He kept his hard gaze on her, making her squirm under it. It wasn't often that they met each other's gazes, it wasn't often they were alone together either. She couldn't even remember the last time they were alone together. He finally looked away and kept driving, veering to the right and officially taking her away from the road that would lead her home. She let out a deep breath, feeling her eyes begin to water again. She tried to suppress it, tried to stave off the tears that threatened to fall. She didn't want to be weak, she didn't want to be this little damsel in distress, this wasn't the role she wanted to play anymore.

His house wasn't far from her own, a few streets over and down. They had played together as children a part of the neighborhood, him and Arya had always gotten along better than the rest of them, which had always bothered Sansa if she was being honest. Her sister; her rude, vile, sweet sister could make friends with just about anyone; while respectable, by the books Sansa had a slew of fake friends and her sister's friends taking care of her instead of her own.

Life was a cruel joke.

He parked in his driveway and she noted that there were no other cars in it. She'd honestly forgotten to ask him if his father was home – though he usually wasn't. Mr. Clegane was an on call doctor in the ER at the hospital, he worked nights and days, sometimes he didn't come home at all. She wondered briefly if Sandor ever got lonely with the house all to himself.

He jumped out of the truck, the quiet slam of the door waking Sansa from her mini stupor. She grabbed her bag from beside her and turned to open the door, but he had it already open for her and a hand out to help her down. She wasn't entirely sure why he was being so nice to her, but one look in the passenger side mirror and she remembered.

She took his offered hand, now feeling all the pain in her tired body that she'd refused to feel before, and got out of the truck. He closed the door behind her softly and led her up the walk to the front door. His house wasn't as large as her's, but then again the Clegane's certainly didn't have as many children as the Stark's had, what use would be all that extra room?

It was a nice house, regardless. Light grey with dark yellow shutters, the upkeep on the house was clearly maintained and it stood proud amongst the other well bred houses. She watched as he unlocked the door and pushed it aside, gesturing her to enter, she did and waited for him in the doorway.

It was dark and she couldn't really see anything, but when he flipped on all the lights she got a better look. He lead her down the stairs to a small den that posed as a second living room, instead of up to the main level where she could see a kitchen. The lighting was dim down there, but the soft light coming from the lamp in the corner soothed her anxiety from the evening. The whole atmosphere of his home was quiet and soothing, she realized. Nothing like the crazy, loud mess that was her own home.

She stood there, unsure of what to do. Sandor seemed to be in the same predicament and stood facing her. She looked up at him, meeting his gaze, that heavy, piercing gaze. She felt her eyes begin to water again and he nodded then.

"We should clean and bandage your cuts so you don't get an infection." She just nodded, because what else could she do? He was right. "Does anything feel broken?"

His soft rumbling voice had a gentle quality to it, something she hadn't thought possible of him, of the older boy who rolled his eyes at her and called her names. They'd always been at odd as children, but it had always been clear that he hadn't actually meant her any real harm. They may not've gotten along all the time, but it was obvious that he did care for her, just as he cared for her sister.

"I-I don't know."

Because she didn't know. She had grown up a loving and privileged life, she hadn't been beaten or bruised, she had hardly been yelled at as a child. She knew better than to climb trees too high or be unsteady on a horse, she'd never fallen or crashed. Not until now.

Sandor just nodded and moved past her and into a room off the side, once she heard the shower running she realized that it was a bathroom. The sound of water running made her recognize just how grimy she felt, blood caked to her skin, melted snow and dirt from the road smeared into her hair and clothes – her ripped and dirty clothes. Her cuts burned and her bruises ached. She couldn't help the stinging behind her eyes.

She quickly unzipped Sandor's hoodie, letting it drop to the ground. Her heart was beating fast and her anxiety was coming back. She just needed to get these clothes off of her, they were tainted, they told of a night she never wanted to remember or think about ever again. A part of her, the only rational part left, knew that she was only using her clothes as an excuse to not think about what had actually happened tonight. But the rest of her didn't really care at this point.

She tugged off her soiled shirt, leaving her in the camisole beneath it, and throwing it to the ground along with the hoodie. She leaned down to take off her officially garbage worthy socks and that's when she finally started to really feel the pain that radiated in her body.

Sandor came back out of the bathroom, but stopped when he saw just how manic she looked. She couldn't blame him, she probably looked crazy, her hands clawing at her ruined clothes, attempting to take them off her broken body. She looked up at him in turn and noted for the first time that he stood before her in his casual clothes, nothing like the expensive clothes that Joffrey wore. For some reason the sight of his long sleeved and well worn henley comforted her slightly, but not enough to stop her harsh breathing or glassy eyes.

She watched his eyes glance over her, checking over the exposed skin that sported red marks or bruises, his eyes just slightly lingering over those parts of her. His brows furrowed at her from where he stood by the bathroom door, the bright light from behind him casting his large form in shadows, but she could still clearly make him out.

He had a tube of antiseptic in his hand and gauze, a roll of tape slung around his wrist. It was a little more than obvious that he'd done this before, that he'd fixed some cuts and staved off infection. The abuse of the younger Clegane boy was one of the worst kept secrets in Westeros, almost everyone knew about it and no one ever said a word – mostly because Sandor would knock them out if they did, and because of Gregor. He didn't like people feeling anything but well worn contempt for him, so he saw to it that it stayed that way. But, now with Gregor gone, he had seemed a little more at ease, a little more even keel.

They were kindred spirits in a way she supposed, both hiding behind masks of indifference.

Her harsh breathing had escalated and her wide eyes started to water as a panicky feeling seized her. She very well might've been having a panic attack, the stress of the evening finally hitting her now that she was safe. Her eyes caught his and she hated the way he looked at her from across the room.

She began clawing at her clothes again, pulling at her ruined camisole and lifting it over her head, throwing it down in the pile with the rest of her destroyed clothes. Tears fell down her face in hot trails, her quick breaths pierced her chest, reminding her of how little physical activity she really did these days, her hands were on the waistband of her ripped leggings when her eyes found his again.

He was still standing in the doorway of the bathroom, that light still backlighting him, and he was doing a spectacular job of trying to keep his gaze on her eyes. She realized then that she was stripping in front of him. She was practically naked from the waist up – and, what really struck her – was that she didn't care.

She didn't feel that hot wave of embarrassment slide over her, she didn't feel the shock or appall that usually would've accompanied such a thing. She didn't feel anything. Except the widespread panicked feeling and the sharp piercing in her chest from her labored breathing.

Maybe she was having a panic attack or suffering from some form of PTSD or something. Whatever it was, it was causing her to act rash and flighty. The look in Sandor's eyes told her he'd seen this before, probably in the mirror.

Sandor cleared his throat and but never lowered his gaze from hers, "Why don't you shower and then we'll see if anything's broken." His voice was still holding that gentle quality from earlier, but it was a bit gruffer now. For whatever reason the sound of his normal timbre calmed her slightly, she found herself nodding before she'd realized what she was doing and made her way over to where he stood.

He moved as she approached, letting her into the bathroom and shutting the door behind her. The room was warm, the water running and causing steam to roll up the walls, fogging the mirror just slightly.

She couldn't stop herself from looking, it was like her eyes had been drawn to the mirror since she'd stepped over the threshold of the bathroom. Luring her in, forcing her to not look away from what happened tonight. Maybe that was actually her subconscious, maybe it wasn't.

She looked terrible.

Her nose was starting to swell, as well as the underside of her eye. A palate of red, blues and purples began to bloom where cream colored skin usually sat. Her lip had busted from the force of his slap, a cut at her temple from where he'd shoved her face in the ground, a scrape on her chin. Her chest wasn't much better. Thick red lines marred her pale skin, everywhere. Her throat had a bruise in the shape of his hand, clear finger lines stretching wide across. Bruises littered her arms, chest, and stomach – she was sure her legs weren't much better.

Sandor was going to have a hell of a time patching her up.

She unclasped her bra and pulled off the poor excuse of a legging, as well as her now dirty and ripped underwear, throwing them on the ground and slowly moving into the shower. The water was hot. She only turned it up hotter. It burned her skin, causing it all to flush red and sting. She didn't care, she wanted to feel it, needed to. She needed to feel something aside from the overwhelming sadness that had begun to to claw at her chest, the ever present stinging behind her eyes.

She sunk down onto the floor of the tub, the water beating against her back, and began to cry. She didn't care that she was sobbing, she didn't care that he could hear her, she didn't care about anything.

Her life was ruined.

The perfectly sculpted life that she had painstakingly created for herself was over. There was no way she'd ever be able to go back, not after tonight. She'd be able to fake it, if she really had to, but, she knew. It was over.

She had spent so much time doing everything in her power to get ahead, to create the perfect life she'd always dreamed of as a child. The big house like the one she'd grown up in, the perfect career with the high paying salary, the handsome husband with the great job, beautiful children that she'd love dearly, and the humble, but truthful muttering of 'What a family' by her peers.

She hadn't dreamt of castles and princes, she could've cared less about fairytales and magic. No, she had always dreamt of the big leagues and when Family, Duty, Honor would finally apply to her. She'd always pictured herself as a Governor's wife or the First Lady, ever since she was little, it had always been something she'd wanted.

She had thought she'd found that in Joffrey, and she hadn't been wrong. He would be a politician one day, probably go on to be Governor and maybe even run for Office. But, he would never be the firm but gentle husband of her dreams, never be the man she'd actually want to stand beside, to smile for. Maybe at one time, but certainly not in a long time.

Sansa realized then that she had spent so much time actually trying to make these goals come true that she'd forgotten why they were important to her in the first place. Family, Duty, Honor. She'd been so caught up in her ridiculous daydream of a life that she'd forgotten. She hated herself a bit for it.

She sighed, rubbing at her eyes with her fists, only just remembering the swelling beneath her left one and barely catching herself in time. She was still crying, but no longer sobbing, and pulled herself up from the floor of the tub. She took a deep breath to calm herself a bit before looking around. This was very clearly Sandor's shower – or, at the very least, a man's. It was sparsely stocked, some cheap body wash, generic shampoo and conditioner, not even a loofah in sight.

She watched as the water stopped turing an ugly mixture of grey and pink as it ran off of her, but she wouldn't be fooled into believing she was actually clean. Nothing could cleanse her of Joffrey and what he'd done to her tonight, but some soap couldn't hurt.

She released another shaky breath but began to rub the soap over her body. It stung, but it quickly faded as the water washed over her. She scrubbed her hair a bit, annoyed not for the first time at it's length, but knowing she'd never actually go through with cutting it. It was quick work, rhythmic and practiced, and before she knew it she was done, but she couldn't bring herself to leave the warm little cocoon that she'd made for herself. Not yet, at least.

So, she stayed under the warm spray for a little while longer, not entirely sure how long she'd been in there, but not really caring either. It was clear that Sandor wasn't going to bother her, which she was thankful for.

It was strange to see him this way – all gentle and soft. She was use to the harsh attitude and gruff gravel to his voice. His silent eye rolls and narrowed gazes, his nicknames and scoffs. She wasn't accustom to this arms-length approach with him. He was more of a take it or leave it kind of guy, so this was all new and more than a bit bizarre. She wondered vaguely if Arya had seen this side of him. Probably not, her sister would've used it against him by now if she'd had.

She was done wallowing – for now – and shut off the water, stepping out of the shower. She saw a large robe hanging on the back of the door, and a stack of towels on the shelf beside the sink. She wrapped herself in the dark green robe that clearly belonged to Sandor or whatever other male used this bathroom, and wrapped a towel around her head just as she always did after a shower.

She looked down at her useless underwear and pants, she'd obviously not be putting any of her clothes from earlier back on, which left her slightly panicked about what she was going to do. She let out a breath that she'd been holding in and opened the door, she saw Sandor seated on the couch, gazing at nothing. He turned when he heard the door open.

She stepped out and walked towards him a bit, he stood too. Neither of them quite knew what to do at this point, running on adrenaline and fear had kept her going until she'd stepped foot into that shower and it was clear he had been living in a similar reaction. But now that the both of them stood before each other, they had no idea what to think.

He was the first one to get it together, gesturing towards the small stack of clothing on the end of the couch closest to her. "I brought you some clothes." He seemed just as awkward as she felt, a first for both of them. "They're mine, they won't fit, but, it's the best I got." His voice had become more and more gruff as he spoke, clearly uncomfortable. Hearing him act at least a little normal was comforting.

"Thanks." She looked them over, a long sleeved shirt, a pair of boxers, a pair of sleep pants. He'd given her a full outfit, the thought would've made her chuckle any other time, but right now the notion died in her throat. It was thoughtful of him and the notion didn't leave her mind. She could see from his expression that she may have managed a smile, so there was that.

She pulled the boxers out of the pile, turning and stepping into them, the robe still intact, and slid them up her hips. It hurt to swallow, she realized. A lot of things hurt, actually. She turned back and looked back up at him expectantly, yet unsure of what she expected. She could feel the swelling in her face, the open wounds pressing against the soft fabric of the robe, the cool air against her wet legs.

"What hurts." He asked her again.

She was probably being extremely unhelpful by never actually answering his questions, but she couldn't help that. "Everything." She replied.

He gave her a look that she herself often gave Arya when she was being impossible. Well, at least somethings remained familiar in this extremely unfamiliar moment.

"Care to be more specific?" His gruff voice was returning slowly, but he still spoke softly in just above a whisper. Like he was afraid if he spoke any louder he'd scare her off. Maybe it would.

"I am being specific. Everything hurts. My face mostly, but my neck, by chest, my arms, my stomach. Everything aches and stings."

"Does anything feel broken?" He asked her again.

She thought on it for a moment, but nothing did. It was also probably hard for him to diagnose her when he didn't even know what happened. He could guess, and he'd probably be right, but he didn't actually know the sequence of events. Didn't know that she'd crawled out of the car and onto the snowy ground to get away from him, that Joffrey had thrown her against the hood of his car or pushed her head into the asphalt as he attempted to remove her pants, to rape her. He didn't know any of that, he only knew what he saw.

"No."

She heaved a sigh she hadn't known she'd been holding in and moved to the couch, gently seating herself down on it. It was comfortable, causing her to sink into it against the protest of her aching body. Sandor still stood, unsure of what to do, of what she wanted him to do. It didn't take him that long to sit down on the coffee table across from her.

She looked at her hands, slightly covered by the robe that was engulfing her, she pushed the robe up to look at them better. They were pale, just like the rest of her skin, the left one unblemished with long fingers she'd always thought looked a bit spidery. The right one normally looked exactly the same, save for the small very light freckle on the side of her pinky, yet now it looked completely different. Her knuckles were split from when she'd managed a punch to Joffrey's face, she must've hit him pretty hard to have her knuckles split. She had four brothers and Arya for a sister, she knew the difference between roughhousing and fighting, she had fought, she had bruised herself fighting. Fighting back, she reminded herself. She had fought back.

Her brows furrowed as she looked down at her wounded hand, it was swollen and red around the cuts, she could tell it would bruise in the morning. For whatever reason, her hand was a product of this night with Joffrey that she was glad marred her skin. She was okay looking at it, it told of her attempt to fight back, to help herself in a dire situation, she was empowered by it almost. Which was why when the smooth, rumbling voice in front of her asked for the first time what had actually transpired on the road before she'd called him, she found the courage to answer.

"He hit me." She looked up from her hand and to where he sat across from her, she watched his gaze turn heated and intense at her words. "Joffrey." She breathed out shakily, not believing she was finding the strength to even say this out loud. "He hit me."

She saw the tick in his strong jaw, he was clenching it, because he was angry. He was angry for her and for whatever reason she found comfort in his reaction, probably because he was so like Arya, only far less vocal. He said nothing but one word, "How."

Sansa looked away from his heavy gaze and back down at her hands, pulling strength from them as she began to put words to the face of what happened to her.

"We were coming back from a party, he was already mad at me and I made it worse somehow. He pulled over and we started fighting, he... he started choking me and I'm pretty sure I broke up with him, I told him that I didn't love him anymore, that we were just wasting our time. He punched me. Started choking me again. I-I managed to hit him back, get him off me." She looked back down at her hand, the bruises that would begin to bloom, the split in her knuckles, they told of power and brutality that she normally didn't possess. She felt the swelling in her eyes, the sting in her nose, she tried to hold back her tears. "I tried to get out of the car, but he was too fast, he pulled me back in and tried to... He tried..."

"He tried what." Sandor's voice was sharp, she felt like she was just put in one of those ice baths their mother use to give them when they had a fever. She'd never heard him like that before, maybe once when he had spoken about Gregor to her father when he thought no one else had been listening. It almost scared her to hear him like that, to hear the hate. He seemed to realize his tone frightened her and made the conscious effort to lower his gaze and his lilt. "Keep going, little bird."

She almost rolled her eyes at the stupid nickname, he'd been calling her that for years. If she remembered correctly, Arya had been six, Sansa eight, and Sandor just shy of twelve when he called her that for the first time. They had been climbing trees and singing silly made up songs, much to Sandor – the self appointed babysitter's – annoyance, and he had tried everything to get them both down from the branch that was little more than off the ground, afraid of getting in trouble. Arya had jumped willingly into the older boys arms, fearless little thing she was, he had held them out for her and tossed up a fly, little bird. She would never admit that was the only reason she had came down. It didn't look like he planned to stop using the name anytime soon. She didn't role her eyes though, she didn't do anything but stare at him.

The tears started slipping down her cheeks, she felt that deep ache in her chest again. It was different now, though. It wasn't anxiety and devastation, it was sorrow.

"He kept trying to get my clothes off, that's how they ripped." She couldn't look at him as she spoke, was it normal to feel this ashamed? She shouldn't feel like that, she'd done nothing wrong, and yet, she felt it, she felt the stinging shame as she spoke, as someone else looked at her. She was damaged goods now, another statistic, she'd let herself become that. That hurt more than anything. "I managed to get myself out of the car. I just kept kicking him, as hard as I could, wherever I could. He pushed me into the front of his car, and then I was on the ground and all I remember is him kicking me, over and over. He pushed my face into the ground and I... I knew, what he was about to do..."

She slowly started to succumb to her sobs, covering her face gently with her hands, her shoulders shaking silently, wordlessly as she cried. She evened out her breathing, feeling overwhelmed and tired now that her adrenaline was wearing off. She heard Sandor's quiet drawl, but didn't look up.

"He forced himself on you."

It didn't escape her that he hadn't phrased it as a question, she answered it as thought it was one.

"Yes."

His voice was tight when he spoke next, "Did he – "

She cut him off before he could finish. "No."

"How did you get away from him?"

She wished her answer could be more exciting, showcasing just how well she'd listened to the police officers that had come into her primary school to talk about saying no to drugs and shady people, how well she'd listened to her mother, brothers, father about fighting back and staying alive. She wished for all of that. Unfortunately, she truly would've been another statistic those police officers warned young kids about in schools if his father hadn't called and pulled him away. It made her sick that her wellbeing relied on the fact that Joffrey was afraid of his father and not because she'd managed to fend off her attacker. Somehow she felt as though she had let Olivia Benson down.

She gently began to wipe her face as she looked up at him. "His phone started ringing." She shrugged a shoulder, dabbing at the corners of her eyes. "It was his father. He doesn't disrespect Robert, he'd never admit it, but he's afraid of him. If it had been anyone else calling, his mother, anyone, he would have. He would have raped me."

Saying it out loud for the first time made her feel defeated and afraid. It brought back some of the emotions she'd felt earlier, emotions that she feared would never go away. He would have raped her on the snowy ground, bleeding and crying, and he would've enjoyed it. That was the first time she truly realized just how unhinged Joffrey really was. He was mentally and physically abusive, controlling and rude. How had she ever looked at him with love and desire? He was a monster. A blonde little monster.

That she was scared of.

She was scared of him. Afraid he would find her, wherever she was and hurt her again. She was afraid he'd still own her after all this was over. The thought struck her and a seizing panic started to spread through her, what if he made her still be his girlfriend?

Her spike in heart rate and a mile a minute thinking were cut short by Sandor's heavy sigh. She looked up at him, shocked by the intensity in his gaze – which was saying something, he usually sported an intense look. He pinned her with it, making sure she couldn't look away before he spoke with serious finality in his voice.

"I'm going to ask you this once." She tilted her head down just slightly to show him she understood so he could continue. "Do you want me to do something about this."

She had never seen him this serious before, this taught. He looked like a band about to snap. He was usually found with a scowl on his face and intensity in his eyes, a serious demeanor his most frequent of faces. But, this? This was something she wasn't familiar with. He look like he'd kill for her, and she wouldn't put it past him.

Her brows furrowed at his question, a slight panic in her eyes. "I-I don't want anyone to know – "

"Not that." He ground out. "You need to figure that out for yourself. I'm asking if you want me to do something about him, about Baratheon."

The realization of his words hit her and she felt fear and gratitude at his words. She didn't want him to get into trouble, that's exactly the reason why she hadn't gone home. Her brothers and Sandor had a very similar mind set when someone they cared about was involved, she didn't want any of them to be punished for her. Because even though Joffrey deserved whatever Sandor or her brothers would do to him, he wasn't worth what Robert would do to the boys in return.

She shook her head, tears pricking her eyes. "No. He's not worth it. He's not worth what ridiculous penalties Robert would slap you with."

Sandor didn't seem liked he cared all that much about what Robert Baratheon would do, but nodded anyways. It was quiet between them for a few beats, both unsure of how to progress again. Sansa felt winded after relying her attack, but she also felt lighter. It felt good to get it off her chest and have someone else know what he'd done to her. She had been afraid that if she told no one, it was almost like it hadn't happened. And while she did want to forget it and move on, she knew that it would haunt her for the rest of her life, if no one else knew... it would be like she survived nothing.

"Why don't you let me wrap your hand."

She brought her right hand up and he leaned in forward to grasp it in his larger one. He examined her split knuckles and the slight bruising that was beginning to form. He smoothed some antiseptic over it, she winced as it stung a bit, before wrapping it in white bandages. When he was done he looked up at her head, eyeing the cut at her temple, without a word she leaned forward and closed her eyes as he set to work on her head. It was quick and mostly painless as he spread the gel over the cut and covered it with steri strips.

He leaned back from her and she opened her eyes to look at him. He seemed deep in thought about something, although she had no idea what it was. He had always been hard to read, guarded, growing up hadn't changed that at all.

Looking at her bandaged hand had her thinking too. The rest of her body was littered with cuts and scrapes, he would need to disinfect and tape all of them, which meant she would need to take off the robe. The idea of someone touching her body terrified her after what she just went through with Joffrey, but she didn't want these wounds to fester and become infected. If she was taken to the hospital because of them, all her hard work at hiding this from her family would be for nothing.

She looked up at him, they were both still leaning from when he'd fixed her head, and it was one of the few times she had seen him this close. His grey eyes glinted in the dim light from the corner, his dark hair falling over the marred side of his face, he looked soft sitting there without a scowl, he certainly looked Northern. When they had been very young, before he had been burned by Gregor, there had been a time when people had thought Jon and Sandor were brothers, sometimes people still thought Arya was his sister. She wondered if it bothered him.

Sansa's heart was beating hard as she stood slowly from the couch, wincing from the pain radiating in her ribs and back. Sandor looked up at her, the scowl still free from his face, making him look younger and calmer than she knew he was. She slowly eased the robe down from her shoulders and letting it drop back onto the couch. Her breathing was harsh, goosebumps pricked her cold skin, she watched as he took her in.

She knew what she looked like right now, a broken and battered mess. She knew that there were bruises and scratches and maybe she'd even have scars, her once porcelain-like body was now marred forever, even if the wounds did heal. She watched his eyes take in every cut, scrape, and bruise, slowly and methodically. The look in his eyes made tears prick her own.

She had always expected the unveiling of her body to be something out of the romance novels, the man who she gave herself to would look on at her reverently, his eyes swooping up her visage and leaving tendrils of heat in his wake. He would worship her with his gaze, make her feel powerful and beautiful without saying a word.

But, the way Sandor was looking at her right now, a mixture of both sadness and pity and barely repressed rage, had tears falling from her eyes.

No, Sandor was not the man from those romance novels, not the man she was giving herself to, not the man who was about to worship her body like those novels suggested, but he was still the first man to look at her and it hurt that she was no longer attractive in his eyes. It hurt that this was the first experience she had and the one that she would remember the most. Dejected, she couldn't help the flow of tears or the small sobs that began to rack her body.

"I-I hate him. I h-hate him so much."

Sandor looked uncomfortable, unsure of how to stop the flow of tears or the girl in front of him from dissolving into herself. He wasn't sure what to do, how to make it better and that much was clear. But every nick on her skin had him clenching and unclenching, he couldn't understand how someone could do that to her, she couldn't understand it either.

Instead, he knelt down between them, he was tall enough that even kneeling he would've been able to comfortably rest his head against her chest. He wasn't exactly invading her space, although she did feel equal parts anxiety and embarrassment at having his face eye level with her breasts. She gently began to wipe away the tears on her face as he looked intently at the bruising around her ribs, never once looking at her bare chest. He raised his hand up slightly and caught her eye, making a show of him slowly moving into touch her. She still flinched from the contact, both because she was still jumpy and because it hurt where he'd pressed. He didn't seem to be slighted by the action.

His brows were furrowed as he efficiently checked out her ribs, leaning back a bit and asking her to turn around. "I need to see your back." She did as she was told and turned around, she couldn't see him go to touch her this time and found herself flinching again. She hated that she was reduced to this scared little girl, she wondered if she'd always be like this, if she would never be able to forget this night and no one could ever touch her again. She let out a little sigh and focused on the pictures lining the walls.

Most of them were pictures of Sandor as a baby and a child, a few of Gregor, but not many. She didn't doubt why, in the few pictures of him that did hang on the wall, he seemed expressionless or angry, which pretty much summed up her very limited memories of the older brother. He wasn't a particularly nice person, the obvious evidence to support that claim was the face of the man behind her. She had been told not only by her own father, but by Sandor himself, to steer clear of the older Clegane.

Her eyes swept over a picture of little Sandor seated at a table beside his mildly pregnant mother. Ayleen Clegane had been a beautiful woman. Sansa just barely remembered her, but from the little she could actually recall, she had always been quiet and nice. Sandor and Gregor seemed to favor her more than their father, with her dark hair and fair skin, but Sandor looked his mother's son far more than Gregor did.

She remembered him like that, all small and scrawny. Gregor had always been tall for his age and beefy, but with time all the pudgy baby fat had turned into shocking muscle. Sandor on the other hand had been slight, short and thin, it was only once he'd hit puberty had he begun to sprout and fill out, looking more like Gregor and his father.

It was sort of odd comparing the two together, the Sandor from the pictures and the one who had just disinfected the scrape along her spine and was now wrapping her ribs. Apparently they weren't broken. Sansa wasn't sure if that said more about Joffrey's lack of strength or her self preservation skills.

"I'm going to need you to turn around and then spin slowly."

She turned her head to look at him holding a piece of ace bandage in one hand and the antiseptic in the other, she turned back to face him again. He looked a little uncomfortable again and she took the tube of antiseptic from him and walked back to the bathroom, once she could see in the mirror, she began to apply it on all the cuts littering her chest and torso. Once she was finished, she made her way back to where he stood and handed the tube back from him.

He rose a brow but said nothing as he began to apply the ace bandage and walk slowly around her with it, wapping her ribs. "None of them looked broken or severely bruised, if a bruise starts to bloom on her lower back or if your urine looks discolored, you need to go to the emergency room." He stopped in front of her, holding her gaze. "I mean it. That shit's serious, you don't mess with internal organs or internal bleeding."

"Okay." She really hoped that wouldn't be the case.

He finished wrapping her and began to place bandaids over the small scrapes over her chest and arms, moving down to her legs. Once he was done, he stepped back and out of her space, handing her the shirt and pants he'd left out for her before. She shrugged them on quickly, finding now that she was fully covered, she was more aware of just how bare she'd been, embarrassed by it.

"Come on, you can take my bed."

He began to walk in the direction of the closed door beside the bathroom, she followed him wordlessly as he turned on the light and led her in. She'd never been in his room before, she'd been in his house on occasion, mostly to retrieve Arya for dinner, but she'd never ventured beyond the appropriate living spaces.

She found that his room was a lot like him, sparse, almost militant, and cool. The walls were painted a deep navy that almost looked black in the dim lighting, his bed was large and made neatly, it was sparsely furnished and felt almost as though he didn't spend a ton of time in it. Yet, it also felt like him.

He moved further into the room, grabbing clothes out of a plain wooden dresser before gesturing to the bed with his arm. "There's some aspirin in the nightstand. Get some sleep, little bird. We'll figure out what you want to do in the morning."

She nodded and he began to exit the room, she looked around again, finding it to be warm and inviting in a way she hadn't expected. Kind of like her brother Jon. She walked back out before she could help herself. He was in the bathroom, so she waited in the doorway of his room for him to come back out, when he did she watched as she made his way over to the couch, a pair of loose sleep pants very similar to the ones she wore and a long sleeved t-shirt now covered his body, he pulled a blanket and pillow out from the closet and began to make a make-shift couch bed.

"Sandor." He looked up from the couch to her, "Thank you. For everything. For coming to get me no questions asked, for doing all of this." She gestured to her body. "Just... thank you."

"You're welcome." He replied, his head dipped low.

She gave him a small smile before ducking back into his room and turning out the light. She swallowed some aspirin and slipped into his large bed, finding it warm as she tucked into herself. She willed everything to disappear behind her eyelids, willed the night to fade away and become nothing more than a bad dream. She knew that wouldn't be the case, but she had no more fight left in her for tonight. She'd survived and escaped, she could deal with Joffrey and her family tomorrow, right now she just needed sleep.


A/N: Thank you to everyone who has responded to this, you guys are gems. Tell me your thoughts!