Author's Note: Inspired by Jaime Lannister's quote from the book (I know that it's about Arya, but still): '...if the gods are good, she'll forget she was ever a Stark. She'll wed some burly blacksmith or fat-faced innkeep, fill his house with children, and never need to fear that some knight might come along to smash their heads against a wall.'

I'll give you fair warning that I've shifted time and events around a bit. Sansa has flowered already, but Joffrey is delaying to marry her and she's fourteen. The Battle of Blackwater should come in about a month. Sandor's doing things that he doesn't do in the book so basically it's an alternate universe, I guess.

I tried to keep Sandor and Sansa in character, but if they aren't then please forgive me.

Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me :p

"My lord?"

Sandor Clegane's eyes snapped open and he shifted on the stone bench that he had been sitting on.

It was the middle of the day and the sun beat hard upon his brow.

A long time ago, he might have sharply corrected the girl for saying 'lord' to him, but this was Sansa and he knew that she didn't know what else to call him by. The consequences of 'Ser' had been demonstrated already, just 'Clegane' was much too bold and haughty, he had seen her visibly wince at times when his superiors called him 'Hound' or 'Dog' although he couldn't very well fathom why and a simple 'Sandor' was so informal that she would never even consider it. So, it was 'my lord' most days or 'my noble lord' when she was feeling especially thankful. Sandor didn't mind it very much anymore, even if the 'noble' part of it was no welcome compliment and he wanted to remind her of it sometimes, in case she forgot.

He had become accustomed to her ways somehow.

He scrutinized the little creature beside him that had piped up just as he had been successfully taking a bloody, well-deserved rest for the first time that bloody day.

"What is it, girl?"

She might have squeaked, the way she was eyeing him like a mouse being stared down by a cat.

Mayhaps, he had answered a bit too harshly.

He made an effort to soften his features for her. These days he had developed an insight into how much his demeanor affected her. What he thought would be a passable response in any other situation was never quite acceptable in front of the little bird. He had learned that he had to refine his manners around the girl or risk frightening her off. Sandor did not always succeed, he wasn't in the habit of being particularly gentle, but damn him if he didn't try.

"I…I have seen…I have noticed…"

She had lowered her gaze from his face again and it annoyed him.

"Speak up," he urged, not unkindly.

She seemed to regain her nerve.

"I have noticed that there is a tear in your shirt."

He frowned at that and looked down at his tunic.

Usually, he would have much preferred to be covered in his favorite armor, but he was only chaperoning a 'lady' at the moment and there was no need for it.

Sandor could see that she was right and that there had indeed been a long rip near the bottom. It only surprised him a little.

Most of his clothes, even his best ones, weren't in the finest of conditions.

It was something that he accepted; he didn't really give a rat's ass either way.

"And?"

She was shy again and he felt like sighing.

"And?"

The girl spoke very quickly now.

"IwaswonderingifIcouldmenditforyou?"

He shook his head and growled.

"If you could chirp a little more slowly, little bird, then maybe you could also expect me to understand a blasted word you're saying."

She took a deep breath.

"I was wondering if I could mend it for you…maybe…my lord?"

Sandor blinked for a second and then burst out laughing. Sansa Stark was asking for permission to mend his clothes. If someone had told him that this would have happened a year ago, he would have marked them for a bloody fool and sent them on their merry way.

For once, he felt thankful towards the good-for-nothing princeling that he served. After all, without the 'Joffers' this priceless situation wouldn't have been possible.

His normal, day-to-day duties in King's Landing included finishing tourneys without snapping anyone's neck accidentally or not-so-accidentally, protecting Joffrey from people who had more than good enough reason to want to stab him in the back, escorting Joffrey wherever the buggering hell he wanted to go and killing whichever poor bastards Joffrey wanted dead. As Joffrey generally needed him for most of whatever he was doing, this left very little time for anything else.

Or rather, very little time for checking up on his little bird, which he very much liked to do.

This was why he had been more than obedient when Joffrey had added something else to his list of duties.

'Minding Joffrey's Bride'.

Sansa seemed to like to spend her time being outside or in the Godswood. Or more specifically, she liked to be away from everyone else in the Red Keep. Sandor didn't blame her for it, seeing as most of the people there either disliked her intensely or meant her serious harm. However, Cersei didn't like this too much as this isolation left her son's bride vulnerable to an attack on her maidenhood and it was unthinkable that the future Queen might come to the marriage already deflowered.

The Joffers figured that it would be a good idea to appease his mother by sending his 'Dog' to guard her. It wasn't lost on Sandor that the 'King' also took a perverse kind of pleasure on thinking of Sansa's discomfort in his company. So, the little bird was not allowed to flutter about by herself without Sandor and he was not allowed to leave her unless expressly wished upon by Joffrey.

He had already roughed up his share of men earlier in the day and she had waited patiently for him to finish so that he could take her outside.

So, now he was enjoying his favorite activity: 'Watching Sansa'.

She began to thread her needle once more through her half-finished, flower-embroidered handkerchief, looking up at him every once in a while, and he was brought back to the present question that she had posed.

"You want to mend my shirt, girl?" he asked, just to be sure that she was serious because he couldn't quite believe it himself.

She licked her lips then pressed them together and he saw how they glistened in the sunlight. Sandor had spent enough time with her and was observant enough of a man to know that it was one of her nervous habits.

"If...if it would please you, my lord."

What the hell did she have to be nervous about? He was an intimidating man, to be sure, and he had a nasty temper at times, but he wasn't about to bite off her hand for offering to do him a service.

"It pleases me," he rasped and she gave him a small smile.

He turned away from her abruptly and grunted, pulling the cloth over his head. Those little smiles of hers seemed to be given rarely and every time she presented one to him, he didn't like being shaken by the equally rare emotion they inspired in him.

When he was bare-chested, he tossed the tunic to her.

Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were wide. She began to stutter while looking at anything but him.

"My-my lord, this is hardly proper!" she objected. "I...I...command you to put your attire back on."

Sandor enjoyed the new, high tone that her voice had taken. It took quite a lot from him to get her to act this way - all dignified and imperious.

"Seven hells, girl, you're the one who wanted to mend my shirt. I've only given it to you," he remarked dryly. "You should think about your damned propriety before you start making suggestions like that."

"Yes, but I meant later," Sansa insisted, looking very flustered now. "Preferably when you had on other clothes."

Her next question was more desperate and it amused him to see that she was whispering now.

"What would someone think if they saw you?"

He made a big, dramatic show of looking around for the phantom figure that she was lowering her voice for.

"As far as I can tell, my lady," he mocked, equally as quiet. "There is nobody here."

She scrunched up her nose at him in annoyance and turned away in a huff, determinedly avoiding the sight of his naked torso.

Sandor closed his eyes again, crossed his arms and felt the sun on his skin.

You've done it now, old dog, Sandor told himself, the little bird is offended and now your shirt will never get mended.

Indeed, what if someone came upon them?

Well, anyone else would get told off for improper behavior, but who dared to scold the Hound?

They might earn a stare or two, but Sandor was used to those and he wasn't afraid of them. Besides, everyone knew that Sandor was Sansa's special escort. It had been a few months since that had been made known already.

Joffrey would have his head on a spike if he actually dared to do anything that was truly 'inappropriate' with her.

Not that he wasn't tempted to. Gods knew, he was tempted.

She was only fourteen and she made his knees weak.

Sandor was an honest man.

She was pretty and no one could deny it, at least not within his hearing range or else they would be getting a well-deserved, broken nose.

However, she wasn't the prettiest.

He had seen more beautiful women, it was true, but none of them had ever made the infamous Hound ache with his entire body, just to be near.

He had only been blessed with the chance to touch her hand half-a-dozen times and he always marveled at how fingers could be so dainty.

She was so soft. It felt like he would bruise her with a touch.

How many times had he checked himself from following his impulse to suckle at her exposed, pale neck and leave a mark there like the beast he was?

It would mean death for him.

Yet if his head was chopped off for daring touch her, it would be the sweetest death he could have imagined for himself.

Most likely, he would either breath his last with a dirty sword in his gut and a curse-word on his lips, slowly bleeding out, or as a worn-out, sick dog with no one who cared enough to watch over him in his old age.

Yes, he would prefer to be executed for the little bird. That was much better.

Tiring of his thoughts, he cracked open one eyelid and peeked over her shoulder. Sansa had secretly put the handkerchief aside and was concentrating on his shirt. His mouth gradually twitched into a grin. There was a strange feeling of satisfaction in the sight.

She started to hum her usual tune and he remembered that she had been humming before she had started to talk to him.

He resolved not to disturb her now; he liked listening to her.

Sandor also liked to see her work. She genuinely seemed to enjoy needlework and she had a talent for it. He had seen his mother sew as a child and a few other ladies before, but Sansa did it so gracefully that it looked like her hands were performing some elegant dance.

Her eyes had an odd, faraway look to them and he could see that she was day-dreaming again. It was her favorite past-time, it seemed. He caught her doing this so often that it shocked him sometimes. Even when she was supping at the King's table and she was surrounded by people who not-so-subtly threw insults at her or her family, only Sandor knew that she was off in her head somewhere else. It was a very important sort of escape, he had realized.

If she was stuck in reality all the time then someday maybe something in the little bird would break that not Sandor or anyone else could fix again.

The thought chilled him to the bone.

Sansa Stark had been deceived and borne pain that she shouldn't have had to bear.

She was very different from the child that she had been before coming to King's Landing. Sandor had seen the changes develop personally.

There was a calmer air about her, she chose her words more carefully and her smile didn't come as easily as it once had. She had learned to play-act that she was peaceful and content in situations that were extremely distressing to her. Sandor suspected that this was because she could actually convince herself that she wasn't physically there. Her imagination was almost disturbingly powerful.

It was a very good thing that her eyes had been opened to the realities of the world and that she knew to be cautious with who she trusted, but Sansa couldn't lose those dreams.

Once he might have scoffed at her for them, but he understood better now.

Not everyone had a core made out of iron to withstand mighty storms.

Little birds dreamed to keep their sanity and put despair at bay.

It was a strength that served her well and he would not have anyone take it from her.

Sandor leaned back and she continued her melody happily.

Whatever unhappiness Joff had tried to give Sansa by sending him to her side, it clearly wasn't working. The king couldn't have known that Sandor Clegane and Sansa Stark would develop a sort of halfway-comfortable relationship together.

And, we are comfortable, aren't we, little bird? Sandor thought to himself a little proudly. When I'm not busy snapping at your feathers, that is.

He had smelled her fear, seen her stain her sheets with blood for the first time, listened to her sob until her face was red, felt her tremble in his arms as he carried her away from danger and stopped her from getting herself executed by Joffrey with some sound advice far too many times to count.

After all of that, it would be almost unnatural not to be clos-er, he decided.

He wasn't fooling himself though; he was well-aware that there were times when she was still scared of him.

Although, that was mostly when he was drunk out of his mind and she was wise to get away from him when that happened.

Very wise, indeed.

"Little bird?"

The music stopped and he cursed himself.

"Yes?"

"We've been through a hell of a lot together, haven't we?"

She was so surprised that she forgot that she wasn't supposed to be looking at him.

"Well...I suppose we have."

Sansa looked at the ground for a while, transported in thought, and Sandor wanted to know what was swirling around her head.

Suddenly, there was a peal of laughter.

"Think that's funny then, do you?"

She shook her head vigorously, still smiling.

"No, my lord. I was just thinking...it's been such a very, long time since I first saw you and now we sit like this everyday. You have become such a large part of my life. I would have never imagined - "

She broke off, suddenly impossibly sad, and he could see what she had been trying to say.

I would have never imagined any of this happening back then.

The little bird was thinking back on all of the other things that had happened.

Ned Stark's beheading, her wolf-sister's escape, Joffrey, her beloved, threatening to kill her with a crossbow, getting beaten up by a knight afterwards, almost being raped, almost murdering said 'beloved'...

Sandor didn't imagine they were very pleasant memories.

"Put the past away, girl," he advised. "It brings no good to dwell on it."

She nodded and ran a hand over his tunic on her lap.

"I'm finished," she reported, appearing satisfied with herself. "It looks much better now."

"Aye," he agreed softly. "You've done well, little bird."

Sansa handed it to him shyly and he touched the cloth's pretty stitches, knowing that her fingers had once been there.

It was an odd scene.

A highborn lady presenting her lowborn guard with his sewn-up shirt.

Very odd.

He allowed himself to linger on the thought.

They were sitting quite closely together, he was shirtless and she had just mended his clothing.

In another instance, they would have looked very much like...a husband and wife.

Wasn't that what Sansa was doing for him, what wives did for their husbands?

The idea fascinated him a little too much and he felt the danger of that, but he couldn't resist.

Sansa Clegane, his little wife.

What twisted ideas are you thinking on, you mad dog?

"Ah, my lord?"

Fancying that she had somehow heard his thoughts, he almost jumped off of the bench. He turned, his heart still racing.

"You may clothe yourself now."

He wanted to laugh. Her mouth was pursed and he could see that she wasn't going to accept a refusal quietly.

When Sansa wanted something, she didn't stop reminding him until it was done.

"Alright, alright," he soothed. "Don't get your feathers in a ruffle. I'll get decent again."

She was much appeased when he wasn't half-naked anymore and he stood up to escort her back to her cage, as he had been tasked to do.

The thought followed him though.

Sansa Clegane.