Two in one day, not bad right?!

Woe is me
Faithless you and selfish me

Sandor has not paid for a whore in a long, long while.

And it's not…she's…Sansa's not the only reason. It wears and tears at his pride; it forces him to remember what he looks like, and how other people see him.

But the gnawing sense of loneliness has him hiring a hooker.

When asked his preferences he growls out not a redhead and slams down the phone.

It's a small blonde that shows up at the gates a few hours later; Baelish always delivers.

The whole thing is over before it really even starts. She can barely look at his face and he hers and what the fuck else is new. Because it's shame and guilt he feels even as she wraps her legs around him, puts her hand down his pants, and ask him if he likes it.

And it's you don't owe her anything you don't owe her anything she's not your goddamn girlfriend he's trying to remind himself over and over.

He walks the girl out because you're not really supposed to hire woman to have sex with you on the Lannister dime, but Sandor's not central enough they usually look the other way. Usually.

And the girl has grown friendlier, bolder. Because he supposes despite his twisted face he's probably a pretty good customer, would make a decent good regular; he pays and he doesn't slap women around.

"Call me anytime, baby." She's saying with a smile, her hand on his chest. And he's nodding to her with a tight smile, until he looks up.

And for the first time in days he's looking right into blue eyes.

Sansa's eyes are on the hand on his chest, widening with realization. Sandor's wishing he would have taken the time to throw a shirt on, but really who was he supposed to run into this time of night?

Sansa fucking Stark. Of course.

She's opening and closing her mouth before settling on a quiet sorry, her head bowed. And he's reminded of why he started calling her little bird, of her chirping endless courtesies.

And the blonde (Renee, Rita?) is smiling, pulling her arm back to her side, looking at Sandor.

"You should be in your room." He barks out. He's trying to ignore the way his heart's beating out of his chest, pushing down the urge to apologize back to her.

It's a flash of hurt across her face before the mask she has perfected here slides into place.

And brute he is, feels triumph at being able to hurt her. She's jealous.

"And you should be seeing your guest out. Goodnight, Mr. Clegane." She nods to Renee (he's pretty confident), and is off down the hall.

"Hope that doesn't get you in trouble." Renee says with a smile.

He gets her out the door with a couple of noncommittal grunts to call her, and before he realizes where he's going he's off on the hallway Sansa went down. Sandor is justifying it with the excuse to make sure she is okay and she got back to her room fine. But if he's being honest…

When he gets there the door is closed and he loses his nerve. He presses an ear to the door, hoping to any of the gods that will listen that she will not chose this moment to open it.

It's soft, her crying on the other side. And suddenly he doesn't feel so good for the look on her face earlier.

His stomach bottoms out, and his fists clench at his hair. He reaches for the door handle until he remembers that she ended whatever the fuck it was between them.

To protect you, you worthless dog.

Because he has to remind himself that it's not Sansa's fault for any of this; he only has his employers to blame.

And if the girl has any chance, she has to get out of here.

He failed her once, with Joffrey's botched murder attempt. But he won't fail her again.

He can't afford to.