1.
Clegane wasn't cruel, she didn't think, even if that butcher's boy had ended up with seventeen stitches and a week in the hospital. He was just doing his job, Sansa knew that – but it was hard to keep that in mind when he stumbled into the sitting room at King's Landing with a near-empty bottle of wine (the rest of it seemed to be in his belly) and sat his arse right down on top of the dress she had been working on.
Three days straight she'd been at it, carefully sewing the hems and getting the frills just right, when he had to go and ruin it all in one instant by waving his hand without intent and splashing red wine all over it.
Sansa could have cried. She did, in fact, shortly after, when she was alone in the guest room, but in front of him she managed to keep her cool.
"It's no bother at all," she told him, and, "It's hardly noticeable," tugging it out from under him amidst his vague 'apologies'.
("Stupid place to put it, girl..."; "Next time tell me, won't you?")
He felt very bad about it, she assured herself, even if he pretended not to, but feeling bad didn't bring back three days of hard work and it took all of Sansa's inner strength not to point out that the wine he was drinking was from Cersei's private stores and she probably would not appreciate her son's bodyguard guzzling it like some sort of... Well, like a dog. It wasn't hard to see how he'd gotten his alias. He even ate like a dog – Sansa swore she could hear him chewing even from her room later.
If only she could teach him some manners, she was sure he would be much more pleasant company. He was always lingering around Joffrey; that was hardly a surprise. And Joffrey was always lingering aroud her – or was it the other way around? Their parents seemed eager to play matchmaker for them, but neither Sansa nor Joffrey was keen on the idea.
Joff was worse than the Hound, in disposition if not in manners, and Sansa could hardly bear the sight of him any longer, and he certainly made no secret of his distaste for her. Still, Sansa managed to act as though she thought his jokes were funny and pretend he didn't make her nervous in all the wrong ways. A match between the Starks and the Baratheons would be good business for both families and Joffrey was the perfect suitor on paper.
But the Hound, foul-mouthed as he was – he was kind under it all, Sansa was sure. He wasn't as cruel as Arya said, or as stupid as Joffrey said, or as ugly as everyone said. His scars didn't even frighten her any more. And if he were only a little less surly, a little less ill-tempered, then Sansa might have at least one friend in King's Landing.
Perhaps her good manners would rub off on him after a while. Neither of them were going anywhere, after all. It wasn't exactly that Sansa was planning on making him her new project, or seeking out opportunities to speak with him... but he did owe her a new dress, and she certainly couldn't let him get away with splashing wine over three days' work and carrying on like nothing had happened.