Disclaimer: All characters belong to George R. R. Martin.
Chapter One
In the night he comes for Sansa, with the drink upon him, the Hound looks half mad. Blood clings dried and cracked, as marred as the burns on his face. Mailed hands hold her close in a painful vice. What little kindness he bore has drained and emptied, not unlike the flagon he left beside her bed. Breath bellows from his ruined mouth, a spray of hot mist thickened by the stench of vomit and wine.
He asks her to come with him; she doesn't answer right away. Her thoughts have become a clouded mire of soot, and blood, and green. The color of fear, she thought, before the Hound shakes her. Sansa doesn't want to look at him, but he makes her anyway. His eyes are wide and wild. Of course, the fire.
"I will keep you safe," he rasps at her. It seems to Sansa almost desperate. She doesn't know if she believes him, or if she pity's him. Or have I gone mad? Nonetheless, she nods her consent.
Before she can think on her agreement, the Hound is filling a sack with her things: silks, furs, jewels, anything worth a stag, it all goes. He shrouds Sansa in a simple wool cloak; it is gray and common about her shoulders, but warm. The Hound pulls the hood over her head, however too large, she is too frightened to fuss. "Not a peep out of you." The Hound kneels before her, catching her chin between his thumb and forefinger. "Keep-up. I will leave you" He pinches her, rough, calloused, and mean.
Ser. Dontos, she remembers suddenly, I forgot poor Ser. Dontos! But the Hound already has her by the arm, dragging her along. His pace is fast, much too fast. Anxious, she stumbles over her feet, clumsy. Once. Twice. The third were on the steps, descending. The Hound catches her, and sets her to right.
But it wasn't. This is not right. None of it! This is not how it's supposed to be. It is all wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
Outside is much worse. It is night, yet the moon and the stars cannot be seen. The world is obscured in a jade horror. Men and woman overtake the streets, like the smoke, which seemed to conquer King's Landing. Not Stannis. Some run in terror. Mothers hold their children close, husbands their wives even closer. Others sack, thieve, take what is a not given, and not only valuables, but woman as well. Sansa could see them all, copulating in the streets. She'd seen enough animals to know.
Lollys, Sansa whimpers. The chaos swallows her cry.
Sansa shuts her eyes and leans into the Hounds's plate, biting and unkind. She feels a babe, small in comparison to… everything. The Hound holds her tight, and squeezes. It is a small kindness, a reassurance, before he leads her into the abyss.