Author's Notes: This story, despite my preference to finish a story before posting, is not done. But it is part of a challenge, so I felt the need to start posting. The challenge was for me to write an "unresolved sexual tension" story (while I challenged another to do a "quick" one). Because I do not know how this story will end yet, it will stay with the "T" rating for now. Also, it will follow a weekly posting, so I (hopefully) don't fall behind.

Hope it is enjoyed, and reviews are awesome and greatly appreciated!

"As I am the father of the realm," King Joffrey speaks, "I will walk you down the aisle." He smirks, pleased as a peacock, asking Sansa what she thinks of that. She stares at him blankly, her mind equally void of emotion, automatically and satisfactorily replying to him. Only briefly do her eyes flicker to the guard standing behind the King, finding strength from his height and breadth, before maneuvering to accept King Joffrey's proffered arm.

She had seen the Hound looking at her, as he was wont to do. It used to disgust her, make her shake in fear and embarrassment, especially as his eyes normally blaze in anger (of reasons she knows not of). Now, after the fires of battle had receded and the threat of King Stannis is no more, she finds Sandor Clegane a source of comfort. And not as a blanket on a cold winter's night, but as a shield weight that assures its wearer, they are protected.

(Though Sansa had once held a shield, and dropped it in a rather undignified manner due to its weight, causing her siblings to laugh in good fun; a shield is all she can think of when thinking of Sandor. She reflects, the more one holds a shield, the more it would meld into one's arm. The more she knows of Sandor...)

On the night of the Battle of Blackwater Bay, after the ringing of the King's victorious bells, the Hound had come pounding on Sansa's door. Still fearful of him then, she had not opened or unbarred her door, standing upright before it (though he could not see her) and had demanded he desist his dreadful manner. He had drunkenly laughed at her, and told her, yet again, of his wish for a song.

"When you deserve it." she coldly replied, only later regretting her harsh words. He laughed some more, cursing at her and asking her what had he been doing all night, but fighting for her? "Fuck the city." He had said. "Fuck the Imp, and fuck the King." He lowered his voice, though she could still hear through the thick oak door. "Fuck the fire; I did it for you, Little Bird."

After a few moments of silence, she heard a thump, and could only conclude he had fallen to the floor just outside her rooms. She remained standing, stunned and confused.

It was during the hours of that night that she had reevaluated everything in their interactions. She had always thanked him for his protection and kindness for individual events (and had always received acrid remarks in return), but had never really thought about his deeds all together. That night, she thought that perhaps he did deserve a song of thanks from her, and she blushed in shame. Vulgar, course, scarred; she had only ever addressed the Hound, and not the man, when it was obvious (should anyone pay attention) the man is more honorable than any knight in the realm.

She walked to the door, and touched it with her fingertips. "You won't hurt me." She whispers, revelation stunning her, yet relieving as well.

Despite the fact that Sandor could not have possibly heard her, he still said something that sounded like a response, "I won't hurt you, Little Bird."

The next day, others in the castle gossiped that Sandor had gone to Sansa with his blood up, with intentions of raping her. It did not help that he awoke with a vicious hangover, and therefore, a vicious attitude. She says nothing to those rumors, letting the Hound keep his crude mask as she does her own docile one. She knows that while he may have wanted her physically, he also came to her to make sure no other blooded man would violate her either. His feet were not the only ones to pass by her door (as most frighteningly those of Ser Trant) , but Sandor's were the only ones to stay.

He had awoken foul, but Sansa awoke refreshed, invigorated with a new found sense of protection, and recognizing an honorable friend that had always been there...

Cersei had smirked at Sansa, a way of her saying "I told you so.": a slice of cake, indeed. It was worse than Joffrey's cruel naivety, asking her how she would have felt had there been no bar on her door. ("So afraid, your grace." she replied.) But once Joffrey turns his head, she shyly smiles in Sandor's direction, and while he looks mildly surprised, he also slightly inclines his head towards her (they are in public after all).

There had been no words necessary, but it was in that moment that their friendship stuck true.

Tywin had been cold and calculating on the matter, on the verge of punishing the Hound for daring to sniff after that which isn't his. Sansa is still a pawn, after all: the key to the north if things went their way, and the Lannisters so wanted a foot in the snow. While King Joffrey became betrothed to a non-traitorous woman to cement a rich new alliance, the Lannisters still had bachelors within their ranks.

So here they are, bringing Sansa to marry the Imp.

Joffrey takes the stool meant for Tyrion away, and she feels frustration and embarrassment emanating from the dwarf. He does not have to marry me! Sansa thinks. Looking towards Sandor, she also thinks, He cannot help me; maybe Tyrion is equally tied by something I cannot know. While Tyrion may not be her choice for a husband, he is the one who will vow to protect her. Perhaps, in his own stunted way, marrying Sansa was Tyrion's way of protecting her. As much as she distrusts any Lannister, she knows that Tyrion is a better choice than Joffrey, and should enlist any help from him, no matter how small. Even Sandor's mere presence, while seemingly not doing anything, is a balm to Sansa...

When Tyrion goes to place his cloak on her, Sansa kneels without being prompted, though she finds her eyes drifting towards Sandor.

He stands behind the king. Joffrey wanted to observe Sansa's reactions, so had stood off to the side of his uncle, every now and then laughing and commenting about the farce they're witnessing, despite the solemnity of the Sept, or the cold glare of his grandfather. Sansa ignores it all in favor of watching Sandor.

He eyes her back, furious. He wants her for himself, she can tell, and it is made worse that they're giving her to the Imp, of all people. She does not know why he hates Tyrion so, but she stares back, letting him know she feels the same. Not that he should be the one behind her, cloaking her, no maybe not that; but anger that she's being given away, still a pawn, still with no choice.

Sandor grounds her in this farce of a wedding. The only one who would not pity her, who would not laugh at her, who would, if given the chance, make it better for her. He can't, but the thought of it makes her breath easier.

When it is time for the exchange of vows, she looks towards her husband as he speaks his part. When it is her turn, however, she looks directly at Sandor, who had shuffled a bit to be right over Tyrion's shoulder from her vantage point. Everyone in the Sept is looking at Sansa, so no one sees Sandor gazing at her with such steel and stone as she recites her vows.

She is not vowing to him as she looks at him; no, she looks to soothe his irritation, and to gain strength from his presence. So long as he is near, she can make it through whatever the lions decide to throw at her.

She kisses Tyrion with eyes closed, having only wormy lips to compare to, and ultimately just wondering what the Hound might taste like.