Sansa jolted from her fitful sleep. With her heart hammering in her chest, she lay still staring into the pitch darkness. What had awoken her? Had it been a dream? She could not recall any details, but she knew she'd been dreaming. Her bedding, twisted and askew, was clinging to her, and her body was covered with a fine film of sweat. It was stifling hot in her bedchamber, and she tossed the covers aside, anxious for some air.

A knock at her door froze her in place.

So, it hadn't been the dream that had startled her awake after all. Frantically her mind raced through a list of possible people who might call on her at such an unheard of hour. Then, more important than the people themselves, she began to imagine reasons they could have come. One thought stood out in her mind most of all: Robb. He'd been killed, and they were coming to inform her. Or if it was Joffrey on the other side of the door, to gloat. Joffrey wouldn't knock, she reassured herself, and she realized there were not many who actually would knock instead of barging straight in. Lord Tyrion, perhaps, but why would he be visiting her in the middle of the night? If Robb were dead, she knew without question that Joffrey would deliver the news himself.

The knock came again, this time louder, more impatient.

Carefully, Sansa crawled from her bed and tip-toed across the dark room to the door. She pressed an ear against the solid wood and listened. "Who is it?" she squeaked.

"Little bird?" said the gruff voice on the other side.

The Hound? Sansa instinctively stepped back and looked down at her thin nightshift. "Just a moment," she said to the door. She felt her way around her room, rifling through garments and bedding in an attempt to find her robe, but it was all in vain.

A heavy knock thudded twice more. "Little…bird?"

The Hound sounded tired, or drunk, or maybe both, a realization that only served to set Sansa's nerves more on edge. She crept back to the door and eased it open just enough so she could peek out and see her visitor. "What are you doing here?"

Sandor Clegane never looked particularly well, but even Sansa could recognize that he was in bad shape. The unscarred side of his face was as pale as milk, and the edges of his stringy hair were soaked in sweat. He squinted at her through pinched eyes, and was supporting himself with one massive hand on the doorframe. "Please," he panted. "I need…I need…"

Sansa never learned what he needed, because at that moment, the Hound retched and a stream of vomit spewed from his mouth, splattering the door, the floor, and just missing Sansa's bare toes. "Oh!" she squealed and hopped back, allowing the door to swing wide open. She looked first at the Hound, who was wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, and then at the disgusting, chunky pool of bile between them.

"Seven fucking hells!" The Hound looked up and met Sansa's bewildered stare. "Did I get any on you?"

"N-no," Sansa shook her head. The pungent smell was wafting up from the hot pool of sickness and she felt the back of her throat clench as her face went slack. Afraid she'd add to the mixture on the floor, she turned and retreated into her room as far away from it as she could manage.

The Hound took one giant step over his vomit and joined Sansa within. At once, the room seemed to shrink. "Got anything I can clean it up with?" he asked, scanning the room.

Sansa slumped onto the edge of her bed, unable to completely process this bizarre intrusion, and muttered, "I…I…uh…I…" as she looked around too.

"This'll do," said the Hound, swiping the generous square of white linen from the edge of the empty tub in the corner of the room. He clomped back over to the threshold and with a bit of grunting and wheezing, managed to stoop down and wipe up the mess he'd made. He wadded up the soiled linen and tossed it unceremoniously into the corridor promising he'd see it cleaned and returned later.

Sansa shook her head in disbelief and found her voice. "Forgive me, why are you here?"

The Hound stood in the middle of the room, filling it to capacity with his towering height and considerable breadth, and looked as if he couldn't quite remember what had brought him there. Then, the dimness faded from his ravaged face. "The cloak," he said. "Where is it? I need it back."

Sansa felt her scalp jump and a shiver shoot up her spine. She cleared her throat. "The cloak?"

"Aye, the cloak," the Hound echoed, an edge of annoyance grating in his voice. "The one I put on you. I need it back."

Sansa could feel the heat rising in her cheeks and was grateful for the dimness of the room so the Hound couldn't see. "You need it back now?"

Patience fled the Hound. "Of course I need it back now. Why do you think I'm here you daft girl?"

"Why now?"

Because it's mine!" the Hound roared. "And your beloved Joffrey is fit to throw a fucking tantrum if I don't have it when I report in a few hours."

She hated when he called Joff that. He did it just to mock her, she knew, just to twist the knife a bit more. To think, after the horror of the other day and the Hound's generous gesture of offering her his cloak, she'd begun to think perhaps he wasn't like the rest of them. What a fool she'd been. His cruelty may not be as public as Joffrey's or Ser Meryn's, but it was cruelty just the same.

Without a word, Sansa leaned across her bed and reached up under her pillow. She felt the cloak, folded neatly, and humiliation flooded her from the inside out as she pulled it from its intimate hiding place. Gods, what must he be thinking? She almost expected to hear his cruel laughter fill the room when he realized how the silly little bird had cherished the garment as if it meant something special. But when she stood up with it in her hands and forced herself to look him in the face, she saw that he was staring at her slack-jawed.

"Here," she said, extending it to him. He hesitated, looking at the cloak as if it might bite should he reach out and take it. But at last he did take it, and Sansa quickly turned her back on him and stared out of her window into the darkness. "Thank you, Hound," she said dismissively.

Not another word was spoken, and the Hound's heavy footsteps trailed from the room, paused in the corridor, and then made their way down the staircase until Sansa could hear them no more. Tears were trailing down her cheeks when she pushed her door shut and crawled back into bed. She lay awake, watching the room brighten by degrees as dawn broke over King's Landing. The tears didn't stop until the sunlight shone bright through her window.