Hey everyone! First ASOIAF fic. This is based on both the books and the wow. Please give me reviews and feedback would really appreciate it. Also I'm unsure if I should remain in the third person of The Hound's point of view or alternate?

Sandor Clegane's towering form went unnoticed against the sea of screaming flock of people. Everything was alive with green flame. Lit up like the candles that flooded the castle at nights. The wildfire had scorched the Baratheon ships on the chest of the Blackwater . There had been fire everywhere. Sandor couldn't bare to stay any longer. Fuck the city. Fuck the kings guard. Fuck the king. Then there had been the little bird...

His drunken stupor had made a fool of himself. What was he thinking? He had waited in her room, wondering if she'd come with him like a green boy. Like a gallant knight aiding a damsel in distress. He was no gallant knight, though. The girl had been frightened. Naturally, he thought, his scar twitching. In his drunken form he'd threatened to kill her and ask for a song all the same. The girl's soft auburn hair a stark contrast against the green flame that had penetrated his vision only moments before. Tully-blue eyes had widened at him, threatening to pop from her skull. Any sane man would have taken her bloody and leave her there, riding off into the night amongst the chaos of the battle. He hadn't done that, though. The Hound could not be sure why. The caged little bird was the only slice of goodness in the whole bloody fucking kingdom. Now she was gone, not choosing to go with him on his travels.

Sandor was in the stables, preparing Stranger hastily. The stallion was as agitated as he at the chaos surrounding them, his dark large eyes flickering with green flames. The shrill sounds coming from his nostrils and his stomping hooves drowned out against the sounds of battle spurred Sandor to work quicker. All that could be heard was screaming and the sound of men being burnt alive. The Hounds forehead brimmed with a sheen of sweat as his large fingers prepare the saddle. It was not often The Hound was afraid, most men dare say they believed it to be impossible. He was afraid then, though. Afraid of the fire and afraid for the little bird. What would become of her? Why couldn't she have just said yes? Calm yourself, dog. You are a damaged man, a frightening sight to a pretty little thing like her. No wonder she would be afraid. Growling, mainly to himself, he continued to fix the saddle, his mind never straying too far away from the little bird.

The hitch of a breath behind him sent his adrenaline soaring. His hand instinctively grasping the heavy weight of his sword, turning around quickly and sinking it in the man's shoulder. A wave of relief overcame him for a brief moment, a smirk appearing on his scarred face, until the man wailed and shrieked with the girlish tone of Sansa Stark's voice.

His vision cleared of its red anger, replaced with disbelief. The smirk on his face faltered, the green lights reflecting on her pale skin, partially hidden beneath her cloak. His cloak. He hasn't a chance to chastise her for wearing such an obvious thing during a battle. Her shrieks ceased suddenly. The girl's small and slender body fell forward onto his front, going limp. The weight of a feather. The warmth of her body was foreign to him, how many men would kill for this chance? Many, him included. The familiar scent and warmth of blood trickled underneath her dress's sleeve,slowly staining the white fabric of his cloak, red pools forming on the light hay beneath. The girl had passed out from the pain she surely had never endured before. Worry laced Sandor's very blood, though he attempted to push it away. He had long since dropped his sword in shock, quarter of it soaked in her blood. The little bird's blood.

"Bugger it."

There was no time. No time to think or act. He set her light and injured body down in the hay, ignoring the feeling of emptiness that came with it. The Hound quickly fastened the reigns and saddle, his body alive with adrenaline and worry. Glancing at the girl, her arms splayed out and pouted lips open, he knew there was no other choice. In a quick movement, the girl was hoisted around his shoulder, one hand cupping the back of her legs to keep her steady. He picked up his sword, sheathing it away. In one fluid moment, he mounted Stranger.

It was an odd feeling to have anyone else on his horse with him. He leant Sansa down so that she was facing him, or his chest rather. Despite amidst all the noise and carnage, Sandor Clegane could not dare to look away from the sight. Her milk skin looked mesmerising. The cloak's hood had flipped back from her head on its own accord. The shadow of her long lashes against the green light made his stomach twist in odd ways. Her long legs, he could feel, inches away from him. How he longed for another song. The effects of his wine were still prominent and he was sure he would look frightful had the girl awakened then and there. Don't be silly dog, you would look frightful drunk or not.

He did not know how long he stared at her unconscious form for. It was only when he noticed the blood spots progressively becoming larger on his cloak that he became alert again. It reminded him of when he would gut a man in the snow. Seven fucking hells. How much damage had he done to her? Guilt swarmed his very being, concern complimenting it. He was thankful it hadn't been her chest or she surely would be dead.

Glancing at the cloak he knew it would be too obvious, too recognisable . Instead, he reached back into one of his large satchels , bringing one of the fur blankets he'd taken. The Hound quickly placed it around her shoulders, flicking the hood over her head. It deemed decent enough to hide her trademark features in the green light. As for Sandor, he took his own grey cloak he had brought with him and flicked the hood down over his face.

He sheathed his sword in one hand and held the reigns with the other, entrapping the little bird. Caged again, he mused. Kicking Stranger harshly, the horse whined and galloped quick as ever.

Leaving Kingslanding was easy enough. Men had left their posts just as he had moments before the wildfire occurred, believing Stannis to be the victor of this battle. So much for loyalty. The Hound passed a brute-looking soldier, short and built as he. In one swift moment he relinquished his sword from its agonising stand-still, plunging it into the mans stomach and tearing it as Sandor rode by. He need not see the body drop, he knew he was dead. There were more civilians than there were soldiers, most were amongst the battle. Women with babes young enough to be sucking on their teats ran with them in their arms. Men same as the ones that had targeted Sansa during the bread riots were certainly looking for women to fuck, willing or not. During battle, knight or not, blood ran high.

They had eventually made it at least, past the main of kings landing and the red keep , outside the gates. Sandor knew that following the kings road would be certain suicide. The woods that surrounded it however, if they got deep enough, would do.

The light of the morning was beginning to shine through the transparent black sky. A sense of relief withered its way into his entire body as they ventured further and further away from the green fire. The effects of his wine were warding off, and the reality of the situation was beginning to dawn on him. Stupid bloody bird. What had she been thinking? Not to mention that white cloak. His scar twitched and his eyes hardened at the idea of her stupidity. As the morning light began to settle on blue hues against her skin, Sandor feared the worst. The cloak was now covered in blood on the side of her injury. He needed to look at it. If he had used any muster of strength that he usually did when he attempted to kill someone, the bird's soft skin would have been pierced so easily, not to mention the muscle and fat beneath. Anger blazed within him, as much at himself as her. The guilt ate away at him.

He carried on riding for another hour or so until he felt it was safe enough to settle for a while. The topic of Sansa's injury burning in his mind. The girl's light body bounced and jolted with each hoof that moved. The Hound located a tree in the woods, large enough to prop her against. Bringing Stranger to a stop, he grabbed the bird by her waist, marvelling at how small it was. Both his hands encircled it, realising she had gotten rid of her corset, smart girl, as his fingers pressed into soft skin beneath the bodice of her dress. His mouth was suddenly dry. Calm, dog. He lifted her down with great ease, despite his muscles aching from battle. His shoes crunched beneath the ground, steadying her against him. Slowly, he pulled her towards the tree, settling her down and pulling the blanket back from her face. His breath hitched and all movement stopped, her face was too pale. The lovely flush she seemed to constantly have was gone, replaced by a greyish undertone. Beneath her eyes were sunken in. Sandor tore himself away and tied Stranger to a nearby tree, cursing himself for not bothering to get any medicines. Slowly he made his way back to Sansa, his shoes crunching atop the ground. His heart almost stopped in his chest as he made his way over to her, she looked so like a corpse.

The Hound settled himself next to her legs, on the side of her injury. Carefully, he peeled back the grey blanket, placing it on her legs instead. He unclasped the blasted cloak, trying his best to ignore the amount of red soaking it and tossed it aside. Her dress's blue sleeve was red from shoulder to wrist, the unmistakable smell of copper stale blood hit his nostrils. What have I done to you, little bird?

Sandor narrowed his eyes as he tore the sleeve and shoulder off of her dress with his knife. Uncaring for any modesties the girl may have. He clenched his teeth to avoid peering at her collarbones and elegant neck. This wasn't hard to do though, the injury on her shoulder was awful. He winced as he peered at it, it was a large gash, still slightly bleeding and not so unlike the ones he saw on survivors of battles - and victims. The skin had been pierced so badly that he was sure he could see the white piece of bone peeping out from beneath torn muscle. It looked unnatural against his little bird's cream skin. The fact that he had done it to her only set him more on edge and showered him with guilt. Her chest rose and fell in uneven ways, her warm sweet breath tickling his face.

Sandor set to work. He grabbed the skin of water from his belt, dampening the clean part of his white cloak with it and pressing it onto her exposed skin. He dabbed at it, wiping away the crusted blood and the new alike. Slowly the crimson faded away until her soft skin was visible again. He was careful not to touch the wound. He couldn't risk an infection. As he continued to wipe away, he was reminded of the time he dabbed off the blood of her lip. He had watched the courageous bird contemplate killing Joffrey by throwing him down from the pillar. He was sure she would take her own life too. A twinge of something foreign hit his stomach then. He couldn't lose her, not now. As he finished cleaning the wound he settled the cloak down, allowing himself as small glance at her face again while she was unconscious.

Her blue eyes watched him warily, laced with fear and her mouth agape.