Sansa slumped before her mirror. Evening was drawing in, and the candlelight, rather than shadowing her latest cuts and bruises, of which there were an ever-growing number, seemed to accentuate each wound, taunting her.

This is not fair. This is NOT living like a lady in a song. Ladies were elegant, and knights were true and honourable. They do not beat their ladies, and they certainly don't employ other people to beat them either. Sansa pulled a face, one Arya would have laughed at, and wondered why she had ever believed one word parroted by the endless parade of singers who frequented Winterfell. I don't want to be a lady, Arya cried at each attempt to style her hair, or persuade her into an elegant dress.

No, and at this moment I don't either, Sansa thought grimly, observing a particularly fetching shade of purple; too bad I'm wearing it on my face, for the world to admire, a token of my beloved king's esteem.

Her thoughts turned to Joffrey, and once more she was frustrated with herself. I thought him handsome, thought those big rubbery lips kissable. She felt such an idiot - I stood in defiance of my own father, saying I wanted to have Joffrey's babies! No wonder Ayra laughed at me.

Stupid little bird, the Hound had called her, and she was.

She flounced across her chamber, yanked the door open, and was astonished as the door flew in upon her, almost knocking her down.

Seven hells, she thought, an odd occurrence, as she rarely cursed; very unbecoming in a lady. No where near as odd as the hulking mass of man who slumped in through the doorway; a dead weight, totally oblivious to everything, sprawled over her chamber floor in a messy heap.

Sansa's eyes widened as she realised it was the Hound. Why was he outside my chamber?

A tinkling sound, almost bell-like, resounded as a glass bottle rolled from within the folds of his cloak. A sodden wineskin hung limply from his paw-like hand. It mustn't have been enough. A grating groan escaped his lips, but otherwise he remained unconscious. His head fell to one side, but he only curled up on the cold stone floor, then gave an uncharacteristically happy sigh.

He's drunk, Sansa pondered, dead drunk. Inanimate, the Hound lost his menace. In fact, he looks serenely peaceful. Sansa stepped closer, studying his ravaged face with rapt attention. He looked almost human, or…. If getting drunk can make this man, the fiercest I've ever known, into a sleeping puppy, maybe there's something to recommend it. Spurred on by her recent humiliations, and the transformation in the man before her, Sansa settled her mind to something…

I want to be drunk too. I want to be drunk with the Hound.

Impatient and ruffled from forcing the door closed whilst manoeuvring the Hound's boot-clad legs over the threshold, Sansa, emboldened by his stupor and the indignity of her own recent torments watched with raised eyebrows as Sandor Clegane mumbled inaudibly and remained comatose.

I don't have time to wait any longer, if I wait, I'll lose my nerve, lose my chance…

The thought made her panic; her eyes alighted upon a flagon of iced water on her bureau. Without further thought she yanked the heavy pitcher towards Clegane, flinging it so the contents smacked him full in the face, ice and all.

"What in seven sodding hells…" he roared, so alert and alive suddenly.

He sprang to his feet, massive, shaking his soaking hair as it straggled in snaking tendrils into dark eyes now perfectly clear. He looked bewildered as tiny glistening chips of ice fell around his feet. Taking in his surroundings - the bed chamber, that unmistakable fiery auburn hair, the usually terrified little bird staring at him with such demand - for once he was dumbfounded, so she filled the silence.

Sansa kicked the discarded bottle, it clashed harshly on the stone floor and he winced, looking into her face.

"I want to try some" she stated matter-of-factly.

So unlike the elegant little lady, I must still be asleep, he thought.

Sansa stooped, picked up the bottle and waved it in his general direction. It was more than his drink-fuddled mind could comprehend. She wanted to drink; whether real or dream, he felt it his duty to oblige. He cut her a curt nod, and left the chamber, shaking his soaking hair like a dog emerging from a lake after a good swim.

Darkness had fallen when there came a gentle rap at her door. It creaked open to reveal the broad figure of Sandor Clegane. Sansa had lit more candles, and closed the window against a chill night air. I never thought he would come back. Composure regained, he cut a fearsome figure, but he brandished a large bottle of deep red liquid towards her. In his other hand, two glasses, a gesture she found strangely touching. It's not fitting for a lady to slurp from the bottle, she thought, and smiled at the absurdity of it all.

"It's…different" she hesitated, then reached out to take the bottle, "than the one you had before."

"Better" he growled, not quite knowing where to put himself. Stolen, from the king's own supply, but you may someday be queen, so it hardly counts.

She gestured to a pile of cushions by her small fireplace, and with awkwardness inherent to such a big man, he dropped down onto the floor, glancing nervously at the tiny fire burning in the grate.

Fumbling, he uncorked the wine, and Sansa wrinkled her nose at the noxious fumes emanating from the bottle. I'm really going to drink THAT? The blood red liquid produced a satisfying glug as it spilled into the glass; like music to the soul, she found it satisfying. She watched intently as the drink flowed.

Disarmed by her change in demeanour, her confidence, Clegane watched with amusement.

"A toast to your continued good health, little bird." The irony was not lost on Sansa as his dark eyes flittered over her latest bruises and he handed over her glass.

She gulped, spluttered, something between coughing and gasping. The Hound laughed, and handed her a handkerchief. The second time he's done that, she recalled, then… He's laughing; I've never heard him laugh before. To hide her astonishment she tried again, this time tipping the glass gently. She drank deeply, prepared for the strong taste, then looked at him.

"You'll get a taste for it" he said, almost dropping the small glass as he fumbled with it, resisting the urge to drink straight from the bottle.

Yes. She was determined, and slugged down the dark, foul tasting liquid.

"Fill it again," she almost commanded him.

Who am I to refuse? And so he didn't.

" You are Sandor" she weaved unsteadily towards him, pointing shakily.

"Not Hound, not dog, and yes, I've finally learned, you're no ser either" she slurred slightly, momentarily smiling to herself at he knew not what.

"And so I shall call you Sandor, but only when we're drunk," she giggled, and hiccupped.

Sandor, so often morose in his cups, found her cheerfulness infectious. Her laughter pealed like a bell, her eyes were alight. Grave and tormented she was beautiful, but now she was radiant.

A previously unknown lightness came over him. His mouth twitched, and he knew it for a smile.

Sansa hummed tunefully to herself, feeling so young, so weightless, so free. She jumped up, grabbing his massive hand, ignoring all protests as she pulled him towards her window. She threw it open, shouting into the night air "I could fly!." She waved wild arms, lurched towards the open air.

"No" he reacted quickly, pulled her back inside. The sheer drop from the tower was a sobering thought.

She swayed, mumbled "must I always keep away from the edge?"

"Not always, but tonight, yes." There was a firm note in his gravely voice she dared question no further.

Her gaze settled on his face, or close enough. Even in this state of drunkenness she cannot bear to look into my eyes, he thought sadly.

She leaned against him, suddenly feeling uncoordinated, as if the drink-fog in her head slowed down her control over her legs. It was a numbing, pleasant feeling, and she stumbled closer to him. He's warm, and safe.

A fresh burst of energy came over Sansa. "I know a song" she trilled. "You wanted a song - A bear, a bear, all black and brown, and covered with hair!"

Sandor groaned aloud, rubbing his eyes, wondering whether he had been wise introducing the young Lady Stark to the dubious delights of alcohol. She laughed again, and marked out light circles with her dainty slippered toes. "I called for a knight, but you're a bear, all black and brown, and covered in hair!"

The ballerina-esque pose was broken as she occasionally wavered. She danced a small circle, her voice gained in sweetness as she picked up yet more lyrics. "My bear, she sang, my bear so fair, and off they went, from here to there, the bear… and the maiden fair!"

She stopped dead then, all capering done.

"A dog and a bear are not so different, and I can be the maiden fair." I feel like the maiden fair now, she realised.

The closeness of her was too much, and as she absently reached out for the shining clasp on his cloak as it caught the candlelight, he stepped back.

She became still, then looked out the window again. "So much beauty, but I hate it here." She looked sad until her wine-bright eye alighted on her half-full glass. "Yet I feel this may dull my hate somewhat". She raised the glass in a mock toast and gulped down the deep red wine, gagging at the aftertaste. Clumsy, she sloshed it onto her dress. The dark red liquid soaked into the delicate pale fabric. "Like blood" she slurred. "Is there any more?"

Sandor was amazed she could even contemplate one more drop.

"Another time, little bird, you've had enough" he rasped.

The candles had guttered down to embers. No notion of time like this, it's good. With the diminishing light Sansa's exuberance started to diminish, but she was strong, and brave; why didn't I know it before?

"You were wrong, to call me bird little… no… little bird, I thought" her voice was husky now "but maybe not, because birds fly. The cage door, gilded and grand as it may be, only needs to be left open once, and the bird flies."

She visibly drooped before him, finding a snug place at his side, her head on his chest. She dribbled, yet it became her. Every inch the perfect lady, Sandor smiled again. I think even I overdid it tonight, all these damn feelings…

Gently, he lifted her. I must go; if we're caught like this it will be both our heads.

He placed her down onto her bed. Delicacy was not his strongest point; he couldn't recall even one occasion in his adult life when it was truly required. She stirred.

"Sandor" almost a whisper "We'll do this again. Promise me…"

He was silent.

"Sandor?" Her eyes were heavy lidded.

"Yes…" he rasped.

Silence.

He pulled a blanket high around her.

"Good night, my lady Stark" he whispered, all harshness absent from his deep voice. He touched her porcelain cheek, still flushed prettily from the wine, and she sighed.

You'll pay a heavy price tomorrow, and probably remember nothing of this, my little bird. "One day I'll open that gilded cage door for you, Sansa, and happily watch you fly."

He quietly gathered the empty bottle, and the glasses, leaving no evidence of this night. As an afterthought he placed the bottle cork on the dressing table beside her mirror, fancying that maybe she would like a small memento of a night which would be nothing more than a hazy dream.

He blew out the remaining candle and stole out into the darkness, leaving Sansa in a deep, undisturbed sleep.

In her dreams she believed she had been dancing with the Hound, only he hadn't been the Hound, he had been Sandor Clegane, and he had smiled. For the first time in months, she was happy.