Disclaimer: I do not own Game of Thrones nor its characters. They belong to HBO, GRRM, and whoever else has the rights.

Note: Set after the tourney scene in 2.01. References book dialogue. Feedback appreciated! :)

Uncover Our Heads and Reveal Our Souls

The tourney is over without much pomp or ceremony. Joffrey is in a sour mood after his uncle and the barbaric looking men and women he came with leave. He barely even acknowledges her after that - for which Sansa is grateful.

The mood is ruined for the king, after the horrible mess with Ser Dontos and then Lord Tyrion's surprise arrival.

Sandor Clegane is pronounced the winner, though he is referred to as 'dog' rather than 'champion.' But The Hound does not seem to care; he never really seems to care what he is called, so long as it is not 'ser' or 'lord.'

Even so, Sansa thinks it is perhaps too rude even for Joffrey's standards to continue to call Clegane 'dog' when he is presented as champion. She wisely keeps her mouth shut about it.

It is a relief when Joffrey sullenly orders the day's champion to escort her back to her chambers. He barely pays any mind to either of them as she leaves with The Hound.

Sansa prays that he is in a better mood tomorrow, or that he remains indifferent to her at least. She falls in line with Clegane, thankful that it is him and not Ser Meryn or Ser Boros escorting her. She does not think of his dead opponent lying in a heap of lifeless armor on the ground, but his eyes flickering to her while he spoke to Joffrey.

It had been a lie. Nothing but a lie. Not silly superstition, not a truthful saying that she knew of. Only a lie, born out of desperation to keep Joffrey from turning his wrath on her as well as poor Ser Dontos.

It was a lie that Joffrey had not believed - and then Clegane had spoken.

Part of Sansa still wonders if she had lucked out; if she might have forgotten that her lie was in fact truth. Perhaps a phrase she had heard growing up. Maybe Old Nan had told it to her, and Septa Mordane had chased the silly notion out of Sansa's mind immediately after.

But Sansa knows better. She thinks. There is a rough, worn handkerchief underneath her pillow that reassures her. She does know.

Clegane is silent beside her. Just one step behind. The day's champion, escorting her back to her chambers as if it was any other day for him. His hair is still slightly matted to his face and neck, and he smells of sweat and leather. To be honest he stinks.

Sansa immediately regrets her harsh thoughts. Any man would stink after a tourney fight under the hot, afternoon sun.

This is the tourney champion, referred to as 'dog' by his king; she thought that rude, but here she is, being just as rude with her silence and her unkind thoughts.

"Congratulations on your victory today," she tells him softly. Her words come to an awkward end, trying to figure out a way to address him and failing. She will not call him an animal; his name feels too personal.

"Not much of a victory, beating down gnats." His voice is raspy and harsh. He does not look at her when she speaks to him, or when he replies back. Only a little flicker, eyes darting her way and then staring ahead.

Sansa stares at her feet, the tips of her shoes peeking out from under the hem of her dress as she walks. She never quite knows what to say around The Hound. Her mind is always in turmoil; full of thoughts and memories and knowledge that conflict with each other.

The Hound is Joffrey's sworn shield. His 'dog.' The Hound stopped her from pushing Joffrey over the edge, and wiped the blood from her lip. He spoke to her, not unkindly, at times and warned her. And today he...

"Thank you," she whispers.

Clegane says nothing.

For a moment, Sansa is afraid. Afraid she had it all wrong; that he was speaking true. That her lie had not been a lie after all, only she hadn't known it. Her next words coming spilling out, trying to recover; "For the handkerchief. I should have thanked you before."

Septa Mordane would be mortified that it took Sansa months to thank The Hound for his tiny gift. But Septa Mordane is dead; Sansa was made to stare at the septa's head that day.

"Piece of scrap cloth," he mutters.

Sansa bites the inside of her cheek because she has learned over the past few months that doing so helps keep her from crying. She feels so very lonely.

"You're welcome."

The words are so hushed, Sansa almost does not hear. And when she does, she at first thinks they were only in her head. So she glances towards Clegane and catches his gaze darting towards her; he nods once. A slight inclination of his head - but she smiles up at him faintly.

When they reach the door to her chambers, she whispers once more, "Thank you."

He does not say a word; only nods.

And Sansa knows.