Sandor Clegane cantered briskly through the gates astride Sansa's chestnut courser. The girl was seated behind, both arms tight around the Hound's chest.
Tyrion called to her. "Are you hurt, Lady Sansa?"

Blood was trickling down Sansa's scalp. "They… they were throwing things…rocks and filth, eggs…I tried to tell them, I had no bread to give them. A man tried to pull me from the saddle. The Hound killed him, I think…his arm…" Her eyes widened and she put a hand over her mouth. "He cut off his arm."

Clegane lifted her to the ground. His white cloak was torn and stained, and blood seeped through a jagged tear on his left sleeve. "The little bird's bleeding. Someone take her back to her cage and see to that cut."

'A Clash of Kings'

George RR Martin.

I own nothing. These great characters belong to George RR Martin.

The Hound.

He walked away towards his chamber, eating up the distance with his long stride.

Now that they were taking care of the little bird and he knew that his destrier had returned safely to the stables, he could get some wine to quench his thirst. It was time to get drunk, to drink until his senses turned numb and then some more, until he passed out and stayed blessedly unconscious for a few hours.

He knew he could not hope for more than that, as dreamless sleep never lasted longer than a few hours before he woke up , drenched in sweat and fear, his heart hammering against his ribs and his eyes wide in horror. It always took him a few agonizing seconds to realize that Gregor was not coming to hurt him again, to torture him further. That was the way the Hound had woken up every single time since that blasted day in his long lost childhood. He had gotten used to it by now; not that he hated it any less.

He went into his chamber and sat on the narrow bed. The room was dark and unwelcoming, small enough to resemble a monk's cell, but he was nothing more than an ugly cur after all; he should be grateful he did not have to sleep in the open air, like a stray dog.

He had ordered his squire to get wine for him but the little shit had not arrived yet, so he took off his armor unaided. He grimaced at the sharp pain in his left arm but paid no mind to it, for it was just another one in a sea of wounds, both old and new. His skin was a crisscross of scars, the unmistakable signals of a life full of hardships and cruelty. The Hound had inflicted much damage but he had not survived unscathed himself.

The young squire turned up at last with two skins of sour red wine, as he had been told.

'You are wounded, ssser…' he said. The poor boy never knew what to call him.

'How many times do I have to tell you I'm no fucking ser, and now get the hell out of here!' the Hound bellowed, like the angry beast he was.

The boy scurried away leaving Sandor Clegane alone, as he always was at the end of the day, alone and drinking himself into oblivion, as if his life depended on it.

His thirst never seemed to quell. No matter how much wine he drunk, it was always there tormenting him and making him want more. Today it was even worse, as his blood kept rushing in his veins and the wild beating of his heart had not quieted yet.

Although he was brave to the point of recklessness, he was far from stupid. Alone and without a horse in the middle of the raging mob, he had been fully aware of how much danger he was facing as he got through the crowd in his senseless search for that silly little bird instead of struggling to find a way out and save himself.

Surrounded by all that furious scum he had felt utter fear, not for himself but for her, for that girl whose safety meant so much to him when it should mean nothing, whose delicacy affected him in a way he could not understand. Then he had seen her, still on horseback thanks to the Seven, and he cut his way towards her with a fury so great it made his blood boil, full of red fury towards those dirty hands that were throwing filth at her, towards those foul mouths that were insulting her with horrible words. They were trying to grab her and he had a very clear idea what they would do to that beautiful creature if they managed to lay their hands on her.

It did not happen because he was there to rid her of all of them. He was a killing machine and those rats soon realized to what extent he was deadly. Despite their advantage in numbers, they knew the tall man meant mortal danger as he advanced brandishing his bloody sword, with so much hate in his scarred face that it froze the blood in their veins. Instinctively, the mob retreated just enough for the warrior and the little lady to ride towards the safety of the Red Keep. Clegane had just flirted with death once again and got away with it, but that was something he had done countless times and, although surviving another miserable day seemed quite pointless to him, he was surprisingly good at that; he was a survivor through and through.

Alone in his room , with the sole company of memories and wine, the Hound was already drunk, but he needed to drink some more to forget the feel of her arms encircling his chest, her soft body pressed against his back, while … she clung to him. He swore when his body responded to those memories with fierce arousal.

Seven hells, he was an animal; he knew that much but the knowledge did not make him despise himself any less.

He stood up and, still naked from the waist up, he opened the door, banging it against the wall as he went out of his cell of a room. He stumbled blindly down the corridor, his mind reeling. He needed more wine to keep the sweet memories at bay, the same remedy he used to appease the horrible ones.

It was rather dark, as he was quite far from the next torch so ,when he turned the corner, he barged into someone in his haste and he made an unfortunate girl fall down on the stone floor. She whimpered in fear and pain.

He looked down at her and blinked twice in disbelief. It was none other than his little bird garbed as a serving wench.

'What the hell are you doing here?' he growled.

The redhead looked at him with an impish grin on her full lips. Her garish dress showed too much flesh. She had the full breasts and ample hips of a grown woman and, despite his drunken state, he realized that was not the lady Sansa. He also noticed that she was displaying too much skin to be a serving wench.

'Get out of my way, you slut,' he slurred, scowling deeply at her.

'Why are you so angry, ser?' She asked, looking at his naked torso and then at his crotch. Her gaze lingered on the bulge in his breeches, with so much impudence there was no doubt what her trade was.

'I am no ser,' he snarled, trying to drag his feet past her prone form. She stood up and ran until she caught up with him, then she grabbed his arm unceremoniously.

'You say you aren't no knight, but you have a knight's body. Fancy some company? A warrior needs some solace, doesn't he?'

He got rid of her grasp and glanced at her. He looked for whores himself when he wanted one; usually, they did not even dare approach him to offer their services, they were too afraid of him, just like everybody else. She must be new in town if she did not know who he was, as the Hound was too notorious in King's Landing for anybody there to talk to him like that.

She had spine, he had to give her that. She had not averted her eyes from his ruined face as women always did. Her gaze travelled somewhere else quickly enough, though, and it was roaming his powerful body with an expression akin to appreciation. She seemed to like what she saw. But he knew better, he was used to that. None of them could bear the hideousness of his face but sometimes whores looked at his body that way, as if they liked it. Some of them even tried to delude him into thinking they were attracted to his long limbs and powerful muscles.

Those were wasted efforts; it was no use pretending. He knew he was no Jaime Lannister. He was too tall, his shoulders were too broad and he was too brawny to be graceful. There was only one thing those women could feel attracted to: his coin.

He was about to scare her away but , suddenly, he changed his mind.

He noticed she had flaming red hair … although it was lighter than hers.

She had blue eyes … paler than hers, though …, and a womanly body capable of taking most, if not all of him. So, he dragged her into an alcove and pushed her against the wall. He was in a drunken haze and, in his reeling mind , it felt as if the little bird had grown into a woman and welcomed his touch with her body pressed tightly against his, clinging to him. He knew better, though. Only whores let him embrace them, even in the dark. The truth hurt as much as it always did.

He turned her round and lifted her skirts; he did not want to see her blue eyes while he fucked her. She looked so much like her and she was so utterly different at the same time...

In the dark, her hair seemed almost auburn … just like hers.

His heart was thumping wildly and his blood felt like molten lava, scorching his veins. He howled like the wild dog he was and entered her from behind, in one single thrust. When she gasped, he covered her mouth with his huge hand; he did not want anyone to hear her cries. He knew she would cry; they always did.

If you readers enjoyed this chapter, there will be a second one from Sansa Stark's point of view.

I'd very much appreciate getting reviews. Then I'd know if I'm going in the right direction.