Sansa's wrists burned. Her arms were pulled behind her back and her hands were tied. She was standing as still as she could on the tilting deck, a stinging spray fizzing onto her face. Her stomach was wrung out with sickness and fear. Two men stood either side of her, but at least their swords were lowered.

It was worse for the Hound. After the men had entered their chamber, he had leapt up and bashed the skulls of two of them against the wall, and was going for a third when he was overpowered and the captain put a dagger to his throat. Now, as well as his hands, his ankles were tied together and five men stood guard around him, the points of their swords pressed against his neck and chest. When the ship rolled, they made a play of losing their balance, their blades jerking, laughing heartily. Blood trickled from a cut on his eyebrow, but he didn't seem to notice. He didn't look at Sansa, just growled at them all, telling them that he'd take them apart with his bare hands once he was free.

It didn't look like they were going to be free anytime soon. The great castle brooded above them, sharply angled and impossibly dark with the pale dawn light behind it. The thin, jutting battlements made her think of the card-stacking game she and Arya would play when they were younger. Each tower had small, deadly-looking turrets, and she could see the shapes of gargoyles gesticulating down at her accusingly. She shuddered.

It took all five men to haul the Hound to his feet, and when they did, he went to head-butt one of them and another hit him on the ear with the hilt of his sword. The Hound stumbled and spat on the deck. They pushed him towards Sansa as the steep cliff walls made everything grow darker again, the boat sliding into harbour. When he caught her eye, his furious eyes turned foggy.

'I'm sorry, little bird.' His voice was as heavy as an anchor.

Sansa shook her head and spoke quietly. 'You didn't know.'

'I should have.' He looked up at the black stone. 'And now I've brought you to an even worse fate.'

'It could never be worse.' She lowered her voice further. 'Sandor –' he flinched at the use of his name – 'I want you to know – I am so very grateful for what you did. For helping me.'

She leant her body against his arm. He was almost trembling.

'Some help,' he said hoarsely.

*S*S*S*S*S*S

The stairway seemed to go on forever. Perhaps they would emerge up amongst the clouds, she thought, not quite believing that they were here, in the first house of the Targaryens. Dragons were everywhere – curving claws held up the torches on the walls, and snarling faces glared down at her from archways. Everything seemed very cold, and slick with damp. She could see her breath misting the air in front of her.

They were led to a central keep, and into a large room that faced the slate-grey sea, with curving stone arches open to the buffeting wind. In the middle of the room was the largest table she had ever seen, but certainly not one you could hold a feast upon. It was strangely-carved, and knobbled with ridges and bumps. Parts of it were painted dark-green, others grey, with thick blue veins running through it. It was a map. A map of Westeros.

'I had not thought to find you within these walls, Lady Sansa.'

Sansa's heart jerked. A man was sitting on a high chair on her right, high enough that one could see the whole table from it. Another man stood alert next to the throne, his hands folded behind his back.

The seated man rose and descended the stone steps, stopping a few hands away from her. His dark hair was receding slightly and he wore dull black leather. The gaunt, tight-stretched skin of his face made her think of leather, too.

He drew his eyebrows together and gazed at her, a look of cool stone and steel. 'You are Lady Sansa Stark, are you not?'

Sansa glanced at the Hound, who was flanked by guards. His shoulders sagged and he gave the faintest nod. 'Yes, ser,' she said.

'Yes, your Grace.'

This was Stannis? He had the same blunt northern vowels as King Robert, but none of the richness, either in his voice or in his manner.

'I'm sorry, yes, your Grace.'

'Untie her, then.' A guard came and undid the ropes from her hands. She rubbed her thumb on her wrist and tried to look for Winterfell on the table. 'I might have almost taken you for one of my own kin.' Stannis' eyes flickered over her hair. 'I'd word that you were a redhead.'

Sansa darted a look at the Hound again. Stannis had not asked him to be untied. He stood awkwardly, looking defiant. 'I – I am, your Grace, but – '

'Go on.'

'I was escaping.' She looked at the floor. 'Trying to escape.'

Stannis pulled his bottom lip in with a front tooth, looking at her thoughtfully. 'And why would you want to do that?'

Sansa took a deep breath. 'King Jo- Joffrey wanted to marry me to Lord Tyrion, your Grace.'

Stannis' shoulders stiffened. Of course, he would hold no love for the man who poured wildfire on half of his ships, and trapped the dying with that great sea-chain. 'A tall thing like you and the Imp? I'd like to have seen that.'

He continued to gaze at her. She might as well have been looking at a cliff-face. He didn't seem to breathe. Then his eyes moved past her ear and further behind her. 'And why, pray, are you with this one, my lady?'

Sansa turned to face the Hound, who still had ropes binding his arms behind him. The blood from his eyebrow had pooled into his beard, and glistened there. 'This is Sandor Clegane, your Grace. He helped me escape.'

'I know who he is.' Stannis walked over to him, only reaching the Hound's shoulders. 'You killed a lot of my men.'

The Hound sniffed and looked at the wall. 'Ay, probably I did. It's what you do when you're Kingsguard.'

'Guard to a boy who would be king. A usurper. A result of incest.'

'Not my place to question the king.' The Hound slid his eyes to Stannis. 'A king. Your Grace.' There was the merest trace of sarcasm in his voice.

'My sons had the skin melted off their bones by your wildfire.' The other man stepped closer to them all. He was heavily bearded, and his skin was reddish and flaked.

The Hound eyed him, disinterested. 'You think I like fire?' He jerked the burnt side of his face towards the man. 'Not my doing.'

Stannis didn't move. 'Pray explain why you're not with your boy king now.'

The Hound's eyes flitted towards Sansa's and to the wall again. 'Every man has his limits.'

Stannis turned back to Sansa. 'The captain of the Sunfish said you were engaged in bed with him.'

Sansa felt her neck redden. 'I was very sick, your Grace, from the boat. And frightened. He was just – comforting me.'

Stannis frowned at her. 'Not very seemly behaviour for a highborn girl.'

'N- no, your Grace.' The Hound's eyes clouded slightly, then.

'And who did that to you?' Stannis' eyes were on her bruised cheek.

'One of the – Joffrey's guards.' She looked at her feet. 'What will you do with us, your Grace?'

'Us?' The word was light, tossed in the air, disappearing out to sea. 'You, my lady, shall be my guest for now. You're going to be useful to me.' Stannis looked musingly at the Hound. 'A butcher, traitor, and kidnapper. I should execute you myself.'

Sansa's breath snagged.

The Hound's face set. 'Go on, then.'

'Your Grace –' the bearded man spoke. 'It might be worth keeping hold of him. He could tell us quite a bit about the state of the city, the guards.'

Stannis remained looking at the Hound, a statue. Then he sniffed and addressed the guards. 'Take him to the cells. Let him rot for now.'

*S*S*S*S*S*S

Fuck them all. Fuck the Lannisters. Fuck the Baratheons. Fuck the Starks.

Smells like death down here. They dragged me over a stone bridge so high I swear I saw my heart smash down there on the rocks. And now I'm slung in a cell that sounds like it's under the sea. There's a fucking starfish on the wall, and seaweed like dripping snot, which means that if a storm comes, I'm fucked.

I know what he'll do, that saddle-faced blackheart. Hostage her, marry her off to any half-bred Baratheon he can find, and kill me, soon enough. Don't know what I'm doing wasting down here. Someone give me a sword and let me fight my way to death.

I try and remember what it was like with my arm round her. Ribs under my forearm. She didn't pull away, scurry to the far edge of the bed. She'd - stayed.

She smelt of vomit, and I didn't care. I would have kissed her and it would have been as sweet as a summer orchard.

Still, she's realised her mistake now. She was ashamed to have been found in bed with me. Course she was. Me a bit of midborn rot and her –

Hells, it's cold.