A.N.: Let me preface this story with the fact that I love Rory McCann's portrayal of the Hound: I can't wait for the final season and his reunion with both Arya and Sansa! For the purposes of this story, though, I was looking at images of the Hound drawn by fans and I was scrolling Pinterest and came upon Norman Reedus' Daryl Dixon. Just the way his hair was falling into one eye, half-covering his face, I was like - that's it! That's him! That's Sandor Clegane. So Norman Reedus/Daryl Dixon is the inspiration for Sandor's appearance, within this story. Mostly because Rory McCann finds 'SanSan' uncomfortable as Sophie Turner's young enough to be his daughter!

The premise of this story is that Sansa and Joffrey were married when Sansa was sixteen, before Robert died and Ned was executed. I've decided to alter Sansa's way of handling things, when Tyrion tells Jon that Sansa's cleverer than she lets on, I want to show a little more of that, Sansa actively taking a role in the game rather than being dragged around the board by her skirts.


Wildfire

01


"Enough!"

Cream and copper flickered in the corner of his eye.

The copper of her hair, kissed by fire, vibrant and brushed to a high polish, in disarray around her face; the cream of her skin turned foul with angry welts and bruising of varying stages of healing, an array of colours, purplish green and sickly yellow, all over her shapely woman's body from her neck to her toes.

The King liked her pretty, had never ordered her face marred since the first time he had Ser Meryn strike Sansa, that afternoon on the bridge, her father's head gaping down at them from a pike.

Now Ser Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard glared over at him, raising his blade higher to strike the Queen, already prone on the dirty floor, bleeding and winded. He could hear the soft rustle of expensive Qartheen velvets and silks behind him, Joffrey rising from his ugly throne in outrage.

It was enough. The girl had collapsed to the floor, naked as the day she was born, her shining hair glinting like copper and rubies in the hated firelight and the blood-red light through the stained-glass windows behind the Iron Throne. The red glass stained the floor, stained the Queen an angry red. He wondered if her gods were angered.

He charged forward, finally at the end of his tolerance, sword unsheathed, to block the blow; he saw Trant's stunned look, replacing the usual impotent rage.

"You dare bare steel against your Lord Commander?!"

"I dare bare my steel against a craven fucking cunt," Sandor growled, and Trant's face mottled red and purple with rage, "who can only get it up when he's beating little girls." He shot a sly, sidelong look at Joffrey, who blanched, staring slack-jawed at them.

"You'll suffer for this, dog," Trant spat.

"No, I won't," Sandor grinned back. The duel took no time at all; Sandor Clegane was the second most brutal warrior in the Seven Kingdoms, sworn-shield to the King and Kingsguard for a reason. He was a big fucker and hard to kill: little cunts like Trant were fodder, not worthy of protecting anyone. The court darted away from them, pressed against the walls, cowering, leaving the naked young queen prone on the floor.

But Sandor knew she was there, kept her to his back…protecting what was precious.

A few brutal clashes of their swords, and blood sprayed as Sandor sank his sword through immaculate Kingsguard armour, through Trant's shoulder, slicing through his breastbone like a wedding pie. The Lord Commander's sword dropped with a loud clang, and the knight crumpled to the floor in a clatter of chain-mail and plate armour.

The effort hardly made it worthwhile; it was the principle. He wrenched his blade from Trant's torso, stooping to wipe the blood off his sword with Trant's white cloak, sheathing it.

"By the gods!" someone cursed.

The little bird stirred on the dirty marble floor, not at the sound of the voice, or the shocked murmurs whispering around the throne-room, not from the soft weeping of those who sympathised with the pretty young queen and were too frightened to help her, or the gasps of the onlookers as blood seeped across the floor from Meryn Trant's mortal wound. She stirred in pain. The Queen never screamed, never whimpered in pain, never let her agony or terror show. From the moment they had met he knew she had always been and would always be a lady, like the famed beauties in the songs his tiny fragile sister had loved, sucking her thumb, cradling her dolly and cuddling to his side as they listened to their nurse singing by the fireside, knitting.

She would have admired the little bird, as the little bird had the lioness - before.

There was an innate goodness and strength in the little bird who was really a direwolf, which the lioness had always lacked. Goodness and cleverness, tempered by terror, and a swift, brutal introduction to the realities of a cruel world ruled by the sword, by treachery and the blood of the innocent.

Her naïveté and romanticised view of the world had died with Ned Stark: Since Ilyn Payne took her father's head before her eyes, the young, Northern Queen Sansa had masked her true nature beneath a polished veneer of immaculate manners and a cool smile that never reached her lonely eyes. She was fair, and cool, a breath of sharp Northern wind still clinging to winter's chill; she was the quiet and the deceptive beauty of snow. The little Northern bird with her innocence and exquisite courtesies, who sang so sweetly.

The loss of her father had stripped the last of her innocence forever from her, as surely as Meryn Trant stripped her so often in the Throne Room - and in the Queen's bedchamber.

They were learning that the little Northern bird was resilient, and had talons, and the clever little bird was observant, subservient…the little bird would survive her captivity in this gilded cage…if the King didn't have her killed through sheer negligence.

But the little bird no longer chirped in fear. She never screamed in pain; never wept for mercy; never shivered in terror. She had learned quickly her husband's passion for cruelty, how people's fear excited the boy-king all the more. Each time he ordered the gruesome disfigurement and torture of traitors, tailors and poverty-stricken smallfolk in the Throne Room as entertainment, Queen Sansa sat on her little curved stool beside the Iron Throne, her posture perfect, her smile gentle and cold, and her eyes faraway. She did not react. And it infuriated the King.

More so perhaps even than when he visited her in her chambers. When she was stripped, surrounded, beaten, humiliated as the Kingsguard held her down - she did not squirm, did not fight, did not plead or cry, or show any emotion whatsoever. When the guards stripped her; when they laughed as they manipulated her body for Joffrey's delight; when he struggled to become erect because she was not visibly terrified of him, and had the guards beat her breathless to excite him; when the overeager boy-king fumbled, slipping out of her as he tried to mount her - from behind, believing this the most undignified way to claim his bride, pinned on her stomach, unable to move or feel anything but the awkward little prick slipping out of her, prodding her thighs, her backside, the bedsheets beneath her as he grew more and more frustrated with her lack of reaction; when he bit her nipples, had Trant flog her backside; when he had his favourite tormenter pin her down by the throat with a mailed fist, hoping to elicit terror, at least a little fight as he took her while she suffocated, she never let out a sound…

The King's abuse of his young bride was ongoing and public. This was not the first instance Queen Sansa had been beaten and stripped, humiliated and abused for her husband's amusement.

All it had garnered was sympathy for the Northern queen, so young and pretty, so unfailingly courteous. The whole court, everyone gathered there, could see the healing wounds inflicted by Joffrey's command onto his beautiful bride; the welts and sores, the perfect creamy skin marred by healing bruises, her neck red-raw, her bruises angry and painful; but when she sat on her little chair beside the Iron Throne, no-one would know her backside was aflame from Trant's belt. She was perfect. And a perfect reminder that their new boy-king was far from it.

Yet nobody said a word against it.

In the very same room that once upon a time, Rickard Stark had been burned alive at the Mad King's command, while his eldest son Brandon strangled himself to reach his sword and free his father, Sansa Stark too was abused, to silence.

No-one dared speak out against their petulant boy-king who was excited by cruelty. Not when previous attempts at protecting their queen had resulted in an even more severe punishment for her.

No-one spoke out. He never raped his wife in court; that was solely for the King's benefit, and his favourite tormenter who liked to watch, and play. Yet the loyal dog Sandor Clegane was never invited into the Queen's chamber when Joffrey visited her. And Joffrey never visited when the Hound stood guard at the Queen's door. His protector, his sworn shield, the most dangerous killer in Westeros, King Joffrey was learning to be very afraid of Sandor Clegane, the fearsome brute who had shown Queen Sansa the only true kindnesses she had experienced since her father's beheading.

No-one spoke out, but Sandor's actions had spoken louder than words. And suddenly Tyrion Lannister looked as tall as a giant as he stalked toward the Iron Throne, his lips parted in horror as his eyes took in every detail of the abuse catalogued on Queen Sansa's once-alabaster skin, as she lay on her side, slightly curled in on herself, winded from Trant's beating; his eyes popped as he saw Meryn Trant crumpled on the floor too.

He had gone too far.

Sansa Stark had a woman's body now, her hips still slim but her breasts high and full and pretty…beneath the teeth-marks. She had a lovely waistline, and from behind, or when she was clothed, no-one would notice the slight curve of her belly. Otherwise losing weight from her treatment at the hands of her husband and his guards, it was subtle, she was not too far along to tell anyone, but Clegane noticed. He noticed everything. Despite his fumbling, the King had somehow managed to get a child on her… Unless it was one of his guards, and with the rumours circulating about his mother, especially after the slaying of King Robert's bastards, inviting his guards into his bride's chamber was the surest way for his enemies to deny Sansa's children were fathered by Joffrey himself. Bastards.

But Joffrey was not one to share his toys. Sansa was anyone's to beat and humiliate, he saw the Queen Regent's smug smile as the pretty young queen was ridiculed and made a mockery of, but to let another man fuck her? That privilege, that most degrading punishment, was Joffrey's alone to inflict on his pretty young queen… When he could manage it.

It was the horror on the Kingslayer's face that surprised him. The irreverent cunt with his famous golden looks and notorious reputation for dishonour - never a more perfect example of the hypocrisy of knighthood - had had his hair shorn close; there was now a subtle silver shimmer to the growth on his jaw, and he was plainly dressed in leathers and solid wool breeches, his new gilded hand the only indication he was a Lannister. Gilded fucking steel. The Kingslayer had returned from the battlefield, mutilated and, from what they could tell, altered within from capture and suffering.

As Tyrion the Imp waddled up to the steps in front of the throne, Jaime approached the queen, prone on the dirty floor. His jaw slack, the Kingslayer's eyes took in the healing welts and angry bruises, disregarding the pretty girl's lush figure and rose-tipped breasts. He looked upon Ser Meryn Trant, his vicious wound still gushing blood.

"You murder your Lord Commander, Clegane?" the Kingslayer said.

"I'm sworn to protect her, too," he answered gruffly, nodding at the Queen. Something flickered across Jaime Lannister's handsome face as he stared at Clegane.

"Oh, dear," the Imp's new sell-sword and Commander of the Goldcloaks clucked his tongue, peering own at the wound Sandor had inflicted. "Looks like the child-beater got blood all over his pretty white cloak."

"Ser Meryn Trant. Lord Commander of the Goldcloaks. Abuser of Queens," the Imp said coldly. "Drag him outside, leave him to fester somewhere. The carrion may have a good meal from his death. Strip him of his armour first." Servants scurried forward, terrified; they dragged Ser Meryn out of court, leaving a trail of blood behind. The Imp turned to Prince Tommen and Princess Myrcella - who had all her mother's beauty and none of her nature - both weeping freely, their gazes on Sansa, Tommen cuddled up to his sister as he shook with tears and grief and possibly relief: He knew the little princeling hated violence, and admired Sansa; Myrcella adored Sansa, who embroidered so beautifully, had gifted her several frocks, and sat with her in the bright, panelled Queen's Ballroom while Myrcella played her high harp. He knew they shared little cakes together on Sansa's balcony, sewing and Myrcella singing, Tommen playing with his kittens Sansa had gifted him with carved spinning-tops.

It gave Joffrey pleasure to abuse Sansa in front of them, knowing their kind, sweet natures as he did. They always wept. The Imp handed his niece a handkerchief, gave his nephew's shoulder a fortifying squeeze and a nod.

The Kingslayer sank to his knees by the queen, where she panted and bit back moans of pain, and Sandor watched him like a hawk as he reached out his one remaining hand, to tenderly tuck a lock of vibrant red hair away from her face, murmuring, "Sansa?"

"Someone get something to cover the Queen!" the Imp snapped, and Sandor ripped the stained white cloak from his shoulders. The Imp and the Kingslayer and the Hound. The three unlikeliest men in the Seven Kingdoms to defend the honour of their queen - and yet they were the only ones who had. The Kingslayer had gone still, trying to shield the Queen's body with his own, and as Sandor approached he realised why.

The Queen was bleeding.

She was shivering on the dirty marble floor, her eyes closed, face immaculately pretty as ever, unblemished, her body mottled with bruising, and her hands were curled into fists with the effort to hold back her whimpers of pain as sweat beaded her brow, and blood started to drip between her thighs.

"She is your queen! Have you no regard for her honour, her life?!" the Imp hissed at Joffrey. A stunted little man who spent his time drinking, whoring and reading - sometimes all at once - he was the only one who had ever told Joffrey the truth. Sandor remembered him smacking Joffrey in the great courtyard at Winterfell, had taken secret delight in it, and had warned the Imp that Joffrey would not forget. The Imp's response: "I hope so. If he forgets, be a good dog and remind him…"

Joffrey needed a reminder.

Who better to do so, the uncle Imp he despised and feared, and the Kingslayer, who had already butchered one mad king to end a war.

He had heard rumours of King Aerys, and his dutiful wife Rhaella. Every time Aerys fed a man to the fires, he visited his queen - just as Joffrey did whenever he ordered a torture or public execution in the court. He wondered how swiftly the Kingslayer would see Joffrey for what he was. The Queen Regent's eyes had been closed for years.

"Now that the Northern cowards have given up Uncle Jaime I can do as I like with her," Joffrey sneered, his tone attempting to remain irreverent even as he cast anxious looks at his stunted uncle, and terrified glances at Sandor Clegane.

His loyal dog had never acted on his own before. He had slain the King's favourite playmate in defence of the girl he adored torturing.

Half-glancing over his shoulder at the boy-king's words, Sandor stooped and draped his white cloak over the queen, clenching his jaw at the sight of her injuries up close. He had always done what he could, given her stern, kindly-meant words to strengthen her heart, toughen the polished porcelain to ivory, guarded her door to frighten the rats away in the night, stepped in when he could, without defying his king outright. He did that, she was as good as dead.

Until today. And he would kill anyone else who from this moment on laid a hand on Sansa Stark. He was Kingsguard; he was sworn to protect her, too. Even from the King.

King Joffrey loathed his uncle, but was wary of him; he would learn to fear Sandor Clegane. He was not just a glorified septa with a sword, trailing after the princeling; he was a warrior, and had earned his reputation over a lifetime of killing. The little bird had learned that life was not a song; King Joffrey needed to learn that his protectors could be his deadliest enemies. Sandor Clegane was dangerous; he wanted Joffrey to think twice about his abuse of Sansa, and he would.

The Kingslayer's return had unleashed this new level of cruelty on Sansa Stark. And yet she was still queen; and should anything happen to the King in the North…Sansa was his only confirmed surviving sibling. She was the key to the North: Joffrey saw her as a disposable toy he had become bored with, she no longer played his game. He was glad of that; Joffrey was confused that he couldn't inflict terror on her, and that gave her some reprieve. But he was King, he had been told he could do as he liked, and he had seen fit to take Ned Stark's head when everyone cautioned him to pardon the Hand to the Wall…

Cruel and thoughtless…

The Kingslayer had rested a hand gently on Queen Sansa's head; she was breathless, bleeding, shivering from cold and suppressed cries of pain, and tense under the unfamiliarly tender touch. Sandor brushed the Kingslayer aside, tucking the cloak around the Queen, lifting her effortlessly into his arms.

"Take her to her chambers. Stay with her there," the Kingslayer told him in an undertone. "Let no-one enter." Sandor didn't respond, didn't need to; all attention was on the Imp giving his putrescent nephew the King a lesson. His quiet question of, "Jaime, did you ever tell young Joff what happened to King Aerys…?" was met with open hostility from the remaining Kingsguard and a sly comment from the sell-sword, and the Kingslayer, telling the story of the Mad King…of Rhaella…of Maegor the Cruel and his six wives, the Black Brides… Joffrey's predecessors, in many senses of the word.

Every time a Targaryen was born, the gods flipped a coin.

They had flipped a coin when Joffrey came into the world. He had heard the rumours, guessed them to be true.

Maegor the Cruel; the Mad King Aerys…

The entire court was whispering about Queen Sansa's suffering, and the grace with which she endured it; from what he had heard in the brothels and inns, the whole of King's Landing knew and adored the cool, serene Northern queen with her modest Northern clothing and simple braids intertwined with glittering chains, and her interest in the city and their welfare. The minstrels were careful in their songs, after the first few had lost their tongues to Ser Ilyn's hot pincers on Joffrey's command, but careful made people clever, and the songs of the brave young Northern king warring to save his sister from the rotten boy-king she had been married to had turned Robb Stark into a hero who shifted form into a direwolf on the battlefield, and revealed Joffrey, irrefutably, as a twisted demon monster born of incest, as mad as Aerys and as cruel as Maegor. The city had changed drastically since King Robert's rule; the smallfolk were the first to feel the effects of a new ruler.

He had heard one song from a minstrel who had happened to see Queen Sansa briefly in passing; he called her 'primrose', the dainty, unassuming, resilient winter roses that grew even in the snow. Delicate, and cold. With summer drawing to a close, the smallfolk were calling Sansa the Winter Queen, and some murmured they were glad to have a sensible Northern lass leading them through what they dreaded was going to be a long winter, after such an extended summertime. It was the longest of his memory. It was summer when the Hand's Tourney was held; and he would not forget the young Sansa Stark's smile and her standing ovation. She had risen to her feet to applaud the Knight of the Flowers, he knew, for declaring Sandor his saviour and the Tourney's champion, after protecting him from Gregor… But she had smiled nonetheless. He still had most of the gold he had won that day; but it was the memory of her smile that was precious to him.

Sandor could not recall seeing it since.

A smile full of innocence was the sweetest thing. Rare, and precious.

She had been pleased by his actions that day: She had beamed, and applauded him. And he remembered another dainty little bird chirping his praises, who sang so sweetly, proud of his sparring skill.

He looked down at the redheaded queen in his arms; there was no resemblance between her and the sister Gregor had taken from him. Nothing but his memory of their innocent smiles… And the terror and pain they had endured… His sister had died, he hadn't protected her…but the little bird…

She stirred in his arms, her eyes bleary and filled with pain and confusion as she peeked around, the colour leaching from her cheeks as he carried her farther from the court, to the royal apartments and the Queen's chambers. Her blue eyes rested on his face, and for the briefest instant, she relaxed in his arms; he heard her breath catch in pain, and she moaned, writhing in his arms, curling into herself, panting.

He punted the chamber door wide with his heavily-booted foot, carrying the Queen over the threshold, saw her lady's maid and the small flock of other maids busy tidying the rooms, tending to repairs to her wardrobe and fine things, cleaning away any sign Joffrey had visited her again last night. He would never bring Meryn Trant to her chamber again; Sandor was glad.

Whatever trouble it elicited for him, he had done his duty by her. Joffrey would either find a new playmate, or fear to continue acting as he had toward her, remembering how his dog had savaged the one brutalising his mistress.

Carefully, he laid the queen on her grand bed, as the dark-haired, exotic girl gathered her skirts and rushed over, dismissing the other maids to fetch warm water and linens and healing ointments.

"You're going to need more than possets, girl," Sandor warned her, with a sigh. The girl stared at him a moment, and realisation dawned, resignation and sadness touching her exotic features as she turned to her queen, tenderly unfolding his cloak, still wrapped around Sansa.

"Shae…" Sansa was panting, and as he took up his vigil, inside the bolted door this time, reluctant to leave, required to stay, he heard her soft moans, sharp gasps of pain, and closed his eyes briefly…

The girl was miscarrying the child Joffrey had forced upon her. The gods showed small mercies in the unlikeliest ways. He kept his hand on the hilt of his sword, barring the door, ensuring no-one entered without first getting through him; he disliked that Joffrey now believed Sansa Stark was disposable, wondered whether he would turn to Maegor for inspiration and take another bride, two, three? Would Joffrey cast her aside, to let his guards do as they pleased with her? Torture her, before he had her publically shamed and executed?

As sure as night followed day, he had known that it was only a matter of time before Joffrey got carried away and the girl was killed outright… He had seen it before.

Disoriented from her beating, in pain, Sansa slipped to the foot of her great bed, kneeling as if in prayer to the Seven, or to her father's nameless Northern gods with bleeding faces carved into the weirwoods, naked and grasping the thick brocade bedspread, gasping and stifling her screams, bleeding…

He admitted the maids with warm water and linens. But it was the exotic one who cared for the Queen, alone, and for the first time, he could see the trust in Sansa, to let her. She braided up Sansa's hair, mopped her brow, massaged her lower-back, her abdomen, and whispered coaxing words of strength and heartbreak as Sansa fought her own body.

He had endured pain, and snapped and snarled like any injured dog: Sansa fought through it, had trained herself not to react, and now, did not give herself even the luxury of screaming aloud as she delivered a dead child, a tiny, frail, formless hatchling; it never had a chance.

For all their fragility, women saw more blood than most men. Panting, delirious, sweaty and shaking, the Queen finally collapsed against the bed, her hands relinquishing the heavy brocade, the maid busying to tidy up the mess, wrapping the tiny child in an embroidered handkerchief. He watched Sansa's back rise and fall, relieved to see her breathing steadily, and she stirred weakly as her maid set the tiny bundle in a chamber-pot, returning to try and coax Sansa to stand.

"Help me," the girl said, glancing over her shoulder at Sandor. "There is a bath drawn for Her Grace." She pointed into one of the smaller chambers; as Sandor approached to gather the Queen into his arms once again, Shae the maid pulled the bedclothes down, a bedpan filled with lavender stuffed between the soft sheets. He gathered the Queen into his arms, and avoided the hearth-fire warming more water as he gently laid her in the large copper bathtub. The water had been perfumed; he smelled something that reminded him instantly of the snow-flecked moors around Winterfell. It was the smell of cold, of the snow. Of her home.

He took up his vigil at the door, keeping a careful eye on the Queen, her vibrant hair just visible, as the maids cleaned up the blood at the foot of the bed, picked up his bloody cloak to launder, took the chamber-pot and the Queen's dead infant away. Averting his eyes as Shae the beautiful lady's maid attended to the Queen, using a large sponge to carefully clean the Queen's bruised skin, Sandor sighed to himself.

Sansa Stark had been given a reprieve from the gods, with this dead child. He had slaughtered Meryn Trant, Joffrey's enabler and favourite co-tormenter: the Imp and the Kingslayer had returned to King's Landing to rule in Joffrey's stead and rein him in… But Sansa Stark was still the queen, and Joffrey's wife. It was her duty both as wife and queen to bear children… Soon, as Joffrey said, he would "put a son in her". Sandor heard the water sloshing as Shae helped her mistress rise from the bathtub, in the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of wet hair darkened to auburn, pasted over a slender shoulder, over one perfectly plump breast, a delicate rose-pink nipple peeking through.

His body stirred with want, and he stifled a growl of yearning.

Never had he wanted anything more than the little bird, who might just be a direwolf beneath her pretty feathers.

Her body was not made for abuse; but it was his to protect. He had draped his cloak around her, and felt it in the pit of his stomach that the act was more binding than any vow some dumb cunt had written up and wanted him to recite. He never had.

But he would protect his little bird.

The lady's maid peeked around the corner, summoning him to help again. Into the bathing chamber, he found the Queen, half-asleep in a chair by her dressing-table, and his stomach twisted, reminded so vividly of his mother… She even wore the same kind of robe his mother used to wear in the privacy of her own chamber, with loose sleeves, knotted at the waist, worn over the Queen's fine silk nightgown that shimmered translucent in the firelight from the hearth. The same fire made her combed, braided hair glow like copper. Clothed, there was no sign the Queen had been with child; he wondered if anyone had known before today that she was in delicate condition. Certainly Joffrey had shown no regard for her delicate state if so.

She rested on a chair, half-asleep, her pretty face pinched in pain, curling in on herself slightly.

"Can't sleep here, little bird," he sighed softly, reaching down, and the Queen startled, not at the sound of his voice but his touch. She peeked up, pain-drenched blue eyes captivating him, and saw who it was. In a movement that threw him back violently to his brutal childhood, the Queen raised her arms to be lifted, the same way his sister used to.

He gathered her up into his arms, cradling her against his chest, and the Queen sighed, almost content, as he carried her to her bed, the lady's maid already fussing with the bedpan and the linens. Carefully he laid the Queen in her bed, taking the covers from her maid to tenderly tuck her in.

"Your Grace…essence of nightshade, to help you sleep," Shae murmured, handing her a glass filled with lemonsweet. Dutifully, the little bird drank, then rested her head against the embroidered bolster. He made to move away; she caught his hand, and he froze.

The nightshade made quick work on the Queen, softening the pain from her pretty face, her blue eyes turning sleepy, gentle, relaxing into the great bed. She held his hand as she fell asleep, a tiny smile on her lips, a single tear leaking down her face.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"Sleep, little bird. You can sing your songs to the dawn."

"Because of you…"


A.N.: I usually loathe the 'C' word but it's part of Sandor Clegane's core vocabulary, and some characters do deserve it! I love that Sandor Clegane is the unlikeliest true knight. I just want Sansa to see that.