Beta Reader: Another massive thank you to Weshallflyaway for taking time out of her crazy schedule to go over this for me! You are amazing that is all!
Disclaimer: Not mine. None of it. All belongs to GRRM.
Author's Note: This was written for littlebirdhound who requested this prompt for the now closed Comment Meme #4 over on Sansa_sandor. Sadly I couldn't find a way to make Sansa a plausible aggressive flirt, I did discover she's pretty damn persistent when she wants to be...
The Hound did not know who was behind the jape, though a few names came to mind. He was certain it began the day he and the other members of the King's entourage arrived at Winterfell. Sandor was well accustomed to people staring at him, be it in disgust, horror, or amazement; a freak show to be gawked at.
The Northern folk, unlike their southron counterparts, were less troubled by his burns and more curious to his person. Sandor presumed it had much to do with being raised in such a harsh environment. His grandmother often spoke of the North in loving tones, but she respected its merciless cruelty as well. It took a certain sort of character to survive the unforgiving land; yet these people did just that, and they made it a home.
Unfortunately, not all the northerners were so respectful.
As soon as he arrived in Winterfell, Sandor found himself under the attentive gaze of Lord Stark's eldest daughter. Often when she believed he was not looking, Sandor would catch the young lady stealing glances at him the way the southron women often did. Only instead of looking away with the usual expression of revulsion upon being caught, her cheeks would warm and her lips would curl into a shy smile. It was the same sort of pandering doe-eyed look that most ladies gave when they found a man to be comely. The Hound may have been many things, but handsome or dashing certainly was not one of them. Initially, he believed the stolen glances given were meant for the repulsive little prince, until he caught her watching him when there was no one else around. The unexpected discovery left little room for doubt, and plenty more for confusion.
Just when he certain the young maiden had had her fun, she found the courage to approach him while he was alone preparing his horse for a boar hunt with the King and his men. Clad in a simple, but pretty, gown of blue and wearing a sweet smile she quietly neared. Taking pause he watched her with wary eyes and a curled lip; waiting for her little game to finally reach its end.
'What do you want, girl?' he rasped, momentarily forgetting that she was, if nothing else, a nobleman's daughter.
'My pardons Ser, I meant no offense,' she stammered. Her cheeks were flushed, and her fingers fiddled nervously with the sleeves of her dress. 'I sought only to wish you luck on the hunt. Prince Joffrey speaks well of your skills and-'
Annoyed by her genteel act, the Hound scowled as silenced her words. 'Spare me your Sers. I am no knight. I spit on them, and their bloody vows.'
The girl shrank back to his harsh words, her expression both apologetic and embarrassed. 'I apologise, My Lord, I was not aware,' she tried again.
Sandor gave a snort of disgust. 'Seven hells, girl. I'm no Lord,' he rasped in annoyance. Hung-over from the previous night's drinking, and already running late, the last thing he needed was some stupid girl peeping in his ear. To her credit, most women would have long since run away at his harsh words, or his furious glare, the Stark girl was not so easily deterred.
'If you will not permit me to call you Ser, or Lord, then by what name should I call you?' she politely inquired, her musical voice startling him from his dark thoughts. Sandor remained with his back turned away from her as he continued to strap his saddle to his black courser, Stranger. 'Surely, you cannot expect me to call you The Hound, and I refuse to call you dog,' she tittered. He could feel her bright blue eyes watching him intently.
'Why not? Everyone else does,' he growled, turning to face her, uncertain If this was another part of her game, the Hound would have none of it.
The petite beauty frowned, her eyes oddly disappointed. 'Is there truly no name by which I may properly address you?' The pretty bird had been trained well in the ways of etiquette, a rarity amongst other northern girls he noted.
'Bugger me,' he muttered under his breath. 'Call me Sandor if you must,' he rasped. With luck, his answer would satisfy her enough to leave him to his business, it was not to be. The girl's blue eyes lit up, as a smile graced her porcelain features. With all the dignity of nobility she proceeded to properly curtsy him. Had he not been so stunned by the gesture he might have laughed.
'It is a pleasure to have properly met you, Sandor. I wish you much luck on the hunt. May your aim be steady and true,' she stated in kind tones.
Turning on her heels, she silently departed from the stables, entirely ignorant of the speechless state she had left him in.