Whenever some witless cunt asked Sandor Clegane what it was he thought about all day as he stood in attendance of the King, his reply was usually an unwavering cold stare and complete indifference. But for whatever reason, one particular morning when the king's imp uncle, Lord Tyrion Lannister, inquired along those same lines, the Hound answered, "Killing people."

In response, the dwarf didn't even look up from the book he was studying, but a smile stretched across his ugly face. "Charming." He turned a page and his beady, mismatched eyes continued scanning the words scrawled there. "Anyone in particular?"

"Meryn fucking Trant, lately," said Sandor as he widened his stance slightly and brought both hands to rest on the hilt of the sword at his hip.

The dwarf laughed aloud at that and looked up from his reading. "Admirable choice." He considered Sandor for a moment, as if glimpsing something of value in him for the first time, and then returned his gaze to his book. "Any particular reason that Ser Meryn is the lucky target of your stoic rage of late?"

The question was dangerous, and the Hound scoffed at the imp's assumption that he was so stupid. He held his tongue, refusing to take the bait.

Undaunted, the clever little Lannister pressed further. "What happened yesterday was," he looked up from his book at nothing in particular, searching, "unacceptable."

Sandor snuffed. Unacceptable? He ground his teeth at the memory of watching the abhorrent little twat they'd crowned king, and that spineless Meryn Trant torture and humiliate the Stark girl. Since that moment, his mind had been consumed with thoughts of killing them both, though he surely couldn't name Joffrey, even though he felt certain the imp had little love for his nephew. Though a Lannister, and at times a bloody pain in the arse, there was no question that the dwarf was the most tolerable of the damn golden lions. What he lacked in stature he made up for in a sharp mind and a decent moral compass. It was a combination rarely found in King's Landing, much less in a Lannister.

The imp was still talking. "I fear Sansa Stark has a long and miserable life in front of her." He closed the thick volume he'd been studying and scooted out of his chair, dragging the book off of the desk with him and waddling to replace it on a shelf. "But," he continued, "why should she be any different from the rest of us, eh?" The book returned to its rightful slot, he turned and flashed a sympathetic smile at Sandor.

Much later, in the hollow, silent hours of blackness preceding dawn, Sandor found himself wide awake, and irritated. The images of the Stark girl would not leave his brain: dress torn half off, knocked to her knees before the Iron Throne, trying to be brave and obedient through painful tears. And every time it resurfaced fresh and crisp, his pulse pounded and he felt rage course through his tight veins. He cursed himself for being so preoccupied. What did he care how Joffrey treated his toy? He knew why of course, and that was a scar he willed himself to leave well enough alone. There was something else, though. Just before the imp had arrived with that prick of a sellsword at his heels, Sandor had been on the verge of stopping Meryn Trant himself. What would've come from such insolence, he could not have guessed, but he had imagined everything from stunned acquiescence to the little twat king calling for his ugly head. In the end, he'd decided it didn't matter. He'd stood by long enough and witnessed the boy pick the wings from enough helpless flies, and even a dog has his limits. But as luck would have it, the imp had impeccable timing, and all Sandor could offer was his white cloak to help cover the girl.

His cloak. A slightly fresher memory pushed its way into his head. The morning after, when he'd arrived on duty, the absence of the cloak, traditional garb for a member of the kingsguard, had not gone unnoticed. The king made no attempt to hide his displeasure, knowing full well the reason Sandor was not properly turned out. "You will have it on tomorrow, dog," he'd snarled.

"Fucking hell." He sat up and swung his heavy legs over the side of his cot. His head throbbed and he closed his eyes for a few moments hoping that the room would no longer be spinning when he reopened them. He'd been drinking himself to sleep for plenty of years now, a habit that had rewarded him with the certainty of miserable mornings. But at least when hung-over he had an excuse for the misery.

After a few moments of scratching his pounding head, he got up and staggered about his quarters dressing and arming himself appropriately, and then set out into the night in the direction of the highest tower of Maegor's Holdfast. Sansa Stark, like everyone else, was no doubt fast asleep in her chambers atop the tower, but daybreak was not so far off, and Sandor meant to meet it with his cloak once again in place. He was in no mood to hear the king's screeching insults and threats, and moreover, feared he might reach a breaking point if the little cunt pushed his luck. Ugly as his head was, and miserable as his life may be, he had no intention of losing either due to a fucking cloak.

By the time he'd climbed the winding staircase and reached the door to the girl's chambers, he was winded, wobbly, and nearly blinded by the splitting ache in his head. He paused in the corridor, leaning heavily against the cool stone wall, and caught his breath. A moment of clarity sent a jolt of uneasiness through him as he realized that he was about to do something very foolish. It was no secret the pretty eldest daughter of the late Eddard Stark had come of age, and even he had noticed the girl's undeniable blossoming beauty. And here he was, hung-over in the wee hours of the morning, preparing to intrude on the high-born maid's bedchamber. Sandor was not one for taking stupid risks, but whether it was the lingering effects of too much wine, a pathetic sense of duty to his horrible master, or the memory of the girl's smooth, ivory shoulders when he'd dropped his heavy cloak around them, something compelled him to raise a heavy fist and knock. Wake up, little bird.