Authors note: This story is based on the idea of what could have happened if Sansa had left Kings Landing with Sandor Clegane at Blackwater. This is a story of romance, darkness, tragedy, and a touch of smut. I know a lot of people were disappointed by the finale of GOT, as was I. And so this is based more in the book-verse rather than the show verse and so there will be some direct quotes from the second book, "A Clash of Kings" In the first chapter of this tale. I hope you all enjoy the story and please leave a review!

Warning: Foul language, extreme violence, and sexual violence and content. Reader discretion is advised.

Chapter One: The dog breaks the lock.

Sandor

Fire and blood filled the air that dark night, it was impossible to escape. The shouts and dinn of the battle waging outside echoed through the dark, deserted halls of the red keep. Smoke filled the air, choking and suffocating everything that had the audacity to breathe. It's souring the wine… Clegane thought bitterly as he sat alone in the castle cellar, his third flagon of wine in his hand. The blood dripped down his face from the wound he had received on his head, the deep gash in his shoulder ached, but that didn't matter now. Blood he could handle, but the fire. That sickly green fire that had been surrounding him, setting people ablaze before him, igniting memories he would prefer to keep locked down in his mind.

I want to fuck…. He scowled as he drained the bottom if his wine and tossed it to the side, hearing a crash as the container shattered against the wall with the others. He wanted anything to take his mind off of the fire. He had very little, in terms of pride, but he had already tossed away what he had managed to hold on to. "Craven" they would call him, fleeing a battle, fleeing the fire. He stared at nothing, the wine racing through his head, making him think of things he had not dared to ponder before.

No whores will be able to night. They'll be hiding, or being used by other deserters. One last shag before the end. But…. His mind thought of red hair. The image of the Stark girl, of the Little Bird, came to his mind. She was beautiful, and he had watched her blossom into a woman over the time she had been trapped in her cage. And she's a real woman now, having flowered… He closed his eyes as he picked up another drink. She was so different than the other women of Kings Landing. She was still scared of him, everyone was so that was no shock, but she was kind. Foolish, with a head full of dreams and songs of knights, but kind. Songs of Knights…..and fair maidens. He smirked to himself, standing up and taking another full flagon of wine to join his currently depleted one as he left the cellar, making his way towards the cage.

She's with the hens in their sanctuary no doubt. He scoffed as he stumbled through the halls, ignoring the shocked gasp of a servant boy who nearly ran in to him, arms full of stolen silver. But she won't stay. As soon as the Queen deserts them, she'll wisen up and get away from Payne. And she will run to her chambers. Her one sanctuary…

His footsteps sounded loud in his ears, making him curse the armor he wore, the white cape on his back feeling like a large hand that dragged him down. He stopped just outside of her door, downing the rest of one of his flagons and tossing it to the side before pushing the door open. The room was empty, but despite the lack of lit candles, it was aglow. The fire from the battle illuminated her room through the window, and for a moment he thought he would be sick. He slammed his last remaining drink down on the table she had beside her bed and violently drew the curtains. Once it was dark he breathed. His eyes adjusted to the dark well as he looked around.

It was a pretty room, full of small things, insignificant things, that a Lady would need. Her powders, that she used to cover her bruises, and the jewels the wore to look pretty for the King. He wanted to shatter them with his fists, but it would do no good now.

Maybe that inbred fuck will die tonight. He chuckled at the thought. He had been Joffrey's sworn shield for most of the boys life, in some ways he had been his best friend. Loyal, no matter what abuse had been thrown at him. Like a good dog. But even a dog will bite, when kicked enough…. Sandor sighed and shook his head as he continued to walk around the room, randomly opening drawers and cupboard out of pure curiosity as he waited for his Little Bird to fly to him.

As he peeked in to one drawer of her vanity he stopped and looked inside it. It was full of letters, as well as something wrapped in what looked like fur. Wolf fur… he noted.

He picked up one of the letters and unfolded it, reading the words scrawled in her beautiful, refined hand.

Arya,

I miss you. I know you'll never read this, I have no idea were you are or how I would send this, but I have to write it. We never got along, I always thought you a pest, but I love you. More than anything. I miss Father, and Mother, and the boys. I want to go home. Please, get stronger and help me go home. Stay alive so we can go back to the North together. Please. Winter is Coming.

He put it down, clearing his throat as he glanced through all of the others. They were all the same, in nature at least. Letters to her family, that they would never receive. Some were even addressed to her dead Father. All of them begging for them to be okay, and to take her home. He looked at the small bundle in the fur and lifted it up, unwrapping it. Inside was a doll, a pretty little doll, much like the ones the young Princess would have.

Was this from her Father? He asked himself as he looked it over. It was not worn at all, no child had ever held this. He sighed and carefully put it back in its place.

He moved then her her bed and sat on it, his armor rattling in the darkness. He took a swig of wine before looking down at the pillow. Soft and silk, on top of a feather mattress. Exhaustion came over him, and he laid down, sweat and blood soaking the fine sheets. He could smell her on the sheets, not the rose petals she bathed in, but her. That gentle, soft, velvet like smell of her skin, that he had only known a little of, from their chance meetings in the halls, when he had got close enough to smell her. He closed his eyes and sighed.

I'll wait. She won't be long now. When she comes, I'll take that song she owes me. He Gave sneer to himself. Then I'll take her. And darkness consumed his mind.

Sansa

Soft shoes echoed down the hall as Sansa Stark fled from the panic of her safe haven below. The Queen had left them with the executioner, and he would kill them all, rather than let them be captured. She had no idea were she could go that would be safe. If Joffrey were to fail, and Stanis win the battle, would he show her mercy? Would he return her home, or we she be a prisoner, just to a new lord.

She choked as she covered her mouth, approaching the small bedroom that had always been safe for her. No one really bothered her in there, not the King or the Queen, though they would sometimes send the Hound to fetch her. But he wasn't crewel.

As she came to the landing that held her room she paused, breathing hard and pressing a hand against her chest as it rose up and down steadily. She looked down the hall to were her room was and slowly started to walk towards it. The iron handle felt hold in her hand as she unlatched it, and the dull thud as it closed behind her reminded her of thud of a headsman's axe coming down. She leaned against the door for a second before remembering to turn and latch it closed.

Her room was black at pitch, and she had to fumble in the dark, guiding her hands across the wall until she came to the window. She ripped back the curtains and her breath caught in her throat, nearly making her gag.

The southern sky was aswirl with glowing, shifting colors, the reflections of the great fires that burned below. Baleful green tides moved against the bellies of clouds, and pools of orange light spread out across the heavens. The reds and yellows of of common flame warred against the emeralds and jades of wildfire, each color flaring and then fading, birthing armies of short-lived shadows to die again an instant later. Green dawns gave way to orange dusks in half a heartbeat. The air itself smelled Burnt, the way a soup kettle sometimes smelled if it was left on the fire too long and all the soup boiled away. Embers drifted through the night air like swarms of fireflies.

She backed away from the window, towards the safety of her bed. I'll go to sleep, she told herself, and when I wake it will be a new day, with a blue sky. The fighting will be done and someone will tell me if I will live or die.

A shifting sound behind her made her jump, her mind leaping to the impossible. A long gone friend who had always been there to protect her.

"Lady?" She asked into the dark room. Just then two strong, calloused hands clamped down on her, one reaching out and pinning both of her hands to her chest, and the other clamping hard over her mouth. Her heart nearly stopped as she felt herself pulled roughly against the armored chest of a man, much larger than herself.

"Little Bird, I knew you'd come." The voice was a familiar, rough drunken rasp. She couldn't see him, but she knew in in an instant.

"If you scream, I'll kill you. Believe that." The Hound rasped in her ear and she nodded instantly. The hand came off of her mouth and the other spun her around to face him, still clamped down hard on her wrist. The light from the window let her see him. The blood on his face was as dark as tar, his eyes glowing, like a dogs, in the glare, his once white cloak was stained and tattered. They stood for a moment, looking at each other in the dim green glow. His hand was shaking in its grasp on her.

"Don't you want to ask who's winning the battle, little bird?" He asked, his eyes unfocused and he swayed slightly.

"Who?" She was scared, she knew it. Her body was locked up so tight that she couldn't move, and she had no courage to defy him.

The Hound laughed, a deep rumble in his chest.

"I only know who's lost. Me." His chuckle continued.

He is drunker than I've ever seen him. She thought and looked to the space behind him and saw her bed, disheveled and stained with blood. He was sleeping in my bed. What does he want? Her heart skipped a beat for a moment at the thought of him being in her chambers, in her bed.

"What have you lost?" She asked, her eyes staring at his chest, not able to meet his eyes.

"All." He rasped out, her eyes caught the movement of a bitter smile twisting on his burned face. "Bloody dwarf. I should have killed him. Years ago."

"He's dead, they say." She whispered out. He responded with coarse laugh, so deep it felt like vibrations in her chest.

"Dead? No. Bugger that. I don't want him dead." He picked up a flagon of wine had on her bedside table and drained it before tossing it aside. The sound of breaking pottery made her flinch. "I want him burned." The last word was said with such hate, his eyes seemed to darken with a bitter amusement. "If the gods are good, they'll burn him, but I won't be here to see it. I'm going."

This froze her more than the fear. His eyes were now downcast, like he was trying to find something new to focus on. She tried to pull her wrist from his hand, but his grasp was iron.

"Going?"

"The little bird repeats wherever she hears. Going, yes."

"Were will you go?"

"Away from here. Away from the out the Iron Gate, I suppose. North somewhere, anywhere."

"You won't get out." Sansa said, her heart breaking a little for the man in front of her. Of course the fires. Of course. "The Queen's closed Maegor's, and the city gates are shut as well."

"Not to me. I have the white cloak, and I have this." He patted the pommel of his sword. "The man who tries to stop me is a dead man. Unless he's on fire." He laughed bitterly. Sansa studied him for a moment. In all of her time at court, around Joffrey and the Queen, she had never seen a man more broken before. He was drunk, and scared, and sad. He had left his post at the kings side, he had lost everything. And yet, he came here before he left. What did he have to gain by coming to her room, unless…

"Why did you come here?" She asked her voice shaking slightly. He looked at her with deep grey eyes, another burst of flame outside lighting them up. Reflecting a heat she felt on her wrist were he held her.

"You promised me a song, little bird. Have you forgotten?"

She stood aghast. She couldn't sing for him now, here, with the sky aswirl with fire and men dying in their hundreds and their thousands.

"I can't…" He mumbled out, pulling at her wrist, recognizing the heat in his eyes for something more than a desire for a song. "Let me go, you're scaring me."

"Everything scares you." He snapped. "Look at me. Look at me."

The blood masked the worse of his scars, but his eyes were wide and white, and terrifying. The burnt corner of his mouth twitched. Sansa could smell him, he was so close. He stank of sweat, and sour wine, and stale vomit, and over it all the reek of blood.

"I could keep you safe." He rasped, his voice much more gentle than his posture. Her eyes met his again. The fear and anger was still there, and the heat, but there was more. A look she had not seen in a long time. A faint glimmer of hope. "They're all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again, or I'd kill them." He pulled her closer to him, firmly, but not painfully, and for a moment, as he came closer to her face, she thought he meant to kiss her. Her heart leapt to her throat and she closed her eyes, he was too strong to fight, and even so, she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to. But nothing happened. She heard a sharp intake of breath.

"You still can't bear to look, can you?" He growled at her. Her eyes opened and she opened her mouth to speak, but the room spun around her. His hands had grabbed her shoulder and he flung her down on to the bed. She bounced slightly as she felt his weight set on top of her. He was straddling her legs, pinning her down with his massive form, as a metallic sound echoed in the darkness, and the feeling of cold steel pressed against her throat. Her eyes went wide. As she laid there, prone, looking up at the man.

"I'll have that song." He snarled. "Florian and Jonquil you said. Sing, little bird. Sing for your little life."

She was shaking, not daring to move as the point of the dagger twisted against the soft skin of her neck. It hadn't drawn blood, not yet, but what would happen if she couldn't remember the song? Her eyes were locked on his as she struggled to remember, wanting to cry, to scream and beg him not to kill her. She had seen anger before, but this was something so much more terrifying. She saw desperation in a dangerous man, with nothing left to lose. She remembered then, it wasn't Florian and Jonquil, but it was a song. She licked her lips and swallowed to try and get the dryness out of her mouth before she sang, her voice sounding think and tremulous in her own ears.

Gentle Mother, font of mercy,

Save our sons, from war we pray,

Stay the swords and stay the arrows,

Let them know a better way.

Gentle Mother, strength of women,

Help our daughters through this fray,

Soothe the wrath and tame the furry,

Teach us all a kinder way.

Her voice trailed off at the rest of the verse left her memory. All was still for a moment as she watched him, terrified of what he might do now that her song was sung. Slowly the blade moved away from her throat and his hand came to rest beside her head. He didn't speak.

Some instinct made her lift her hand and cup his cheek with her fingers. The room was too dark, and his hair hung over his face, but she could feel the stickiness of the dried blood, and a wetness that was not blood. Her heart pounded as his hand came up over her own and he pulled it away from his ruined face.

"Little bird…"He said once more, his voice raw and harsh as steel on stone.

Don't say goodbye… She thought as he started to move off of her. Her body had been frozen she thought, but now she sat up fast and easy as he stepped away from her bed. He turned away from her.

"Wait!" She called to him. He stopped one step towards the door and turned his head ever so slightly. Not looking at her, but letting her know he was listening. She took a deep breath, trying to calm her pounding heart. "I'm coming with you."