brought her comfort. A feeling of safety she'd forgotten could exist. It was foolish, she knew. He was no safer than the others – only, perhaps, not as cruel. He was harsh and angry, but it was the highly thought-of knights who had happily beaten her. Not him. Never him. The more time she spent in King's Landing, the more Sansa came to believe that appearance and title meant nothing when it came to honor. At first glance, then men she would have trusted with her life were instead the ones who most enjoyed making it hell. And the one who had frightened her so terribly …

There was a knock on the door.

"Just a moment," Sansa called out. Terror coursed through her body. Truthfully, she did not want to open the door for anyone. But it could be Joffrey. It could be the Queen. It could be any number of people who would punish her if she did not comply quickly. Sansa suddenly wished she hadn't dismissed all of her maids. What a stupid thing to do, leaving herself alone and vulnerable. It was not as if any of them could be of use to her, but she at least felt a little better when she wasn't alone.

The knock came again, a hard pounding. Sansa grabbed the Hound's cloak hastily, wrapping it around herself. All of court had seen her clothes torn away – what was left that could be shocking?

"I'm coming," she called, and hurried to open the door.

The Hound stood in front of her, and Sansa knew he was trying to hide is shock at her appearance.

"I'll return later," he said quickly, averting his eyes.

"No, it's all right," Sansa said, taking a steadying breath, "This is nothing new, after all."

The Hound looked at her cautiously, "I've come to collect my cloak … but I see you are still using it. Have one of your maids deliver it to me when you are finished."

Sansa nodded silently, and he turned to go.

"Wait," she called suddenly, and he turned, "I just wanted to … thank you."

She heard her own voice crack at the words. How silly, she thought, that she could not cry alone, but would break when she tried to thank the man who had helped her.

"You don't have to thank me," he said gruffly, "I did not do you a kindness, little bird."

"It is the closest thing to a kindness I've known in this place."

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Sandor wanted to pretend he hadn't heard her. He wanted to keep walking away, and await one of her maids to return his property. But her words – the fact that she felt the need to thank him for doing something as simple as covering her – made his blood boil.

He turned back around and looked at her, a small figure folded in his cloak. He noticed that her hair was wet, and wondered if he'd called her from the bath. Unbidden, thoughts flooded his mind. Was she wearing nothing else?

Mentally, Sandor shook himself. Sansa did not need another man to be afraid of, and judging by the way she was eyeing him now, she'd seen the hunger in his gaze. He dropped his eyes to the floor.

"You should never thank the likes of me," he said, "Save your praises for knights on white horses, little bird, not dogs."

Without another word, he took his leave.

Sansa watched his retreating figure, feeling a deep sadness tug at her heart.

"It would appear a dog is all I have," she whispered, and her tears began to fall.