Sansa often watched The Hound if she saw him around the Red Keep. She could not help it. He was so tall and imposing that his presence demanded attention.
She began to notice his mannerisms. When he stood near Joffrey in court, he seemed to not know what to do with his hands. So he kept one on the hilt of his sword and the other at his side, the empty hand clenching and unclenching in an awkward and uncomfortable fashion.
She noticed once that his hair was in his face, and he took both hands to push it behind his ears, only succeeding with one. A look of fury crossed his face and his hand returned to the hilt of his sword, squeezing so hard his knuckles turned white. She felt a bit bad for him then. She wondered if he missed his ear. She then supposed he missed his entire face.
She wondered if she would miss her own face, if half of it were gone. She decided she would. Her beauty was the only thing she had, after all. Joffrey was always telling her how stupid she was, and simply being in The Hound's presence made her feel physically incapable.
Usually, she had Arya to remind her how weak she was. In Winterfell, Arya would always pinch her and laugh at how easily she bruised later. But she could not think of Arya now. The thought of her lost sister was too painful to bear.
She wondered instead what it would be like to live in The Hound's skin. What was it like to be him? What was his day like? What did he think about when he was not protecting Joffrey?
She wondered if The Hound had a hobby besides killing. She knew he liked to drink, he had told her as much, but was there anything he particularly liked to do? Smithing his own weapons and armor seemed unlikely. The way he had spoken about fire and burning coals when recalling how he had gotten his scar... She did not think he would do something like that.
He did not seem the type for music or any artistry either. But maybe he read books. Not romances, like Sansa loved so much, but perhaps he read those woeful tragedies or adventures, or perhaps he just read for knowledge. He wasn't a stupid man. As far as she knew, he was as educated as she was, and had wit that she lacked.
She decided that he must read.
She pictured him in some basic chamber, pouring over text in the candlelight. The image appealed to her, strangely enough.
What was it like to be him, though? She knew what it was like to be tall, but what was it like to tower over others? What was it like to frighten them with only a glance, to ward off them with only a rough word?
Was his armor heavy? Did it chafe his skin, or was he used to it? Was it hot under there? Did he sleep well at night? What did he dream about? Did he have any friends? Was there a woman he was saving his love for?
That night, she dreamt she was him. She dreamt that, in Sandor Clegane's body, she could feel the weight and the thud of his footsteps on the floor. She could feel the soft clanking of his armor as he pulled it from his body and discarded it on the floor. She could taste the wet rush of wine on his tongue, bitter but pleasant. His mind was fogged, and he thought of very few things. He thought of the wine, he thought of fire, he thought with obvious irritation of Joffrey, and he imagined the faint sound of flapping wings. Perhaps he had sent a raven to someone recently?
He did not think at all of books. He did not think of any friends, or any women. Only the same sound of feathered wings against the sky.
She decided if there was much to being Sandor Clegane, it was something she would never understand. She did not dream of being in his skin again.