As Sansa was explaining her situation, Sandor just sat there. Head in his hands, occasionally shaking his shoulders with what Sansa thought was grief but in reality he was laughing; at her, at Joffery, and at himself. It was a sad sounding laugh, hollow, and desperate, mirroring how awful their situation was. But as Sansa mentioned, quite awkwardly I might add, what the punishment for not being satisfactory was, the part with Sandor directly involved, Sandor peeked through his fingers, silver eyes glinting, on fire. Then he threw back his head and chuckled, only once or twice, but it was the laughter of a cornered man, one who knew that his only existence in life was to act as a punishment to beautiful maidens.

How hilarious it was; the only woman to ever grace his presence with hers would be shipped off to a whore house to be put out for other men, and the best part! She would be given to him if deemed not good enough in bed, how uncannily horrid this whole endeavor was! Not that he didn't want her.

"Well, this is the best I have ever seen Joff at, dontcha think, little bird? He does have a knack for being a prick, now what do we do," Sandor said all in one exhale, he was feeling rushed, and claustrophobic. There was a dark voice in his mind that wanted, oh so desperately, for Sansa to be his. Ever since he had seen the girl he had been wanting her, but had never given it any deeper thought, thinking his was a face too hideous for such an innocent, pure creature to look upon with love. Forget lust, he did not think Sansa capable of the thing, but not as if he blamed her; after all the men in her life had either been killed or the killers.

Besides! She was to be a queen, and he was just the lackey bodyguard of the spoiled, young sociopath that sat on the throne next to her. Sandor had always reasoned that Sansa thought him vile and despicable, and no matter how hard he went into his drinks or women, the thought still hurt him.

Sighing inwardly and growling outwardly, Sandor heaved himself up off the bed. He suddenly could not be this near to her, the possibility that she could be his was too tempting, too maddening. He should not be happy, but his one lonesome dream might come true. Now he only had to make sure that the little bird was kept locked up in Petyr's establishment instead of being sold.

And Baelish. Sandor had never trusted that man; Lord Littlefinger was too cunning by a half, he always knew what the next move was in this game of thrones, and he always came out on top. And that was what Sandor feared the most, that Petyr would be the one in charge of Sansa, that he would be the one to bed her, first. A ridiculous jealousy surged through Sandor's enormous body and he snarled deep and menacing, not caring what Sansa would think, he threw a fist out hitting her bedpost and splintering the wood, collecting various minor injuries that would remind him later of his useless envy.

He looked towards her not giving a rat's ass if she saw the burned and twisted flesh of that side of his face, and glancing down he saw her true self, a pale and tiny woman aged and wise beyond her years. Sandor felt guilty, an emotion he was not used to feeling, it was unwelcome.

"Sorry about that little bird. You should sleep now, girl, they will be coming for you at first light," He managed to avoid her pleading eyes as he said it, instead focusing on the hollow spot below her next, above her full bust, and pondering inwardly about how it would taste. Coughing he excused himself by merely walking to the door, unlatching it, looking over his shoulder and giving her a fleeting pitiful look. Sandor was sure she saw it, her eyes widened and she looked like she was about to call him back. Expectantly Sandor hovered by the door, oddly touched that she would call him back, yet nothing was said and the silence hung down, heavy and unbearable. Standing up Sansa slowly walked over to him, silent on her feet and graceful beyond her age.

Without looking at him, instead focusing on his wrinkled shirt front, she implored, "You will help me won't you? I know that Joffery will be wroth if he knew, but please, I do not think I can do this on my own. You are my only friend here," Stunned into speechlessness Sandor could only dumbly nod his head, his mouth slightly ajar and twitching. When he didn't make a move towards the door, Sansa rambled on, absentmindedly twisting his shirt fabric between her fingers, "I am afraid, Joffery is trying his best to hurt me, I have no dignity left for him to take, but he could..always think of other things to do to me," Her eyes brimmed, yet again on the verge of sobbing, this was too much for her; her ultimatum with Joffery, the threat of being given to the giant next to her, and her unwanted feelings for him, all looming over her, squeezing the air out of her throat. Sansa was drowning again, this endless torture was taking its toll on her mind, she couldn't think clearly, everything was foggy and the whole world seemed darker, a pale grey mist covered everything.

Sandor felt compelled to wrap his arms around her small frame, bring her close to him and comfort her, promise her that nothing would ever hurt her again. But he couldn't, he could not bring himself to give her such empty promises to depend on. She deserved better, she deserved longevity, and warmth, and a household of servants to wait on her, she deserved her freedom. And he could not give her such things, so why let her create such delusions of grandeur of him?

Sandor gently detached himself from her long, pale fingers, smoothed down his shirt, and without looking back he walked out of her chamber, shutting the door on her, out of sight out of mind.

Sansa stared at the trailing carvings on the wood door, the mahogany was mocking her, its simplicity reflected everything she wanted in life.

Ever since she was young Sansa had only wanted one thing; a hero from song and a life of peaceful prosperity. Sansa had always been the good child, following orders and obedient, she had never played outside, preferring to stay by her mother's side to learn how to sew, and speak properly, how to sing, and take care of a house; how to be a true lady. She was blessed with the Tully hair and eyes, but she forever lacked the backbone of a northerner. She could never harm anyone or anything intentionally, and yet she knew all too well how to play the game of thrones regardless of her purity. She knew what to say and how to get ahead, and no one paid attention to the sullen beautiful maiden, so Sansa often over heard things not meant for her ears. She had even gained the respect of Tyrion Lannister, and had refused his help to escape the marriage between the two houses. Though she regretted turning down the Imp's help every waking hour of her existence.

She seemed to float back to her bed, and she striped of her clothes, looking at the clasp at the back of her dress where Joffery's greasy fingers had left smudges on her gown. Her frozen heart thawed at the sight of those reminders that he had dared touch her, she was infuriated at her own incompetence, how she was unable to fight her fate.

She dug her nails into the cloth, and tore at it with all her might, venting her frustrations at the world, she knew Joffrey would be wroth with her, he loved that color on her, he had said "It made her more easy on the eyes, as long as she did not speak she would be beautiful".

But she did not care, she could still feel the tender yellow and purple bruises over her body, and her lip was still healing from when one of the White Cloaks had hit her with a mailed fist. She remembered how giddy Joffery had been as she had bled in front of him. She didn't realize how strong she was, or how flimsy her dress had been for it lay on her bed with tears running down it.

She stripped down further, taking off every article of clothing, as an direct order from Joffrey, Sansa was to sleep in the nude. It was dehumanizing to be told how to do every aspect of living, from what to eat, to what to wear, to how to sleep. She felt like one of those exotic animals trapped in a gilded cage, prodded and laughed at by everyone, her life on display for the sickened masses.

But she was too exhausted to entertain these saddening thoughts, she needed her rest if she was going to survive. Petyr Baelish was a family friend, he had loved her mother when they were kids, so she was content to believe that he would help her escape, if not help her survive.

Falling on the bed, Sansa crept underneath her sheets, and curled up, clutching a pillow to her chest, playing pretend that it was Lady. She felt like weeping, but she was too emotionally drained to exert that much energy. Resigned to face her fate on the morrow, Sansa closed her eyes and drifted off, the last thing she wanted was to have that nightmare again, but the warm spot on her bed where Sandor had sat, comforted her. It reminded her that he would protect her, and she knew that she wasn't going to dream so long as she remembered the concern alight in his eyes. And so she fell into a deep slumber, The Hound's face being the last thing she saw.

okay first off

I am so sorry for not updating on this site as often as I should, right now this story has 9 chapters, around 18,485 words and ALL of the chapters are posted on Archive Of Our Own, or AO3, it has the same title and I am under the pen name 123scout123

I will try to update all of the chapters on this website, but in the meantime go check out the story on the other website! k?

And secondly I would really love some critiques on this story, pleassseeee :)

Thank you for reading and I hope you all have wonderful days :):)