She had no idea when she started thinking of him more than just a scary, scarred man. The first day she'd seen him, on the King's Road, she hadn't been terribly frightened of him, a little curious in fact. But the more she heard, and the words Littlefinger had fed her, stoked a fire of fear inside of her for months, more so when she was the last wolf in King's Landing. She was surrounded by liars and thieves and cruel men. She was living in a story of hell and fire and destruction. She was utterly exhausted and terrified. She didn't know how much more she could have taken.
When she was brought forth in front of the King, to be taken in front of all the decapitated men of her House, she had never felt more alone. She knew how much Joffery wanted her to feel terrible and confused. But all she felt was angry. She remembered a phrase she'd heard her father speak, "The North never forgets." It was like someone else had taken her over.
When Joffrey threatened, "After I raise my armies and kill your traitor brother, I'm going to give you his head." She'd dropped her stupid courtesies and her words and said the first thing that came to her mind, "Or maybe he'll give me yours."
Despite the fact she got slapped, the pain that bloomed in her face or the shame of being struck, she was never more proud of herself. She knew she was alone now, knew that Arya was most likely gone, so when she saw the edge to push him off and kill the stupid little brat, she was more than happy to die with him.
But Sandor had stopped her, dabbed at the blood that welled on her lip with such tenderness that she had no idea what she could say. She lost her fire, her wittiness, and, by the time he broke their shared gaze, she was a submissive pup again. She thanked him quietly, remembering her stupid courtesies and let Joffrey do what he would with her.
She had never felt more alone.
The Hound had just seemed like another Lannister, another piece of Joffrey's chessboard. Despite his moment of kindness, Sansa began to loath him. She even tried blaming him for some of her suffering. She wanted to hate him. She did up until Robb had captured Jaime Lannister and she was brought to the King. He declared it was her fault and that Robb needed to be taught a lesson. There was only one way that could happen; Sansa needed to take the punishment. Maybe if she cried loud enough he could hear her.
That moment, so painful and frightening was burned into her memory. The strike of the sword against her flesh, the pain radiating through her body, and the momentary fear that she might actually be cut caused her to cringe at the thought. What was worse was the fact that not one person wanted to step forward to help her. Most of the King's guard watched her, sneered at her, and enjoyed the misery that was caused. But there was one person that didn't watch, didn't take joy in her pain, or laugh at what was said; the Hound. Thoughts that he could see what was happening, hear her begging, pleading, made her ashamed. She hated how she acted, that she was so pathetic. It filled her with shame and embarrassment and made it all the much easier for the tears to fall.
Tyrion had stepped forward and ordered the knights to stop. She'd never been so relieved. Despite her nakedness, the fact she was exposed to all those men, knights, and women at court, she was briefly relieved. Even better, Sandor, for now he wasn't the Hound, stepped forward and covered her shame with his white cloak, just like a proper knight should. He hadn't needed prodding, nor did Tyrion have to order him to. He simply did it like it was nothing, just a casual gesture like anyone here would have done it. He wouldn't meet her eye, didn't say one word to her. He just draped his cloak over her shoulders and made sure she wouldn't be shamed anymore.
That night, as she soaked down in the water to try to get rid of some of her bruising and the pain from her muscles, Sansa finally realized who Sandor really was. He was a man growing up in a cruel world. He was scarred at a young age and was brought up with sneers and jokes made on his part. He'd built a wall, the Hound persona, and made sure everyone knew they'd never be able to mess with him again. But in brief moments, he let her see exactly who and what he truly was. He was surly not a knight. Not in his personality or some form of morals. No, he was brutal and honest and didn't let anyone walk over him. He wasn't pretty like Ser Loras or terrible like Ser Jonas. No, he was just Sandor.
The next day, after she'd personal scrubbed down his white cloak until it was clean and even stitched up some rips, she was glad to find him in the hall alone. She fiddled with the cloak in her hands and cleared her throat. He'd barely glanced at her and rasped, "What does the Little Bird need now?"
"Pardon me, ser-"
He'd interrupted before she could continue, sneering and glaring, "I'm no ser. I'm nothing like those prissy cunts in white cloaks, girl."
She'd briefly bristled and tried again, "I just wanted to return your cloak. I've cleaned it and I stitched up a few areas-"
"Don't expect a thanks from me. You might as well should have burned it," he spat, ripping the cloak from her fingers.
She bristled, flushing under his gaze and snapped, "I'm just trying to return the favor of your kindness yesterday. There's no reason to be so... so..."
He laughed, cutting off her angry words. "It's no kindness to cover up a naked girl. I'm no knight, no kind man. I'm a dog who listens to orders. Don't think otherwise." Then Sandor left, before she could get another word out. She should have been more mad, have dismissed his small acts of kindness and moved on with her personal hell.
But for some reason, she could never shake off what he'd done. She'd listen to his cruel words, watch him brutally take down other men, and laugh cruelly at things others said. Then, if something was mentioned of her, even a glance at her way, he'd take the men down like he'd wanted to. She'd watch him train men in the field, bare chested and showing off all of his scars. He'd challenge anyone to try to take him down, laugh at those who'd be bested because of how stupid they were. She should have thought of him as cruel. She was a proper lady, a good one too. Everything he did should have been repulsive, made her hate him all the more.
Instead, she started looking for him. Longed to see him fight and stand in the throne room behind Joffrey as the spoiled King declared the cruelest of punishments. He never met her gaze, not truly, as she watched him. But she knew that he knew she looked for him. Slowly, those scars had started to fade from her view, until all she could see was a man that longed to prove he was good too. Fought with his own demons, in his own fiery hell of a past.
Shortly after she looked at him more and more, Sandor confronted her of it. Cornered her in a cove, shoved her against a wall, and made her look more. He snarled, trying to bring the Hound out to scare her. Snapped, "Why the hell do you keep looking at me girl? Too curious about these damn burns? Want to try your stupid courtesies on me?" He scared her when he was like this, mean and harsh in his actions and words. "Look at me girl," he said lowly. "You look plenty enough any other time."
She did as he bid, looking at his grey eyes, so angry and furious that they were two separate emotions on their own. "You frighten me when you're like this," she said quietly, refusing to look at his scars as if they were terrible things.
"I'm supposed to be frightening," he said, laughing darkly and glaring. But he let her go and stepped back just a bit.
"It's not you. It's only what you do when you want me to be afraid."
"Spare me your stupid words girl and quit looking. Joffrey'll figure it out soon enough and take both ours heads. I'd prefer not to die for no reason," he spat, turning away suddenly and walking off. Leaving her alone in this dark alcove. Her skin thrummed underneath her dress where he'd touched her. She just stood there, her heartbeat in her ears, arms wrapped around herself, and staring down where Sandor would have walked off. Eventually, she started back to her rooms before one of the other King's Guard would find her. Her maids were hysterical, clucking and tutting about being out alone and how wrong it was. She ignored what they said, eventually sent them all away and soaked herself in her tub. She knew they were Cersei's spies, to whisper words of what she said directly to the Queen. Right now, she couldn't be sure she could keep her tongue quiet. She had to contemplate what had happened, what Sandor had said to her, and why she couldn't quit thinking about his touch.
Time passed. Sansa tried to keep to the shadows while Tyrion tried bring sense into his nephew. Joffrey sneered at her, mocked her, and tried the best he could to be cruel. Sansa just closed her eyes, said her stupid words, and thought of Sandor, of how he looked at her and touched her. She knew it was wrong to think of him, no matter the context. She wasn't even sure why she thought of it so much. She tried pressing away the thoughts, but they invaded at the strangest moments, brought on queer sensations she wasn't very familiar with.
She didn't dare look at him too much anymore, aware of how dangerous it really could be if she was caught. It didn't matter who it was, if it was her handmaidens or any of the spies across the Keep or even Joffrey himself. It didn't matter, for Joffrey would hear one way or the other. So after a quick glance, she kept her gaze forward and lived in just the faint memories that she could cherish. There was no way she'd allow anyone to rip these away from her.
She lived her fantasies and seemed to float through the palace in a haze. She tried not to focus on the worst that was happening and chirped her words back to the King. She bit her tongue gamely and thanked the Gods Tyrion seemed to reign in the worst of his cruelty. Life seemed to live in this middle of plainness.
Then came the riot and her near rape. She had felt utterly and completely alone. She didn't think life could be much worse when Joffrey was beating her. But being abandoned by everyone in the Palace reminded her just how alone she was. Not even Sandor could be there for her. He had a job to do. Protect the King. The foul-mouthed King. The cruel King.
She screamed as the men grappled at her, started unlacing their breeches. Hoped someone, anyone would hear her. This wasn't supposed to be how she was taken. Even Joffrey would be more welcomed than this. Sandor would be better...
Then it stopped. She looked, to see Sandor, the Hound, gutting one man. She didn't look away as their bowels spilled from their bellies, as they bled to death. She relished in the bloodshed just for a moment. She cherished the next when the Hound looked at her, when his eyes told her that he was there, that Sandor was. He spoke to her for the first time, "It's all right, Little Bird, you're all right." She took his offered hand, let him hoist her over his shoulder and let the warmth of him engulf her. He was here. He would be here.
He was no Knight, but he was better than anyone else here. She remembered this after each cruel word or his mocking japes about her being a Little Bird. She kept what he'd said close to her heart, listened to his words over and over in her head, and reminded herself the world was cruel. No one would be there for her, not truly. Even the Hound.
But she should have thought more deeply because now she might be the cause of his death. She should have fled with him when he came for her the night of the battle of Blackwater bay. But, when he came to her, all of his words, cruel and bitter, reminded her that he'd never care for her in the way she'd developed. She made herself hate him in just that instance. She told him to flee without her, that Stannis would keep her safe. She sent him off in hopes he'd be safe and just maybe they'd see each other again one day.
She never imagined they'd find him passed out in the stables near Stranger.
So far the King had kept him alive. She had no clue what exactly he had in plan for him. Sansa prayed every day for his safety, called upon all the Gods, the old and the new, to keep him alive and well.
What was worse was Joffrey was acting strange. She wasn't sure if it was because of his new betrothed Margery or what, but he'd been sending people to her. First it had been a seamstress Sansa had never seen and who'd been utterly silent as to why she was being called upon. Then, Joffrey spoke to her at lengths, kindly and without his cruel jokes or orders. She never saw a new dress from the seamstress. Now, nearly a week after Tywin had taken over and she'd been dismissed as a simple warden, Joffrey called upon her to the court. It was time to hear about Sandor's fate.
She hoped he'd be all right.