For the first time, he wanted to live.

Sandor had stopped caring about what happened to him long ago. Whether he lived or died made no difference – he imagined his life was already hell. But as King's Landing prepared for battle, he found that suddenly his life mattered to him. And she was why.

There were so many reasons she made life worth living, even if he could hardly admit them to himself. She could never feel anything for him, of that he was sure. And only in the depths of night, alone in his quarters, could he be honest with himself about his feelings for her. But she did need him, and Sandor believed that had to count for something.

Because he was the only thing that stood between Sansa and her so-called love. He did not want to live for himself, he wanted to live for her. The only thing that scared him was the idea of what Joffrey would do to her if he was not there to come to her aid. Sandor wondered sometimes if Sansa might be the death of him. How much insubordination would Joffrey endure in the years to come before he ordered Sandor tortured – killed – for disobeying him in Sansa's favor?

Now that, he reasoned, was something worth dying for. Beautiful, fragile Sansa would have his protection for as long as she walked this earth. She would have his love, too, but he refused to think of that.

He wondered how she would handle all of this. The women would wait out the battle in the safest place in all of King's Landing, but what if they lost? Sandor shook the thought away. They would not lose. He had never cared before whether his 'side' won or lost, only that he killed as many men as he could. But now it mattered. He silently cursed Sansa. Everything mattered now because of her. It was so much easier when he didn't give a damn.

There was a brief knock on his door. Sandor finished fastening his armor and opened it, shocked to find Shae standing in front of him.

She was not like other ladies' maids, he was sure of that. But her secrets were none of his business, so he ignored the signs that she was not what she seemed.

"I have something for you," she said, forgoing a proper greeting. "From my lady."

Sandor stared at her in silence, waiting. Shae held out her hand, offering a small white handkerchief.

"What is this?" he asked, taking it from her roughly.

"A token from my lady," Shae replied steadily, "She said that you are her knight, and she wishes you luck and safety. She said she will pray for you."

"What difference does that make to me?" Sandor asked angrily, "The prayers of a lady will not be heard in battle. Surely you are not foolish enough to believe otherwise, and neither is your lady."

"I'm only telling you what she told me."

"She should have given this to the king. And she should not be telling you anything about me," Sandor advanced toward Shae, and she stepped back cautiously.

"I am sure she did not mean to anger you," Shae said quietly, "Only to let you know that she cares."

"That is impossible."

"With all respect, dog," Shae emphasized the word, "It is not wise to tell women what is and is not possible when it comes to their hearts. You are lucky that anyone in the world should care for you. Especially someone like Sansa. Now –" she pushed his hand, which still held Sansa's token, roughly into his chest, "Take what my lady has given you. It is more than just a piece of cloth."

Shae turned and hurried back down the hall, prepared to join the other ladies in their place of safekeeping.

So, his little bird offered him a token. Sandor almost had to laugh – how much she must still believe that the real world was like her stories. A noble lady offering a brave knight her token before battle. She was always forgetting that he was not a brave knight. No matter how many time he reminded her.

Perhaps Joffrey had received something from her as well. Sandor snorted at the thought. Even though it would be proper, he secretly hoped the so-called "king" had received nothing. Surely it would make no difference to Joffrey anyway – Sandor was increasingly certain that he enjoyed watching Sansa suffer more than he enjoyed watching her happiness. He was a sick boy.

Sansa's handkerchief smelled like her. Sweet, like the blossoms of the trees that bloomed in the gardens. He knew he should cast her token aside. He did not need any reason to feel as though she cared for him, because even if she did, she would soon come to her senses.

And yet … Sansa was the reason he fought now. It was no longer for the thrill of killing another man, or as a way to release the rage and anger inside of him. It was for her, his lady. Because losing this battle would be the same as sentencing her to rape and death. For both would surely happen if the city fell.

And so he tucked the handkerchief tightly inside his armor, the pure beauty of it looking all the more fragile against the worn steel.

So much like his lady, he thought. Permitting himself, just for a moment, to think of her as such.

Something so beautiful could easily be crushed by the world, if he did not fight to protect it.