Heart of Fire
Sandor's POV
Sandor felt like a fool. He had caressed a high born lady, the betrothed of the King he protected. The White Cloak he wore on his shoulders marked him as a man of honour.
"Honour." he spat, as he saddled up Stranger. He would go in search of a brothel and forget the name Sansa Stark for a night. Forget the delicious paleness of her flesh and how perfect her body had been. He kicked Stranger angrily in the flank and rode through the moon gate, into the deserted city of King's Landing. The smell of fish and waste assaulted his nostrils as he rode through the streets, to the cheaper brothels by the riverfront. The wench he picked was young and lithe, slippery as an eel as he slipped inside her but she made the appropriate noises and he found himself satisfied for an hour. Once he was done, he took himself to a wine sink where he knew the owner and supped on cold stew and cheap wine until he felt himself begin to sink into a stupor. He walked Stranger to the stables of the Red Keep and returned to his chambers. Sandor's chambers were sparse, his window barely more than an arrow slit and his bed was made of hard stone which offered him no comfort. He balled his white cloak into a pillow and before he could contemplate dreaming, he had fallen fast asleep.
He rose as the sun began to creep across his chambers and dressed in boiled leather. He contemplated abandoning his white cloak but knew better. He fastened it around his throat, feeling as though it were choking him and headed to the kitchens to find some breakfast. Normally he would eat in the halls with the gold cloaks but today he felt a need to be alone. Alone with thoughts of his little bird playing in his head. He would steal his song one day he decided and plant a kiss on her soft lips. He wondered what she would do if she attempted to kiss him. Would she scream and call for help or did her willingness yesterday mean something? Sandor wondered if she had been delirious from the beating Joffrey had commanded. He felt ill as he remembered the way she had crumpled as Meryn's mailed fist sank into her stomach. His little bird had looked so fragile and he had felt the weight of her gaze. She was waiting for something, her perfect knight to jump in and save her. Sandor Clegane was not her perfect knight however, surely his little bird knew that by now.
Two weeks passed and the Red Keep watched the approach of Stannis's army with trepidation. Nobody had expected such a huge host, nobody but the Imp, the only person more loathed than Sandor Clegane within the Red keep. He had been a busy little Imp, preparing his chain across the Blackwater river and building three giant scorpions that Joffrey was keen to play with when battle was joined. The Hound had grown tired of the long war councils, the endless days standing in a stuffy chamber without so much as a glimpse of his little bird. He yearned to see her but couldn't explain where the feeling came from. She was a stupid little bird, believing that some knight would rescue her rather than rape her if the Red keep fell. Sandor wondered whether he would be able to protect her or if his little bird knew better by now.
