A/N This story takes place in an alternate universe where Sandor steals Sansa and Arya after Lord Eddard's execution and returns them to Winterfell. There he begins fighting for Robb Stark and serving as Sansa's sworn shield.
"You have to go with me, otherwise it would be unseemly for me to go to the training yard," Jeyne implored Sansa with pleading eyes. "Robb will be gone soon. I have very little opportunity to see him, you know. If you won't agree you leave me no choice."
Sighing, Sansa put down her embroidery and regarded her friend. It was only natural that Jeyne wanted to spend as much time near Robb as possible before the next campaign. He pledged his troth in secret, and even now that the family knew of his plans, it was still difficult for the couple. Still, even though she was raised around boys, she had never cared to watch their sport as Arya did, but Sansa couldn't very well deny her friend and future goodsister the opportunity to be near Robb yet again.
"Alright, I will go," she set aside her needlework with a smile. "The weather is fine out and I've been cooped up indoors all day. It will do us both good to take in the fresh air."
Giggling, Jeyne looped her arm through Sansa's and squeezed her close. "Thank you, dearest! I'll let you wear my emerald gown at our wedding for this!"
Bright sunshine greeted the pair as they entered the training stands. The ring of clashing steel drew their eyes to the arena. "The men aren't supposed to train with real swords," Sansa shielded her eyes from the sun. "Father never let them do that. Only his most experienced men practiced in such a way. Robb should be more mindful."
"It isn't one of your brothers or his men training, Sansa, look! It's the Hound sparring with Jaime Lannister!" Jeyne smiled at her. "Robb said they never use wooden swords in practice. He mentioned it to them but the Hound laughed right in his face and told him to-"
Gasping, her eyes fell on Sandor Clegane swiveling to block Jaime's counter stroke, wearing nothing but his breeches and boots. In all the time he served as her sworn shield, Sansa could not remember a time when she had seen him in such a state of undress, and gods be good, he was magnificent.
Muscled like a bull, the hardened contours of Sandor's defined pectorals tensed with effort during the parry. Heavily corded muscle rippled across the Hound's broad shoulders as he brought the greatsword crashing down over his opponent's head. Sandor fairly towered over Jaime, the powerful blow sending Jaime to his knees and the crowd to its feet.
It was clear to Sansa the golden lion didn't even come close to comparing to her fierce sworn shield. Pride swelled within the young woman as she regarded Sandor. How easily he defeats even a member of the Kingsguard! It was all the young woman could do to resist the urge to join Arya in wildly cheering him on.
As there was no need for light armor in the castle, Sansa often saw him wearing his tunic, and Sandor Clegane was just as large and intimidating as he was in armor, the fierce warrior stalking the halls of Winterfell with a dangerous air.
With his body openly on display before her now, Sansa wondered that she never noticed Sandor's imposing physique before. Instinctively she knew Sandor must be well-muscled underneath but to see him in the light of day was entirely another matter. He reminds me of the marble statue of the Warrior in the Great Sept of Baelor.
"Is that the best you can do, South Paw?" The Hound's biting laughter filled the air. "Quit buggering around and get in the fight!"
"Finish him, Hound!" Arya shouted.
"Arya, please," she scolded, moving beside her sister.
A large crowd began gathering in the stands. Word must have spread that Sandor and Jaime were practicing. Sansa daringly edged closer and settled in the front row of the stand for a better view, pulling Jeyne down in the seat beside her.
Equally powerful and graceful, Sandor easily swiveled out of Jaime's reach and circled around him. Tossing his head, long damp hair clung to his face and shoulders. His smooth, tanned skin glistened with a fine sheen of sweat that ever so slowly trickled downward, following the line of fine black hair covering his rippled abdomen. A heated flush rose to her cheeks, but still she did not turn away.
Swallowing hard, Sansa allowed her eyes to follow the line of hair from Sandor's chiseled stomach to the thickly roped groin muscles at his hips bared with each turn. His narrow waist was accentuated by well-fitting, low slung black leather breeches that clung provocatively to his hips.
"Sansa, what has gotten into you?" Jeyne patted her arm, "Are you feeling quite well?"
"Hmm?" Sansa mumbled distractedly, captivated by the sight of Sandor's huge hands gripping the hilt of his sword. The kitchen maids often whispered that the size of a man's hands mirrored the size of more intimate parts of his body. If that were true, then Sandor must be very well endowed indeed.
"Yield! Yield!" Jaime shouted, laying the sword at his feet. The Hound's snarling laughter echoed through the arena until his eyes fell upon a gaping, very red and very embarrassed little bird.
Perhaps he didn't notice me. It is merely the crowd that caught his attention. Yes, it is the crowd. Flustered, Sansa quickly went about smoothing her skirts, carefully avoiding Sandor's puzzled gaze. My lady mother would faint if she knew what I was thinking about Sandor. How could I entertain such unladylike thoughts about my sworn shield?
Hesitantly she glanced up at him and saw he was still staring at her. Oh, the Seven bless me; he knows I was staring at him. He looks as though he has seen me without my shift.
The deep rumble of Sandor's laughter echoed through the ring. Wincing, Sansa slowly raised her head. He was still staring at her. With his mouth twisted into a devilish grin, the Hound allowed his eyes to hungrily trail over her body and then slowly back up to her face. Smirking, he arched his back and flexed his pectorals in a languid stretch, all the while watching her closely.
Shame burned through her body, bringing hot tears to her eyes. Suddenly Sansa was on her feet, struggling to make her way through the crowd. Vaguely she heard Jeyne calling behind her. "Sansa? Sansa are you alright? Oh, Lord Clegane, hurry-I think Lady Sansa has fallen ill."
Sandor's look of smug satisfaction fell and hurriedly he made his way through the stands toward her. She could hear him shouting for the people to stand aside. He was fast approaching her, and before she could worm her way out of his reach, he scooped her up in his massive arms.
"Sansa? What in seven bloody hells has gotten into you, girl?"
Sansa was too stunned and too embarrassed to speak, and so she burst into tears. Settling her back on the bench, Sandor gently raised his hand to her cheek. "You're flushed, little bird. Let's get you back to your rooms," he sighed, lifting her carefully in his arms. "Can't risk you getting the ague again."
"It is not the ague. Leave me be."
"No, damn it." Sandor leaned in to her ear. "A woman's affliction, mayhaps."
Her cheeks flushed scarlet. "No!"
"No matter." He chuckled darkly.
She knew she should tell him to put her down and that he should not carry her around like some trollop, but the feel of his muscular torso against her cheek chased away all reasonable thought. Inhaling deeply, she buried her face in his chest and drank in the scent of his skin. He smelled of wood smoke and dirt and sweat, and so overtly masculine Sansa suddenly felt light headed, warm and flushed.
With Sandor's long stride it didn't take long for them to reach her rooms. He carefully laid her down on the bed, his long hair brushing against her face as he pulled away. "I'm calling for Maester Tarly to come tend whatever it is that ails you," he growled low. "You stay put."
After he shut the door, Sansa buried her face in the pillow and cried in earnest. This by far was the most humiliating thing to ever happen to her. She had no idea how she would recover or even find the nerve to face Sandor later that day. The wave of new feelings his appearance and touch elicited from her was both exciting and confusing. What did it all mean? Resting back on her pillows, Sansa made up her mind that she had to find a way to see Sandor again, and this time, she wanted to see all of him.