DISCLAIMER: This story is written entirely for my own personal gratification, due to me getting very emotional over the rather tragic in-book relationship between Sansa and Sandor. I am putting it online for neither profit nor malice, and only so those with a similar affliction may have a little comfort (as we so sorely need, because GRRM is a tyrant of a writer in the best way possible). The events are in no way book-canon, and my own interpretations of any characters are merely that- my own interpretations- and have no bearing on the actual characters. If you have seen the television show, I urge you to buy the books and read them, and love them as I have. If you have read the books, then I shouldn't have to tell you to watch the show.

This fanfic takes place in a very slight cross between the book and the show- Sansa is soon to be 15, while she isn't even a teenager in the books. Even so, there will likely be sexual scenes, and I remind you that although Sansa is underage, marriage between a very young girl and an older man is very common in Westeros. There will also likely be scenes which may trigger those who have issues with violence, abuse and sexual violence, although the former is the only one that will be between Sansa and Sandor, and even then it will be incredibly limited. I will add a warning to any chapter with the above in it, and if you are personally affected by any content within this fanfiction, please PM me and I will add a warning to the appropriate chapter.

Thank you for reading this, and for any reviews, follows or favorites.

Some dialogue is from ASoIaF, but I have tried to keep this minor.

Sansa backed away from the window, retreating toward the safety of her bed. I'll go to sleep, she told herself, and when I wake it will be a new day, and the sky will be blue again. The fighting will be done and someone will tell me whether I'm to live or die. "Lady," she whimpered softly, wondering if she would meet her wolf again when she was dead.

Then something stirred behind her, and a hand reached out of the dark and grabbed her wrist.

Sansa opened her mouth to scream, but another hand clamped down over her face, the reek of blood filling her nostrils and making her almost gag. "Little bird. I knew you'd come."

His voice, rough and low, was accompanied with a sour stench of wine and bile, and she tensed. She couldn't fight him. The Hound was twice her size, built even more solidly than her father or Robb or Jon. Arya'd have been able to wriggle free, but Sansa simply froze, eyes staring into the shadows that were re-arranging themselves into the towering figure of the Hound. The faint glow of the flames made one side of his face shine wetly, and Sansa realized with a lurch that it was blood. Whether it was his or someone else's, she couldn't tell, but there was a lot of it. "If you scream, I'll kill you. Believe that."

His hand drooped, grazing against her chin. It reminded her, vaguely, of Ser Dontos' movements. Slow, careful, but otherwise clumsy in his drunkenness. But she did not scream, even when she realized that the stickiness on her skin was also likely to be blood, and not when the Hound's huge figure slumped before her. He seemed to be sitting on her bed, and the silence was more oppressive than his hand over her mouth. But what could she say?

"Tell me, Little Bird."

She gulped, blinking at the vague mass where she assumed his head was, hands knitting across her belly. "T-Tell you what?"

"What I should do."

His arm reached out, brushing her skirts, and for an instant she thought back to Cersei's words- After the battle, soldiers often seem to want flesh more than coin… But instead he grasped a pitcher of wine, drinking with audible gulps.

"… Why are yo-"

"A good dog needs to be told to fetch or play dead, Little Bird, and the Lannisters have trained this one well. Too bad I can't find a poxy one of 'em. So. You. Tell me what to do."

She thought that she could hear a thin edge of humour in his voice, beneath the usual rasp, and she took a step backwards. That was a bad idea. He rose, mountainous, and the fire beyond the window did not seem as terrifying as it had. Her heart was pounding, face set in a mask of politeness.

"Your eyes give you away, Little Bird."

"I… I…"

"Look at me."

His hands seized hers, and a burst of wildfire illuminated his face, reflected in the blood and the mad whites of his eyes. He's scared. The realisation made her tremble, fingers closing on his. "You owe me a song, Little Bird, but I'll take an order instead."

He's so scared he cannot trust himself. Sansa tore her gaze away from the horror of his face to the burning world outside, mouth pursed. "Fight."

His breath caught, hands losing all their strength, but Sansa's grip grew stronger. She heaved their hands up between them, gripping the bases of his thumbs. "Go out there, and kill them."

"We could run. I could keep you safe. They're all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again, or I'd kill them."

But his voice was dull, and Sansa felt something deep within her break. The Hound was fearless, or so it had seemed. How bad was the battle, how horrible, that he would make such a feeble excuse to avoid it?

"There's no way of escape. And when the gate falls, they'll come in, and… and…"

She could say no more, the Queen's matter-of-fact tone seeming to speak from the walls themselves. Sansa had already felt the terror of rape; and The Hound had saved her then, too. That did not seem lost on him.

"You're learning, Little Bird." His hands came alive once more, yanking her closer, and she closed her eyes as he pressed his lips to hers, harsh and close-mouthed. Time slowed, terror welling within her until she was sure she would scream, yet instead she opened her eyes.

He was gone, leaving an empty pitcher and her lips smeared with the salt and iron of blood.