He swilled the dregs of his goblet around before tipping the last few drops of ruby liquid into his mouth. A few beads of wine trickled onto his undershirt, and he cursed as he wiped them away with his palms. He was piss-drunk, again.

Setting his cup down on the table nearest to the bed, he picked up the flagon beside it. It was suspiciously light, and as he peered into it he saw less than a quarter of the dark liquid remained. Worthless. What good was an empty flagon? It split in two before his eyes, twin flagons held in his twin hands. Double vision, damn me. He reeled, opened his hand and let the flagon fall. Dimly he heard it splinter into countless pieces that would doubtless spear his feet the next morning, but Sandor Clegane had forgotten it already. Slowly, carefully, he lowered himself onto his cramped bed, lying on his back against the hard mattress as he stared unseeing at the dark ceiling, the world a spinning chaos around him. If I vomit in my sleep I could choke, he thought. Best turn onto my side.

Yet he remained there, spread on his back like a beached turtle. It struck him, as he struggled to fight the waves of drunken exhaustion, how fitting it would seem for some brother of the kingsguard to find him cold and stiff in a few hours' time, with vomit crusting his cheeks and flagon in pieces by his side. I would die a drunkard's death, he thought, drunk as a dog and dead to boot. The thought was oddly amusing, and he laughed his rough, harsh laugh, long and low, until he was dragged under tides of drunken slumber. The hearth opposite his bed remained cold and empty, but bright, hot flames licked his dreams. They had done for years.

No sooner had the morning sunlight stabbed him in the eyes did he stab himself in the foot, the vengeful ghost of the ruined flagon remaining to bear him one final sufferance before vanishing along with the morning mists outside. He trod awkwardly over the pieces as he made his way over the hard wooden floor towards a greying bundle of discarded clothes, thrown carelessly over a hard backed chair, as limp and forlorn-looking as broken puppets. He swayed as he pulled on his clothes, stinking of sweat and wine and foul temper, his brow heavy with stormy ill grace. His insides felt like fiery, molten liquid, threatening to spill out of him with the slightest movement; he struggled not to double over and retch as he bent to pull on his breeches. Donning his mail shirt, he pushed his way into the day, shouting for some little bitch to help him with his armour. He left the room without so much as a backward glance at the small, dusty looking glass that stood disused in the corner of room. He could count on one hand the amount of times he'd looked into a looking glass with a smile.

By noon his dark mood has descended into a murderous intolerance for anything that did not go his way. Dour, solemn and hard at his very best, Sandor Clegane was a man worth given a wide berth when his temper hovered a little short of his finest example of behaviour. Having woken up with violence in his heart and with his head throbbing through the better half of the morning, he now stalked along with pure venom coursing through his black veins, willing some unwashed peasant to suddenly throw himself into Joffrey's path. Yet none had yet shown such disregard for their own life, for Sandor's hands remained ever unbloodied. The whole fucking city crawls with them, he thought bitterly as he strode behind the boy king with his hand at his sword, yet when I actually need one to butcher every one of the bastards buggers off.

He raged the hours away; eyes ever wrathful and his mouth twisted into a hard grimace. His expression did little to soften the grotesque scarring that marred half his face; but then again only darkness made him beautiful. Sandor Clegane had never known beauty, had never tasted it for himself. He had seen it others, aye; seen whores with their long lithe limbs and lips as sweet as nectar, but since when were whores celebrated for their beauty? Whores were known for what lay between their legs, not for their loveliness. True beauty lay in possession, in the knowledge that you and you alone possessed such beauty, whether it was your own face or your lady wife's.

And as the Hound had no bitch to call his own, he remained behind the prison of his scar, forever unattainable by his own self-hatred and completely incapable of attaining someone for himself. What I need is a little bird in a cage. And so he lived this long, loveless life, his bitterness stirred everyday by the burning Hell that dogged his every step and reminded him whose slave he was. For Sandor Clegane may have served kings, but in his heart of hearts he was a slave to Fire, and a slave to his scar.

The long hours of the day gradually darkened into darkness. His brain still beat the inside of his skull with a vengeance, his every limb ached with bruises he had no idea how he had attained. But the worst sufferance he bore was the gorge that rose with every movement he made. He had vomited that morning, wiped bile and spoiled wine away from his lips with a leather-clad hand, but still his stomach heaved with every aroma he inhaled.

The feast that night severely tested his steel. Too much light, too much laughter, too much food; an absolute invasion of his senses. On any other day he would have stood at his master's side without so much as a care for what went on around him, so long as nobody sheathed a longsword from their sleeve and parted Joff's head from his bastard shoulders. But every shout of laughter, every tureen of gravy that passed him and wafted in his nostrils twisted a knife into his senses a little more, and before half the night had passed his face had turned the colour of curdled milk. His stomach was a boiling, heaving mass of wine and resisting the urge to knock over the flagon of Arbor Gold in front of him tested all his willpower.

The hearth behind him frayed his nerves, and made him sweat. He closed his eyes, completely silent in his wretchedness. The music had started, damn them all, and he heard the scraping of benches against stone as half the room stood up to dance. He felt someone brush past him, and he opened his eyes. There. He could see her standing between the tables. She craned her neck to find a dance partner over the growing throng, her simple silver chain catching the light as she moved.

Her face split into a gracious smile as she was approached by a tall comely man with a smooth curtain of dark blonde hair, swathed in red velvet and a with smile on his lips. She curtsied as he took her hand in his and pressed in to his mouth. His lips murmured and she laughed, her white throat arching as she spun out to the opening notes of the dance. She and her partner seemed as one, their footsteps in unison as they flitted around each other like mating swallows. Her fiery hair danced as well, shining in the light cast by the torches above her head.

The Hound watched her partner like a hawk. He was nothing to him, just some petty lord's son with a high opinion of himself and an even higher opinion of his own wardrobe. He's half a girl himself. I could make him squeal. His hand lingered on the sword at his hip.

The song ended with a flourish, and Sansa's partner brushed her hand with his lips once again before turning away to find another partner. Her pale skin had glowed a delicate pink, dewy with sweat and pleasure. A faster, jauntier ditty played now, led by a singing fiddler who stamped his feet as he sang. Another knight rose to claim her, and the mating ritual resumed. The Hound watched behind his master's chair as she span and gasped in the arms of her ser, her feet an endless blur of complex weaving she had taken to as simply and as naturally as walking.

Sandor Clegane drank in her every move with his steel grey eyes. Not once did she glance up from her partner to catch his eye, not once did she betray him; for he knew he had eyes for her only. What was this little bird to him? He didn't know, but what he did know was that he would cheerfully wring any neck that bent to whisper courtesies in her ear. Every little hand extended to touch her partner was a dagger in his guts, and every smile that played about her partner's lips sent the Hound into a darker mood still. He wants to fuck her, that's all, and she's too naive to see it. His fingers twitched, and he could feel the great shining scar taut across his face. I'd teach them a thing or two about swordplay. Each one would end up with a sword up his arse and half a face. Half a face, like me.

She danced with them all, young and old, comely and ugly. Not one of them with a burned face. She danced with them all, and would have danced with them thrice over if she could. She was flushed pink, damn her, a few strands of autumnal hair sticking to her damp forehead. Her silk gown clung to the contours of her slender body, like a second skin.

She approached Joff's place of honour on the dias, asking leave to be excused for the night. She had lost her lustre as his plaything over time, and he waved her away without so much as a backwards glance; and she threaded her way through the tables nimbly, her fiery hair bobbing in the crowd.

"Dog," came a voice out of the post-drunken haze of Sandor's world. "Dog." He started, and looked down his hooked noose at Joffrey, who peered up at him from under a cap of golden curls.

"Your Grace?"

"You're dismissed for the night, dog. Trant will take your place."

"As you say, your Grace." Little cunt. He dipped his head to the boy king, his mind already flying from where he stood, over to the doorway at the foot of the hall where he caught a glimpse of auburn hair. Use the door on the left, and catch her in time. He wrenched open the old wooden door, ducked through the doorway and half-ran up the narrow staircase where he knew would eventually lead to the corridor her feet trod this very moment. His breath sawed in his chest, and his head throbbed savagely with each step he made. Never again. He saw a chink of light at the very top of the steps, and rushed to meet it.

He stepped out of the doorway and she almost careened into him, her auburn hair flying. She was steadied only by the strong hand that reached out to still her. Her eyes grew wide as he stepped from the shadow of the doorway and into the light, her small mouth growing slack as she struggled to hide her fear. He could almost hear the frantic fluttering of her heart, hammering in her narrow chest.

"G - good evening, ser. Forgive my running into you." Always wearing her armour.

"Don't fly too fast, bird." His hand still held her wrist, small and utterly breakable in his grasp. "You might fly into someone."

She nodded eagerly, clearly clinging to some septa bitch's advice from years gone past. Courtesy is a woman's weapon. Or some other piece of horseshit in the same vein.

"As you say, ser." Her rosy lips parted into what was clearly intended to be a graceful smile, but the effect was marred by the trembling of her chin. He stared down at her from his great height, his dark eyes sweeping over her face. Her hair was less vibrant in the dark; only one side of her head caught the light thrown from the torch ahead, but where it did it shone gold. He had never been so close to her face before; a light smattering of freckles coated her flushed cheeks, freckles he's never noticed before. Pretty little thing.

She was plainly uncomfortable with the intensity of his stare. She shifted in his grasp, and pulled away. She curtsied, dipping low before him before turning to make her way down the corridor.

"Goodnight, ser." She can't wait to leave me, damn her.

He was relentless. "I saw you dance tonight, little bird. Very graceful, very elegant. Like a lady." She turned to face him and he bore down on her, his great height casting a shadow across her face. "You like dancing, I could see that. Dancing in your gilded cage." His mouth was hard and terrible in the dim light. It was twitching again; he could feel the muscle jumping in his cheek.

"I do like dancing, ser." Her voice trembled, but he could hear the defiance behind it. She was so eager to defend her little passions, the naive dreams she nursed over her needlework and her singing lessons. More fool her.

He stopped just short of her, the torchlight throwing his huge shadow against the wall beside them. "Aye, I know you do, girl. Didn't stop smiling. You danced and laughed and acted the lady." He grasped her wrist. "Why won't you smile and laugh with me? Do dogs scare little birds so much?"

She stared up at him wordlessly, her mouth open. He could see from the wild way her eyes looked at him she was desperately trying to find the words that would save her from him, save them both from his own dark descent into himself.

His voice was brutal steel in her ears. "Why, you may even dance with me, little bird." He laughed, short and sharp, bitter to hear and more so to taste. His hand never left her wrist, and he could feel her trembling. He placed his other hand on her waist, his hard, dark eyes never leaving hers, dark hollows in the torchlight.

"Isn't this how you dance, girl? I wouldn't know, nobody dances with dogs, and burned dogs even less so. Mayhaps you should twine your arms around my neck, like you did with the knights you danced with out there." She gaped at him, the whites of her eyes showing in the gloom. He terrified her, he knew. He have her a a tug. "Come on girl, am I really any different? Is my ruined face not comely enough for you?"

Had her tongue disappeared along with her smile? He was fast losing patience with her. His head pounded; he could feel blood blooming and waning against his skull.

"Dance, little bird. Come on girl, you like dancing, don't you? I know you do." She dared not shake her head, he could see that. Instead she stared at him with those wide blue eyes of hers. He could see torchlight reflected in their depths, flickering flames that capered in her clear orbs. She was utterly silent, and yet she communicated her sense of revulsion as clearly as she'd spoken. She still won't step out of her damned cage. His patience snapped and he suddenly found his face inches from her own, breathing in the scent of her perfume and wanting to throttle her for being so fucking difficult. "Dance," He snarled at her, his huge hands encircling her narrow shoulders and shaking her until she gasped.

"Please - ser!"

Her voice was tiny, like a sapling reed in the wind. Her bones feel like they could snap under my hands, he thought as she twisted in his grasp. He could feel how slender she was, how effortlessly his own hands wrapped around the span of her shoulders. Fragile little thing. Little wonder she never leaves her cage. She kept pulling against his grip, insistent thing she was, and his hands released her of their own accord. She stepped back from him swiftly, arms crossed around her waist protectively.

She thinks me a monster. Why did it hurt so much? Why did that knowledge pinch him so hard, twist his heart into even deeper thralls of bitterness?

"Don't cross your arms like that, girl, it'll do you no good. Think you can fight me off? Think again." His voice cut her like a whip, harsh and hard and violent. He matched her step for step, their own sick little dance, until he loomed over her once again, indomitable in his height and breadth. She'd backed into the wall, and he knew as she gaped at him in terror she realised she had unknowingly and unwittingly cut off her only escape route.

His breathing has harsh and ragged, her own shallow and frantic. She was flat against the wall, her palms spread against the cold stone as she looked up into his face, pleading with her eyes.

I'm not what she thinks I am. I will not hurt her.

And yet he was everything she knew in that moment; he was all she could see and smell and fear. And yet his body curved over hers in that same aggressive stance that so frightened her. And yet he proved himself to be everything she thought he was; brutal and violent and bitter. I'm every one of those but I won't take her against her will. Gods burn me again before I take her like that.

"You think I'm bad, girl? You think because I'm ugly, discourteous and honest I'm any different to any other man you know?" Her face was at the same level as his broad chest, but her face tilted up to his, her lips quivering. His gaze lingered on her mouth. Gods.

She stared at him, wordless. He was so aware of her body, her long thin limbs, her slender neck. Her perfume smelled of roses. And I smell like wine and sweat, damn me. The contrast was so tragic, it made him laugh, harsh and low and half a bark. She jumped as his laugh echoed down the corridor. Such a frightened little bird.

"I won't hurt you, girl." The words slipped out of their accord, croaked into the half-light. "I won't force you, make you mine. A ser would, though. The Knight of Flowers? You like him, I could see that tonight, the way you danced with him. He'd force you, if he wanted you. He'd take you up against this wall if that's what he wanted. They all would." His eyes bored into hers. "Don't be frightened of a mad dog, little bird. It's the pretty ones that smile and laugh you need to watch out for."

Still she trembled against the roughly-hewn stone, cringing away from him. She's little, even for a bird. She thinks I'm going to rape her, snap her neck. Fuck this. His hand struck the stone next to her head and she cried out in terror, her eyes wide and brimming with tears as she stared wildly into his ruined face.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he snarled into her face. "Can't you see that? Seven hells, girl, open your eyes. I'm not going to fuck you, you stupid little bird, I won't even lay a finger on you if you can't bear a dog's touch. But I will tell you how this world works, and if you think pleading and scraping and courtesy will save you, then I bloody well will let some ser rape you then open your throat from ear to ear when he's done." Their bodies stood apart, but he could feel how tense she was. Her muscles were taut, ready to spring. His throat felt hollow. "But I won't do that, little bird. I'm not going to even touch you. Gods, I'd like to. But I won't. I won't inflict myself on you. Dogs are clearly too lowly for little birds, I never realised." He straightened up but his hand never left the wall. He felt some inexplicable need to remain close to her in some way, no matter how much she despised his presence, even if he didn't realise how raw his need was.

She had relaxed after he had promised not to hurt her. She trusts in me, that's something. Her body was looser now, less tense and only the back of her head touched the wall; the rest of her body lolled towards his own, and he could feel the heat between them, and the heat stirring in his loins as her breasts rose and fell less than half a foot away from him.

His need for her was never expressed in words; he was too sombre a man for that, was too eager to talk of the darker things in life. His own fall into Hell had blighted all his respect for the sweeter side. His views on life darkened by scars and fire-licked nightmares, he eagerly formed and revised and nourished his opinions on evil and brutality and war, but he was at a loss to describe his need for Sansa Stark. He wanted this girl, he knew, but he never explored why, he had not the faintest idea how to even begin. What he knew of her was that her presence incensed him, inflamed him, drew him closer to her. What he knew was that he would gladly rip any man's limbs off his body if it had touched her, desired or not. What he knew was that he was tall enough for her to slip into his arms as if she were made to fit, and that the freckles on her face meant there were freckles elsewhere too.

She fiddled with the stitchwork on her bodice, eyes downcast. Stop that. A lock of hair curled over her breastbone. His eyes were hard on her and he knew she could feel them burning into her.

Her voice was a mere squeak.

"The knights I danced with. They smiled at me, complimented me. Isn't that gallantry?"

His gut twisted. Would that I could do the same.

"A man smiles at a woman when he's after her cunt. No more, no less."

She raised her head and met his eyes. "Then why don't you smile at me?"

The air around them stilled. She has more of the wolf in her than I knew. Her hands flew up to her mouth.

"Ser - forgive me - I spoke out of turn -"

He cut her off. "No, you spoke honestly. For once." His grey eyes glittered in the torchlight and shadows danced across his ruined face. He could see by her expression that she was expecting a storm, but none came. His silence was deafening.

She hated every second of his quiet. Terrified by him even as she was, she still yearned for his good opinion of her, his confidence. She shifted and nibbled her rosebud mouth. A little hand reached out, hesitated, and touched his forearm.

"Sandor?" His name used by her lips sounded strange.

He hadn't realised he had grasped her tiny waist in his hand. He knew he had gone back on his promise no sooner as he had made it. I don't care. Let the Gods do what they want. They've fucked with me enough. She was staring at him now, her fear melted away with his promise, his broken bloody promise.

"Why don't I smile at you?" His voice was a death rattle, hard and bitter. He was darkness personified, and it threatened to overwhelm him completely, like a broken stick in the rising tide. "Because if I did, you'd be running for the hills, girl."

And he smiled at her. He looked demonic, all teeth and twisted burn scars and anger; she had never known such bitter, black anger. His face looked like a skull's in the dim torchlight, his lips peeled back to bare his teeth and his grey eyes hollow and empty. It stank of sorrow, hatred and fire. Everything about Sandor Clegane screamed fire. Kissed by fire, dark fire.

She looked at him, something stirring in her wide eyes. Her hand still remained on the thick expanse of his forearm. Where this new found courage came from he didn't know, didn't care. All he knew was that she was still standing there, and hadn't burst into tears at the sight of his ruined, twisted face. All he knew was that she was still standing there, and his need for her was mounting fast and hard.

Her voice was soft. "I'm not running anywhere, ser."

"Fuck your ser," he growled before claiming her lips for his own, one hand hard against his her hip and the other braced against the wall, his mouth pressed hard against hers as he blindly drowned in her, this little creature, so small and fragile and strong, he could feel her strength as she gripped his forearm in shock.

She gasped under his ragged lips. He pulled away from her just enough to catch his breath, and she struggled for air, her breasts heaving as she looked at him with wide blue eyes. "I -I cannot - " Her protestations trailed away as he brushed the smooth expanse of her white throat with ruined lips, and she moaned breathy little nothings, her nails digging into his arms and shoulders as he lingered around her jawline. His hand pulled away from the wall and found itself along the span of her ribs, a hair's breadth under her breasts.

"Sandor..."

He silenced her with his lips. Be quiet, little bird. I know you want this. And she did. The arms locked around his neck said so. The way her mouth pushed back against his said so.

Her lips burned him. He was in Hell all over again, and flames devoured him, cooked his skin and melted tears away from his face, but this Hell was sweet and smelled of roses. Her touch burned him, inflamed him, scorched him and he was hers, he could die in this delicious Hell where a woman kisses him of her own accord, without need of a clinking purse to buy her lips. He could die here and rest, the temptation of returning as a ghost and wrenching Gregor's heart from his chest with his teeth never dreamed of again.

You're mine, little bird. Gods be good, you are mine.

They broke apart and his chest heaved, his breathing ragged and hollow and so damned alive. He could still feel the press of her lips against his and the feel of her hot, sweating flesh in his hands.

"Seven hells, girl." His voice was rough, and brimmed with some dark intensity that choked him. "You kiss me like a wanton girl would. Kissed me. Where's that frightened little bird gone?" Her arms were still around his muscular neck, and her lips were swollen, bruised from his need. Seven fucking hells.

She looked at him steadily, blush blooming in her cheeks and across the white span of her breast. Hot, heady blood coursed through his veins and made him quiver under her touch; he was simultaneously the most powerful and powerless man who lived, built up and torn down by her hand.

Her eyes were bright. "I'm not a little bird, Sandor." She smiled, and her pointed little teeth glinted in the torchlight. "I am a wolf."