Disclaimer: I do not own Game of Thrones nor its characters. They belong to HBO, GRRM, and whoever else has the rights.
Note: This was written for the comment ficathon at sandorxsansa on livejournal. The prompt was 'gentleness'. Shameless usage of dialogue from the books. My first attempt at this fandom; feedback is very much appreciated. :)
Feed Me Breadcrumbs From Your Hands
"What is it he wants?"
The Hound's head turns towards her; it is impossible for her to tell if his expression is expectant, confused, or simply annoyed.
"You told me to give him what he wants," Sansa clarifies after a moment, when it sinks in that she did not voice all of her thoughts out loud, only the last one. "What is it that he wants?"
His mouth twitches and he blinks at her like she's daft; she can almost hear what he's most likely thinking. It's been three days since I said that, girl.
It was silly of her to expect him to know what she was talking about.
Perhaps it was silly to ask him at all. A moment's kindness does not mean anything; The Hound taking pity on her once does not make him her friend, nor does it mean that he'll offer up any more advice.
But she remembers Sandor Clegane standing up to his brother (his brother, his awful, awful brother who took away Sandor's dreams the way Joffrey took away hers) in defense of Ser Loras Tyrell. She remembers the queer look in The Hound's eyes, when he found her running back to her rooms, that only led to a firm but gentle grip on her arm as he escorted her to the Queen.
Sansa remembers a hand on her shoulder, stopping her from pushing Joffrey off the edge (with herself undoubtedly tumbling after) and awkward fingers dabbing a cloth at her bleeding lip.
"Please, tell me?" Her Septa would have been mortified at how long it took her to say please. (Her Septa is nothing more than a rotting head on a pike.)
"He wants you to be his lady love. To recite all your pretty words, like a trained, little bird. To love him. And fear him."
It's the last part that Sansa saw coming. She knows Joffrey wanted her fear, and her despair. She knows he wants her to be his idea of perfect - but until now she hadn't known what Joffrey's idea of perfect is.
Sansa doesn't realize she has stopped walking until The Hound stops and turns his whole body towards her.
Love him, as well as fear him.
It's a foreign concept to her. Love and fear do not coincide in her world, in her pretty, made up world of songs and stories. Love overcomes fear and drives it away, but Joffrey has turned that upside down. Fear overcame love and drove it away and out of her, making room only for hate.
But a proper lady does not show wicked emotions such as hate and fear. (A proper lady does not step towards her king with every intent to shove him off the edge and watch him plummet screaming to his death.)
Sansa is aware that The Hound is staring at her, watching her. She thinks, curiously, how she could tell him what Lord Baelish told her at the tourney, after The Mountain killed that poor knight. She could tell him, and he would kill her.
Lord Petyr said he would undoubtedly kill her.
Well, no. That's not quite right. He told her that all the knights in King's Landing couldn't keep her safe. But all the knights in King's Landing belong to Joffrey, and they wouldn't care to save her unless Joffrey cared.
It was a knight that struck her for Joffrey's amusement, and The Hound that cleaned up the mess.
"It will only be worse if you make him wait," Sandor Clegane gruffly warns her, breaking up her trail of thought. "Little birds have a hard time singing their courtesies with wounded beaks."
Sansa subconsciously licks at the corner of her mouth where she still feels the roughness of the healing cut. "Maybe I don't want to sing anymore," she whispers absently. No, she most certainly does not want to sing. She wants to run back to her room, bar the door, and hide under the bed, crying for Lady. But she knows that Joffrey would make The Hound or the knights break the door down, and they would drag her out from under her bed.
"You can't fly away, little bird. So you go to him, and you sing him your courtesies and make him happy." The Hound leans over, looming, the smell of sweat and leather and wine strong in her nostrils. "They'll bite at the first sign of weakness. Pluck all your feathers out and roast you over a spit if you let them."
Sansa cannot help but think of Lord Baelish's tale of The Hound's face, of fire lapping at skin and melting it away. Unbidden, her hand moves to Sandor Clegane's face, the burnt side that she tries, carefully, not to look at if she can help it.
Her fingertips have no sooner touched the rough skin before he's gripping her wrist, tightly, and it starts to hurt but she reaches, stretching her fingers towards him, and touches him again.
As if from faraway, she hears herself ask, "Do you like it when I sing?"