A/N: jonquils are a type of daffodil. Also, all rights belong to George R.R. Martin

2. Innocence walks in

It was comical, Sandor thought, the way this beautiful girl stuttered as she took in the ruin of his face, her eyes widening and then flittering, focusing on a point beneath his chin. A tension crept in her lovely features. He could see the effort with which she was trying to keep her emotions – her disgust – in hand.

"I'm not a sir," he told her.

"Excuse me?"

"Just what I said. I'm not a sir, and I don't want to be addressed as one," he grumbled. He knew a sir Clegane once. Humankind would never realize what kind of bullet it'd dodged by the bloody bastard being good and dead. Sandor abhorred being associated with him in any way, even by a meaningless title.

"Okay," the girl nodded, confusion plain in her eyes. "Why did you say that – about the Stranger?" she asked.

"The ink you were looking at," he said, gesturing at the design. It was one of his latest commissions, an intense rendition of the god of death, spanning the full back of one of his clients. It had taken him four lengthy and harrying sessions to work out the piece, with the guy constantly moaning about the pain. During the second session Sandor had told him to shut up or bugger off to find someone else to finish his tat. The guy still groaned, but at least the complaints stopped.

"Oh," the pretty girl replied, "no, no. I, ah, was just examining it when you walked in. It's…intimidating."

He could practically smell her lie. And she was still keeping her eyes lowered.

Sandor snorted. "Not to your taste, little bird?" he said, eyeing the cutesy bird patterns on her dress. She furrowed her brow at his words, fidgeting with the pleads of her skirt and rearranging the small purse resting on her hip. "No, not really," she confessed, after a pause. "Isn't that sacrilegious, flaunting one of the gods on your body?"

A grating laugh escaped Sandor's lips. Seven hells, what sort of gilded cage has she fled from? And then to wind up in my haunt? "What gods?" he said, smiling cruelly. "Those bland figures the septons mumble to in their prayers? I solely believe in death, girl. Death comes for everyone."

There was a pull around her mouth that told him she disagreed with what he said. It only made her look more attractive. Her elegant presence, standing straight-backed before his counter, seemed to set off stronger against the dark imagery displayed on the walls. A part inside him scratched to come out and prey on the innocence she radiated, that absolute confidence she carried that bad things could not happen to her. He wanted to taunt her, scare her, break through the polite posture she had been taught to enact. He wanted her to see how wrong she was.

Too bad she's a potential customer. He had garnered underground notoriety as a tattoo artist. He wouldn't need to sustain on water and bread if he lost one client due to his attitude, but he had enough pride in his skill and occupation to rein his flares in. There was one thing Sandor Clegane would never abide from his clients, though.

He moved away from behind the counter, and stepped closer to the girl. Her eyes widened at his approach. A sweet scent clung to her, some flower perhaps. She opened her mouth to protest his encroachment on her personal space, but he was quicker. "I want to make one thing clear," he said.

It was obvious the little bird was ready to bolt at any moment now. She crossed her arms protectively above her chest. Bugger it, she'll probably run and report me. But first she'll look.

He caught her chin in his hand and forced her to face him. "If you deal with me, you'll look me in the eye," he rasped. He held her stare, and the blue hue of her irises did not start to swirl but rather turned to ice. She set her jaw. Not going to fly off, then.

"Fine," said she.

He withdrew his hand, satisfied with her answer. He backed away some, but stayed afore the counter. They gazed at each other, both unwilling to yield. One of them would have to open his mouth and resume whatever normalcy was left. Someone would have to concede.

Fear waned in her pupils. It was when understanding began to emerge in them that he found himself suddenly averting his head. You can't understand, girl, he thought angrily.

"What do you want done?" he demanded bluntly.

She released a breath, and loosened her stance. "How polite of you to ask." A peck, dog. He had underestimated her.

She took her purse in hand and rummaged through its contents. For such a small purse it took her quite some time to find what she was hunting for. "Aha!" she cried eventually, holding up a crumpled piece of paper. She carefully straightened it out, and a smile crept back on her face inspecting it. "I would like you to do a tattoo based on this, please." She held out the paper to him.

He snatched it up and examined it. The name Joffrey had been written in large elegant letters on it, with little flourishes. A few jonquils were drawn around it, and a ribbon with hearts on it coiled itself around the type. He didn't have to look up to check if she was serious, he knew she was. Still, it was hard not to mock the sugary design she had composed.

"What's this ribbon supposed to be?" And who is this asshole you're willing to inscribe it on your skin for?

Her smile broadened. She clearly enjoyed discussing her artwork. "It's not a ribbon. It's a scarf," she told him with pride, as if that would explain it all. When he gave her a blank look, she elaborated. "You know, like the one from WBC's Florian and Jonquil?"

"Never seen it," he grunted.

"You didn't see it?" she gasped. "But it was their hit show last fall! Everyone talked about it. It was a beautiful."

Every doe-eyed girl talked about it, you mean. "I know the story, and the song. A fool and his cunt," he shrugged.

The pull around her mouth reappeared, and again she let his harsh words slide, continuing her explanation. "WBC's version of Florian and Jonquil was set in modern day Westeros. In the original story, Jonquil gives him her favor and confesses her love before he rides off. In the TV show, she gives him a scarf."

"A pink scarf with red hearts on it?" he said, unbelieving.

"Yes! It's supposed to symbolize my undying love for Joffrey."

To Sandor, it mainly symbolized bad taste.

The girl seemed oblivious of his concerns, and happily chattered some more about the story she adored. "The show isn't my all-time favorite depiction of Florian and Jonquil, though. I've watched all seven movie adaptions too, several times. Nothing beats The Maiden in the Pool, even if it's almost eighty years old now. Duncan Tall is the ultimate Florian," she stated dreamily.

The last movie Sandor watched had been The Long Night: Return of The Ice Zombies. Older memories awoke, of him and a young girl lounging on the couch, looking in rapture at the screen. Playing the story out after. Him accepting the favor. He pushed it away, shaking his head.

The little bird stared at him funnily. Fuck, did I say something out loud?

"You know, you look a little bit like him. On your good side, I mean."

"Look like who?" he asked, confused.

"Duncan Tall."

Sandor let out another snort. "Sorry little bird. No famous actor in my ancestry."

She threw him a sidelong glance. "I should apologize. We've been talking for minutes, and I've forgotten to introduce myself. My name is Sansa Stark." She extended her hand.

Just as he thought he'd seen through her, the girl did something unexpected. Well, chirps like this are to be expected from a bird. "Sandor Clegane," he told her as he enveloped her palm with his, warm and soft and delicate.

"Nice to meet you, Sandor Clegane." They shook hands. He reluctantly released hers afterwards.

"So, what do you think of my design? Can you do it, please? Like, now?" Sansa inquired, excited.