Prologue

"It's rude not to look at someone when they're trying to speak to you."

"Your feathers are turning black, little bird."

Her brow furrowed. "Beg your pardon?"

"You couldn't bear to look at me not too long ago; that makes you—" He punctuated each word with a draw of the whetstone down his longsword. "—the pot calling the kettle black."

"That's— well I—"

"So the perfect little lady-bird admits to being rude at last?"

"Lady-what? Oh, never mind!" She scoffed in frustration. "I didn't come here to discuss manners and propriety with you, Ser."

The Hound's gnarled smirk dissolved into a scowl. "You're not a ser, I know," She interrupted before he could start on another surly rant about the depravity of knights. "I need your … counsel on how to deal with Arya."

His laughter came out in short barks. "A wolf taking advice from a mangy dog. What has the world come to?"

Sansa had half a mind to kick him in his bad leg, but a proper lady must mind her courtesies. She put on her most grave expression while she waited for him to compose himself. "You're the closest to her in temperament. She doesn't listen to me, doesn't respect me, and her wild behaviour is reflecting badly on our house."

He glared at her for a moment before turning away. The Hound sighed. "A bird wouldn't know the first thing about wolves and dogs."

He took the whetstone to the blade once more. The nerve of this man! Did he actually think that he could dismiss her so easily? She pushed down the childish part of her that still quivered at the thought of his displeasure. 'Look at me. Look at me!' Once upon a time he had demanded her attention; now he ignored her and had the audacity to call her the hypocrite. She mustered up her courage, as she had done with every confrontation they had had before. After all, was he not sworn, as her vassal and shield, to obey her in all things?

"I would if you would show me." Her voice came out more timid than she intended.

The Hound growled in frustration. "Leave the wolf-bitch alone and she'll calm down eventually."

Apparently asking politely wouldn't be enough. He was completely ignoring her now. His body and his eyes were angled away from her. Even the ruined side of his face was hidden from her by the sheet of black hair he swept over it. Her temper cracked in a fork of lightning through her mind. Sansa stomped before him, squared her shoulders, and drew herself to her full height. A withering stare rushed down the length of her nose at him, enhanced by the inclination of her chin. He glared back at her just as fiercely. "I am mistress of Winterfell and your liege. I have ended lives for you. You will obey me or forfeit what is mine. "

The Hound's granite scowl sparked with indignation. They engaged in a silent battle of wills, neither willing to look away first. She arched an eyebrow, daring him to do anything but concede. There was a glimmer of something she couldn't quite pin down dancing in the black depths of his pupils. Uncertainty, perhaps. Regardless, he finally deferred to her with an ugly grin. "I'm your Dog."

The sun felt very warm all of a sudden. Indeed, the heat jumbled the retort in her throat, and he, seeing that she had nothing to say, stood without warning. She took a step back out of reflex. Sandor Clegane gave her a puzzling look then strode past as if nothing happened. "Meet me in the kennels before sunrise tomorrow." His growl barely reached her ears.

She smiled at the receding plane of the Hound's back. A small victory was a victory nonetheless. Sansa traipsed off in the opposite direction, assured in her choice of confidant.

"Regarding dogs, it is always important to remember

who is the leader of the pack, and who are the followers."

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