Watching Over You

Weak.

Sandor sat slumped against the tree, feeling his power and strength drain out of him like water. He felt so weak. He knew he was probably dying. He cursed under his breath, what a pathetic way to die. For the last day he had been experiencing hallucinations; he dreamed his brother was twisting his sword into his wound, making him writhe with pain and finally pass out, and when he awoke he was alone. Sandor was sick of this. He cursed the she-wolf for leaving him to die in agonising pain rather than make it quick. He rolled his head to one side and closed his eyes. Thoughts of Arya led him to think of her sister, Sansa. He smiled as he recalled her face; she always looked so flustered around him, was it fear or something more that made her react like that? He chuckled, admitting to himself it was probably the first, though he liked to think she was becoming less afraid of him.

'Little bird', he whispered as exhaustion consumed him.

A howl awoke him some time later, it was evening now; through the trees the sky was a soft shade of pink and the sun was beginning to set.

'Perhaps this place isn't so bad', he thought, admiring the way the river by his side reflected a rose colour, it reminded him of Sansa's blush, of her lips.

Suddenly he heard rustling in the bushes. He stiffened, knowing full well he was in no condition to fight, but he'd be damned if he didn't try. He went to stand up, but the world spun around him and he fell back against the tree. He heard a laugh.

'Well look what we have here, lads', a man said, 'looks like the dog's a long way from his kennel'. He stepped forward; his clothing suggested he was an outlaw, as with the other two who followed him out of the darkness. Sandor cursed under his breath. If he summoned all of his strength he might have had one of them, but three was too many. He eyed the men warily, who all laughed and walked towards him.

One of the men scowled at him, 'That boy Joffrey's responsible for my son's death. But he's dead so his dog'll have to do'. He cracked his knuckles and the others drew their knives. Sandor's thoughts were racing and crashing into each other as he attempted to form a plan; it was all he could do to concentrate on the men without falling into darkness once more. Then suddenly he heard a female voice cry out from behind him. He turned his head slightly, confused. The outlaws looked up as the girl made her appearance known.

Sansa.

Sandor felt a tiny amount of his strength return as he watched the outlaws eyeing her up and down. Rage consumed his body and he attempted to stand once more, yet his legs betrayed him and he fell back, furious with himself.

Sansa stood between the outlaws and himself, raising her arms as if to shield him. Sandor's vision was blurred and occasionally it would spin, yet he squinted at her and wondered whether this was a dream. He smiled, he would be content to die if she were beside him.

One of the outlaws leaned forward, 'and what would a pretty thing like you want with an ugly brute like 'im?'

Sansa did not reply, yet stood her ground.

The three outlaws appeared to blend into one as Sandor's vision clouded, he blinked and there was three again.

'Might be that we can arrange something, a deal of sorts.' Said the first outlaw.

Fear struck Sandor, he felt himself shaking with rage, knowing all too well what kind of deal any man would want to strike with a girl like Sansa.

'We'll trade your body for him.' He continued, the other two grinned at her.

The next scene did was a blue to Sandor, so quickly was it over. All he saw was a flash of red hair and the familiar sound of a knife slicing through flesh, he saw red burst forward and suddenly the knife was slicing again, more red. The world seemed red. He shook his head and leaned forward, attempting to see the reality of the situation. Sansa stood in the midst of the red world. She turned slowly to face him, blood was splattered on her face but she was unharmed. Relief enveloped Sandor and he allowed himself to be swallowed by the darkness.

When he next awoke, Sansa was sat in front of him, looking out across the river. He felt a little more in control of his body and his vision was clear. He looked at her, attempting to etch her into his memory, for fear of his little bird flying out of his reach once more. Alas, he smiled, she appeared more like a wolf in that moment than a bird. She wore a stern expression on her face as though watching for danger. She was different to the other she-wolf though. Arya had been like a small and ferocious cub, a small ball of energy and rash decisions, whereas Sansa was like a mother wolf; elegant and silent. But as his eyes drifted down to the rest of her body he realised that this was not the same Sansa he had known back in King's Landing; the scared little thing who hid behind her courtesies and duty was gone. This Sansa's dress was ripped and her body was stained with blood, yet still beautiful, perhaps just a little more proud, a little more wild.

Still a little woozy from his wounds, feeling almost drunk, he reached out to her and touched her cheek, gently. She turned towards him and blushed slightly. He smiled.

'You're still my little bird', he muttered. She grinned, almost proudly. She put her hands on the ground, crawled towards him on all fours, and sat on his lap. Sandor cursed himself for not being able to appreciate this moment fully, still affected by his wounds. She lay her cheek on his scarred one and kept it there for some time. Sandor felt his eyes blur, but not due to his injuries. A tear trickled down his cheek as he looked up; half the world was Sansa's soft auburn hair and the other, the river, kissed pink in the evening light.

'Please don't fly away', he whispered hoarsely.

She sat back, looking at him. Then, after a pause, she leaned forward. Sandor's heart was beating fiercely, how long had he been waiting for this moment? Since he visited her in her room that night, since he wrapped his cloak around her, since he saved her from the mob, since he first laid eyes on her in Winterfell... Since that burning and ferocious desire to kill his brother had risen up and began to choke him, had a small part of him been hoping to be saved by a kinder, gentler force? Who could say.

For now and for always, all that mattered were her sweet lips on his. She tasted of the forest, of honeysuckle, of the night, of dreams. He was overcome by his desire for her, for her beauty, for her kindness, for her love. Sandor felt as if her were clinging onto a dream which was slipping out of his grip. And sure enough, darkness soon enveloped him again.

Sometime after he felt his consciousness return to him, he did not open his eyes. He felt if he did, it would all be over. That dream, that beautiful, sweet dream, would not return to him. But he opened his eyes all the same. All alone in the darkness, the light of the moon illuminated the surrounding forest.

'It had all been a dream, he thought with a sigh. But he froze as he saw the three corpses of the outlaws lying on the ground. His eyes widened.

'How-', he began to say, but was stopped by a sudden gust of wind that seemed to howl through the trees. He felt the hair on his neck stand up. Someone was watching him. He whirled around to see who it was, groping for his sword. Suddenly he spotted a pair of large blue eyes watching him from the trees. He stared.

She was silvery white all over, sat elegantly watching him. She seemed almost regal. Though bigger than any wolf he had seen before, she was different in other ways as well. She seemed to see not just him, but through him, as though she saw everything he was and everything he ever would be. And at the same time, those blue eyes were so human, so very familiar.

She stood up and silently turned away, padding back into the darkness from which she had come.