Three

Sansa's cold body disappeared from Sandor's arms when he heard the painted toad again, about to break down his door.

"Get up, Hound!" Blount yelled. "Stannis won't wait."

"Go bugger yourself with a hot poker!" the Hound's head was pounding. Too much wine. He nevertheless emptied the flagon on his bedside table. By the time he was done, he remembered two different dreams of that same day… One in which he seriously considered taking and murdering Sansa, and another in which Ser Ilyn Payne had done a better job about the killing part.

He looked at his left hand, searching for the traces of where she had bitten him when he treated her wound. There were none.

A stupid dream.

Heading to the throne room and to the King's Gate was entirely too familiar. The recollections of his dreams became very vivid and almost as horrifying as the fire he knew was coming.

He concluded he needed to stay and fight on. It was the only way to avoid both of his dreams coming true. So when the Imp ordered him out for the fourth time, he swallowed his fear and his pride, slammed his dented helm back on his face and went.

The world was on fire.

He cut through flesh and through flames and he cried as he did that, just like when he was a little boy burning in Gregor's hands. His tears were warm inside his helm and he had to swallow them as well, lest they cloud his vision. He had no desire to be sent on a journey through seven hells by the hand of some less fearful bugger. The gash on his face hurt and he earned two more on his arms, on the weaker part of his armour.

"Renly, Renly!" voices began calling just when he could no longer endure. By then, he believed he would drown in his fear. Clamour dragged him back to life.

Renly was dead and the dead could not come back to life. There was indeed a man with antlered helm and a banner with the golden rose behind him. It could mean only one thing. Lord Tywin was coming to break the siege and he'd won the alliance of the Tyrells to defeat Stannis.

The Hound looked through his tears at all the burning. Most of his men were dead, dying or engaged in a fight. He was leading no one. He didn't know where the Imp was and he doubted he would be the Hand of the King much longer after the return of his father to the capital

He stumbled back to the gates. The few men who were not dying paid him no attention. The battle was losing breath. He ran back to the Red Keep. He had to know he was right. The battle was won and Cersei would not send Ser Ilyn Payne after Sansa in her mindless revenge.

He entered into only one tavern on the way back and took two flagons of wine without paying for them. He made a mental note to pay on the morrow. He drank just enough to stop shaking, and not a drop more. His body became lighter, his tears dried.

He climbed the stairs leading to the little bird's room and heard the excited… male voice. She was not alone. With as much stealth as he could muster in his happy, inebriated condition, he approached the open door. It was the fool, Ser Dontos, telling her about the glory of the battle and the knights… the knights…. He chattered and she chirped some more…. He was too giddy to pay attention to what they were saying.

The Hound was strong again. He'd not let the ugly bugger fill the little bird's head with horseshit. He grabbed him by the collar and tossed him out. The fool scrambled down the stairs and never looked back.

"Did he bother you?" he asked Sansa.

Finding another man in his room with her, unattractive as he was, suddenly made him irascible.

Wait, it is her room, not mine, Sandor realised he had just thought of her room as his.

"Or is he now your true knight?" the Hound sneered.

"No, my lord," she stuttered and he could tell she was lying. A will to grasp her chin and force her to look at him began ravaging his soul.

Before he could act on it, she asked, "Why are you here?"

Because I think about you day and night.

Just like in that first dream, her fear was mounting. And this time, seeing her afraid quenched, rather than stirred his anger.

"I never had my song," he complained weakly, keeping his hands to himself.

She didn't say he frightened her this time. "Florian and Jonquil," she offered it freely.

"Bugger the fool and his cunt," he barked back. Sometimes anything she said angered him, for no reason at all.

Dead tired, he told her about his weakness, or as much as he could. "I want to sleep in your bed. Just this once. I don't expect you to be in it, but, truth be told, I'd love it if you were. I need to sleep."

He cantered past her and lay on her bed in full armour. Greatsword bothered him on his back, so he put it under the bed, his sword and his dagger, both. Sprawled between her sheets, he breathed in her scent. Then, he was at peace, just like that first night… Wine could never give him that.

Only this time, he didn't leave the battle.

He could sleep now, and on the next day, everything would be the same as the day before. He would be the dog, and she the king's betrothed, to be beaten at will.

The oblivion was almost there when the mattress sank, imperceptibly. Sansa sat on the edge of it, as far as possible from him, yet there she was.

"Is this.. sweet?" she wondered.

"Yes," he said with more longing than he wanted to let show.

"Sweeter than killing?"

He nodded with his eyes, without thinking. Sansa exhaled prettily, wringing her hands in her lap. "I was so afraid," she said.

"Not anymore?" he heard himself asking. She just shook her head. It was little, it was nothing, but it pleased him immensely. He was a monster in her bed and she didn't fear him.

"Was it horrible? The battle? Everyone trying to kill you?" she sounded naturally curious.

"I don't give a rat's arse about men trying to kill me," he muttered, "as long as they are not on fire."

"Oh," Sansa made a significant sound, as if he'd just confirmed something of paramount importance.

The stench of wildfire was still drifting into the chamber through the open shutters, mingling with the fresh morning breeze from the distant sea.

"Look at me," he said. She did, for a moment, and then she averted her eyes again.

"There is a wound on your forehead, and blood all over your face," she almost hurried to explain her behaviour. Her words sounded true enough.

"It won't kill me," he muttered. A wish took over. Would she do it, this once?

"Look at me as I fall asleep," he tried to command her as he did with men, but his bark came out more as a plea. "You could sing if you wish… the Mother's hymn."

She did. He closed his eyes. Swiftly, her little hand was on his scars, and her voice caressed his soul. It was not tremulous as that first night; it was...

A loving voice? The thought was unseemly for the Hound, yet there it was, in his harsh head.

Seven heavens, he thought. He had never felt better while falling asleep.