A/N: Okay, this is my first story, so review, but please be gentle;) And since I don't like how airheaded Sansa can be sometimes, I had her toughened up a bit. You will probably notice that later on. Rating is for later on also. Enjoy!

Sansa sat on the edge of her bed, looking at the green shimmer of the flames that darted outside in the bay. She was too afraid to look out of the window, but somehow the soft green light that danced over the walls of her cage soothed her. She no longer cared who won this battle. It wasn't her battle. If Joffrey won, nothing would change. If not, Stannis might even be worse. There was only one thing she still cared about. Not her own life, she simply didn't care anymore, but the life of Sandor Clegane.

She didn't know why, but he had always helped her if he could. The thought of him made her get up. She retrieved the cloak she had hidden under her bed. His cloak. The one he had covered her with after the so called knights had ripped open her dress in court.

She had saved it, because somehow the earthy smell that clung to it made her feel like she was home again. Now, while the war outside the walls was raging, she wished more than ever that she had never left Winterfell. She wrapped the cloak around her shoulders and sat down on the cold stone floor, praying for the life of the Hound.

He didn't know how long he stood in front of her door, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to go inside. She would say no, he was certain of it. Why would she come with him? He was just a dog. He hated himself. He had seen so many times how she had looked away from him in fear, even though he had tried to help her. He couldn't even blame her. But still he couldn't stop thinking about her. She was beautiful, and kind, and she did not deserve the way Joffrey treated her.

He took a deep breath to steady himself, and pushed open the heavy wooden door.

At first he thought the room was empty, but then he saw her sitting on the floor. She was curled up on the floor with a cloak around her. His heart stopped for a split second when he recognised it as his own. He remembered the day he gave it to her, and his blood froze in his veins. He was disgusted by himself again. All he had done was thrown her his cloak, but the imp had saved her. That should have been him. He was the one that should have stood up for her. But as always, he had been a cowardly dog, and she had hurt.

He was still lost in thought when she looked up at him, and smiled softly.

She had died. And Sandor too, probably, why else would he be here? The thought made her sad. She wanted him to live. But it didn't matter. They were dead, and he had come for her. She smiled at him and stood up, his cloak still on her shoulders. He was still wearing his armour, smeared with the blood of others. She grabbed his big hand in hers and led him to the bed. She made him sit down, and he obeyed, looking at her in wonder. He was so tall that she still had to look up to him.

Dead was soft and gentle, she thought. She couldn't even remember how she had died, there was no pain. And death wasn't really so different from life. He smelt of sweat, smoke and wine. Long ago, that would've bothered her. But now it only intrigued her. Why, she couldn't say, but she carefully pushed his legs open with her knees, so she could stand in between them, as close to him as possible. She placed her hands on his steel chest and looked up at him. His eyes were a smouldering grey. Her face was just inches away from his, and in the green light, his scars were barely visible.

'Did you die in battle?,' she whispered, 'or don't you remember? Because I don't.'

His eyes went hard.

'You're not dead Little Bird,' he growled. She could smell the wine on his breath, and saw his brow knit together in anger. She had seen that expression so many times before.

'You're not dead, and you won't die for a long time if I can help it.'

He pushed her away roughly, and she stumbled backwards into the wall. He stood and began to trash her cage. He threw open her closet and yanked random clothes out of it, throwing them on the bed.

Wait, what? I'm not dead? Then what is he doing here?

She wanted to ask him, but her throat was suddenly tight with fear, and she only whimpered like she had been struck. He turned around at the sound, and looked at her with something in his eyes that was neither anger nor compassion. She felt like he was looking into her core, and she drew the cloak tighter, like it could protect her.

'I am taking you to Winterfell,' he said in a low voice, 'whether you like it or not. You're not safe here. Do you have a bag?'

Winterfell!

She would go home, at last. Joy lifted her hart, but she made sure not to show too much of it. She only smiled sweetly at him, and took her bag out of one of her drawers. She moved quickly, grabbing two dresses and a nightgown of her bed, and stuffed them into the bad, together with a brush and some soap. Sandor stood awkwardly, impatiently as she pulled on her walking boots that she had worn on the Kings Road.

When she was done, she pulled the cloak from her shoulders and gave it back to him. He took it, and hoisted her over his shoulder.