A/N: This story takes place in Kings Landing, and while it is mainly based on the HBO show of Game of Thrones, it draws from scenes in the books of which there are many more between The Hound and Sansa than in the show, which is always good for a SanSan story ;)

This story is told entirely from Sandor's POV, and starts on the day of Myrcella being shipped off to Dorne. Initially will follow the book's storyline, but as things develop . . .

Enjoy~

Chapter 1:

Sandor woke with an ache in his head, and a worse one in his cock. Rolling over across the rumpled linens he had cast aside in the night, the man they called Hound swung his legs over the side of the bed and let his head rest in his hands. "Fuck," he snarled, elbows driving into his thighs as he cradled his pounding forehead. His dick certainly wanted that fuck, but he pushed the early morning carnal need out of mind as he tried to clear his head of last night's wine.

Rubbing his eyes with roughly calloused palms, Sandor Clegane forced himself from the sagging, straw-filled mattress. It was a shit place to sleep and an even worse one to fuck, but he did little of the first and most of the second in brothels, so it served him well enough. He made no guise to un-rumple the rough linens, bending only to pick up the thick fur pelt from the floor where it had fallen and toss is unceremoniously onto the bed where it joined the rest of the heap.

His feet - one bare, one clothed in the thick, twisted wool of last night's sock - trod across rushes and wineskins as he crossed the span of his room. Sandor tried to ignore the ache in his groin as he forced himself to piss, knowing that would probably be the best release he'd get all day. Fucking his hand got old. Tediously old. And a hand full of burns and scars such as his was hardly as enjoyable as the soft one of a woman's. Whores and brothel girls did their job when he was deep enough in his cups to seek them, but fucking the dry cunts of girls who seemed desperate to look everywhere else, anywhere else, got old after a while too.

Fumbling his way into a pair of black leather trousers and a loose linen shirt, Sandor began the process of becoming the Hound. It started with a pitcher of wine, which his head was grateful for as it ebbed the pain of the last three pitchers. He would regret it later. His mouth twisted into a smirk as he yanked on pieces of boiled leather. 'Aye, and what is my life but a string of fucking regrets?'

The hound's-head helm sat on a stand beside his bed, alongside one of his swords and a basin that might have held clean water at some time. Being His Grace Joffrey's dog got him the same treatment most knights of the Kingsguard enjoyed- if he'd take it. The last time a serving girl had been in his room to tidy up, she'd moved everything into exactly the most foolish place that could be thought of and managed to cut her hand horrifically on the dagger hidden beneath his pillow. 'Fucking wench,' he mused, taking the helm under his arm as he left the room behind. 'Bled all over my best pelt.'

He didn't need a girl to clean up after him. His chambers were no knight's chambers anyway: only the filthy pen of a dog.

His desire quieted for now, the Hound began the morning hunt for food. However, as he stalked heavily through hallways awash with light, he realized morning had long since come and gone.

"Clegane!" The clack of armor and the haughty, angry tromp of boots that followed the outcry of his name made the Hound snarl in a fashion truer to a direwolf than a dog.

"Fuck off, Meryn." Sandor said nothing else, keeping the Hound at bay as he made for outside of the hold that served as his bed and bunker. The King would have him stay in the chambers of the Goldcloaks - A fucking laugh. Sandor would gladly stay with the lower sort. He lived in a room in what had once been an inn, steps from the holdfast's gates. His neighbors were bakers and butchers, armorers and the like with no family of their own, who stayed in the rented rooms as little as he did. While they disliked waking to his thunderous steps at night, while he was drunk and full of curses, they benefited from the protection that came from living a few strides away from the fearsome Hound. They kept their words-and their eyes-to themselves: qualities Sandor enjoyed. Meryn on the other hand seemed disgruntled to be there, his pretty gold cloak trailing behind him as he stepped in pace with the Hound's long, brooding strides.

"Aye, fuck off," he retorted, nearly catching a door in his face as the Hound pushed outside and let the heavy oak swing quickly shut behind him. "And I suppose that's what you'll tell the King, when he asks why no-one's guarding his darling betrothed?"

'The Stark Girl.'

Shouldering his way past civilians and into the mid-morning sunlight, Sandor did not respond. Joffrey's betrothed had caused him a great deal of trouble. Her dead eyes could not completely mask the hatred in her voice when she spoke to His Grace, but no matter who well she hid her hatred, Joffrey still found reason to beat her. 'No', Sandor scowled, trading a baker a few coppers for a loaf of dark bread. 'I beat her. And fucking Meryn beats her. And his fucking Grace keeps his hands clean.'

"You've been due on guard duty the past hour. Benton's squire had to bring him a pot in the hallway so he could take a piss." Meryn laughed, and Sandor, who found most expressions of mirth and joy ugly, curled up his lip in constant fashion.

"Aye, and so he sent you to come fetch me." Sandor's voice grated roughly as he wolfed down his bread. "And they call me a dog."

Meryn seemed to find it below him to respond to that. 'But not below him to hit little girls.' Giving Meryn a gruff, curse-laden dismissal, Sandor stalked towards Maegor's holdfast, where they kept Sansa Stark in her little gilded cage. For all the disgust he felt towards Meryn, Sandor knew it was he who was truly was the dog. He had hit the poor girl just the same, and no act of placing a cloak upon her naked shoulders could change the fact that he had stood there while Joffery and half the castle held witness to her shame. Sandor set his jaw, fingertips reflexively closing around the hilt of his sword. When he had brought the girl, all pretty and flushed, to answer for her brother's crimes, he knew a beating was in store for her. He knew dark, painful marks would join those still fading on her stomach and thighs. But when Meryn yanked down her bodice, exposing her breasts to the hungry eyes of the court, her face became as red and pained as any bruise.

Sandor had thought about that chest. Not the way he had seen it in court, as part of a trembling, humiliated girl, but he had thought of it. He thought of it the night he found her coming from the Godswood, the night he noticed what a woman she had become and he let her know it. She had yet to bleed, but all woman could bleed, and he didn't see blood that came from a cunt made a girl any more of a woman than the blood that came from her throat. That night he lead her to her room, and she offered to sing for him, and all he could think about was the song he'd rather have was the one that came from her crying out in bed.

He had fucked his hand twice that night, blind with drink and thoughts of that pretty little bird singing songs in his bed. And in the morning he woke, drank wine to kill his headache, washed his face to kill his shame, pulled on his clothing like every other day, and watched as Meryn beat her and stripped her in the King's court.

Sandor was no fucking septon, but he was going to be damned if he was going to be like them, fucking the poor girl in his mind every night with the likes of Meryn and Joffrey. So he put her out of his mind, and found his cock other things to satisfy it.

"Lady Stark." Benton was at the door, shifting listlessly from one foot to the other as he knocked. "Your attendance is mandatory, please - ,"

"Saying please to a little girl now, are we?" When Sandor smirked, his lips twisted cruelly across both sides of his face, contorting the scarred side even worse than it already was. Perhaps that explained Benton's suddenly ill expression as he turned from the door. Or perhaps the man just had to take another piss.

"Clegane-"

"Benton."

A hard grey stare was all it took for the guard to clank from the passageway without the slightest scolding. One did not easily scold the Hound.

Raising his fist from the hilt of his sword, Sandor gave the door three solid pounds. The frame vibrated beneath his weight, and a soft gasp escaped from inside. "Girl," he growled. "This time you keep the King and the Queen waiting. I'd wager you know which lion truly has the sharper claws." His voice was a rough rasp through the door, and answered only by the delicate swish of satins and lace.

"I . . .am sorry, Ser." Although her handmaiden opened the door, it was Sansa who ducked into the passageway, finding his left side without hesitation. 'Little bird knows better than to lose her breakfast over my face.'

With Sansa's hair done up, Sandor could see the pale slope of her neck and flushed tops of her breasts with ease. He couldn't give a fuck what color frock she was wearing, but the bodice of it plunged and tightened over her teats in a way that tested his recent resolve. His cock seemed to want to remind him that it hadn't been satisfied in a while, so he looked away. But the little bird insisted on talking to him, and each time he looked at her to respond, he found himself, a foot and a half taller than she, and gazing down into the soft shadow between her breasts.

"I don't understand why I have to be there," she implored, blue eyes turned up to him. "Myrcella should be surrounded by her family before she goes, not traitor's daughters." She had a sweet face, and Sandor tried holding his attention there instead, but a sweet face could be just as enticing as a sweet pair of tits, so he resorted to starting straight ahead and responding in grunts and scowls. The girl seemed hurt by this coldness, and quieted her chirping for a while.

The Hound found it better this way. Let the girl keep her thoughts to herself. It was bad enough he had to guard her, seeing her while bathing or dressing. It did him no favors that whenever he was commanded to hit her, he softened his blows. And it certainly helped not that when he threw his cloak around her shoulders, trying to cover her quivering breasts, her hand had closed around his and her eyes gazed up with desperate need. Every man around her beat her, lied to her, or lusted after her. She seemed to sense already that Sandor was softened towards her, and so she turned to him for comfort. He could not have it that way.

'Let the little bird think I despise her. Let her think I only think of speaking to her when I'm in my cups.' He wouldn't have her weakening him any further. He'd already told her too many things, too many secrets: secrets about his past, about his scars, about his family. The next secrets to come spilling out of his mouth could be the ones to betray his lust.

They walked toward the horses which stood saddled to carry the procession to see the Princess Myrcella off to Dorne. Joffrey was far ahead, impatient and prancing about on his horse, surrounded by goldcloaks and bannermen keeping an eye on him and his shrewd-faced mother. "Will you ride beside me?" The Stark girl looked back as she was helped onto her horse, guided by the hands of a faceless man in armor who held the chestnut mare's bridle.

"There are other men here to protect you, Girl." He turned from her as she perched atop the horse, exposing the twisted, scared side of his face. 'Let her look on that a while, and remember it when she asks me near her again.'

"There are men here who would beat me." At that, he looked at her, and saw the woman Joffrey failed to see: the strong wolf of Winterfell who knew the truth, but usually knew better than to speak it.

"I would beat you, Girl." He took his hound's helm from under his arm and pulled it over his head. The visor could not hide the sight of her face, devoid of its soft red flush, the eyes once again flat and all the fierceness of the wolf snuffed out by his low snarl.

"My place is with the King."