Fear is a strange creature. Things that frighten one man leave another unmoved. Sandor remembered a man he had once served with, a tall man called Pasco. He had been a vicious, tough bastard; afraid of no-one. Sandor had watched him bash the brains out of any opponent. He had been born on the iron islands, which was ironic because Pasco was terrified of the sea. He had fled his homeland as soon as he could gather the courage to get on a ship and sail to King's Landing. Once there, he swore he would never get on a boat again. Not in this lifetime. Once you know a man's weakness, Sandor thought, you have power over them. Pasco hated Sandor, took every opportunity to taunt him, antagonise him. Why he had decided to make himself an enemy, Sandor did not know, although it wasn't unusual, everyone hated and feared the Cleagane brothers. When you are afraid of something, you despise it.

His thoughts were back in the past, turning over different memories of battle, of different times he had taken a life. His thoughts were melancholic this morning, he had to leave Sansa sleeping and escape into the woods. Grendle was not back yet from a simple task and although he trusted the boy to return, he couldn't help worrying about him. He anxiety turned into fear and dark, morbid thoughts. His mind circled around the murders he had committed. He took each death that he remembered and held it up to the light and examined it like a jewel, trying to glean some knowledge from it. Something to help him in this death task he was about to attempt; travelling beyond the wall.

So, how had he killed Pasco? One evening Sandor had been sat in a brothel, drinking wine and watching the women twining themselves into some erotic contortions. No man spoke to him. He had no friends. Pasco had stumbled in, already pissed out of his mind. He had fixed his watery green eyes upon the Hound and decided to have some fun with him. Standing over him, Pasco began to insult him and point out his deformities. The Hound had ignored him for a while; he was just an annoying fly buzzing around a dog. Then the ignorant twat had lent forward and touched his face. Just a fleeting touch, it hardly registered but the Hound had felt a deep hatred rise in his gut and he had punched Pasco straight in the face, knocking him unconscious. What he did next was revolting, it was cruel and he wondered how he could even let Sansa stand near him when things like this were blackening his soul. I am evil, the Hound thought, I am a killer.

He had taken the unconscious iron born son of a bitch and gone to the docks. He had slung him over his shoulder, a dark haze of anger and hatred had blurred all his thoughts. His only desire was vengeance against this person who had insulted him. Pasco hung there limply; he stank of the mackerel he had eaten for his last supper. The Hound had felt no shred of mercy as he had tied him into a shallow rowing boat. He waited for Pasco to wake up and then the Hound had leant his massive torso over him so their faces were nearly touching.

'Know where you are, you bastard?'

Pasco became aware of the ropes and the gentle toss and movement of the waves. He began to frantically move his limbs to loosen the fastenings, but it was no good, he was tired securely. He began to beg in a panic filled voice. 'Mercy, mercy Clegane, I beg you.'

'No mercy,' the Hound frowned at him, 'didn't your mother teach you not to tease a dog?'

Then he stabbed him in the stomach, a wound designed to kill him slowly, days would pass in sluggish agony. In his personal hell, floating in that wooden boat, Pasco's life blood would slowly fill his gut. Pain and torture were guaranteed. The dying man's eyes had filled with tears and he had closed them, a look of utter terror affixed upon his iron born features. The Hound had felt nothing, no remorse, nothing except satisfaction as he kicked the boat out into the bay and watched the tide take it.

The huge man was stood in the gloom of the trees, just behind the cottage, as these dark thoughts filled his mind. The others slept deeply, all relying on him to make decisions. They could sleep because he, Sandor Clegane, the Hound, the ruthless killer made them feel safe. They had cast their lot in with a murderer to lead them to safety and the only place he could think of that was out of the reach of all of the bastard Lords who desired to have Sansa, was beyond the wall. He hadn't thought of Pasco since the day he had killed him but tonight the shadows of the dead were visiting him. Their thin and fragile shades surrounded him. Each man or woman he had killed reared up in his mind. Most were ordered by his lion masters, but some he had killed for the pleasure of it. Or because he had felt the person deserved death, yet who was I to decide such a thing, he thought.

Now, when he thought of Sansa's trust in him, how she let him touch her and sleep next to her, how she loved him for his flaws as well as his tenderness, he felt deeply unworthy of her love. Sandor was terrified that she would realise her mistake and want to escape from him. His fear was losing Sansa and it was his weakness, the chink in his armour, the killing point. Fire paled into insignificance compared to losing her love and companionship. The huge man bowed his head as he battled with his fears, with his remorse for his past acts. He prayed to every God there was that there wouldn't be a reckoning for what he had done, for the lives he had offered up to satisfy his fraternal hatred. The world is a bloody battle, he thought, but Sansa is my peace and happiness. He had to keep her safe. There could be no ambushes that led to Harrenhal this time. No one could be allowed to come near them. He would slaughter anyone who came close to Sansa or the boy.

The boy trusted him as well, with a simple devotion, following him without question because he had rescued him from his hell of a home. The Hound clenched his fists as he thought about how he wished someone had rescued him when he was a boy. His life had been a violent hell. He had escaped but only with more killing, more blood. No peace, until he held Sansa.

Sandor knew that he owed his only happiness to Grendle and that was why he had agreed to let him come with them. Not only that, he was bloody handy with a knife and knew how to look after Stranger. He also did as he was told. He had smoked and prepared all of that damn fish with only a smattering of cheek. Then he had happily set off the following morning to the closest village to fetch news, wine and some heavy leather straps to fix the Hound's armour. The Hound had to admit that he liked his company too. Grendle was the first child he had ever been interested in. Joffrey had been a stupid, cowardly fool. In comparison Grendle was a bloody genius. His rescue of Sansa had been audacious and brilliant. Even as the Hound thought about it a smile turned up the corners of his ruined mouth. Grendle was a useful little sod to have around but he could fuck off with that Squire nonsense. Where was he though? The Hound squinted into the gloom but no Grendle appeared. He should have been here hours ago, he thought and dark fear settled in him like ice. Don't punish me for my past sins, he prayed to the Seven gods and the old, the ones that he didn't even believe in.

'Wake up Sansa,' the Hound picked her up wrapped in the blanket and kissed her face, 'the sun will be rising soon so we must leave now. Come, say your goodbyes to the old woman.'

The redheaded young woman rubbed her eyes sleepily and tried to kiss his mouth but he smiled crookedly and pulled away. 'No time, never enough time, is there little bird? One day we will have a real bed to lie in for days, I promise. Now, get dressed and gather your things.'

Sansa watched him climb down the ladder. The light was thin, the sun was nearly here. She stood, unsteadily and dressed as a boy. It made sense to keep the disguise for now. Grendle had offered to hack her hair again with fingers that smelt like trout but the Hound had growled at him to bugger off. Sandor had taken Sansa into the stable and sat her on a wooden bench. He took the knife and kissed her for a long time before he began to cut her hair. His fingers had been so gentle. He stroked every inch of her scalp and down her neck. Between each strand of hair he trimmed he kissed her and whispered how beautiful she was. Sansa had closed her eyes and enjoyed the feel of his long fingers as they massaged her skin, the warmth of his breath as he spoke sweet words in his deep, grumbling tone. When he placed both rough skinned hands on to her soft, slim shoulders, it made her aware of how huge he was, how small she was in comparison. With him close by she felt safe. It made her desire to lean into his body and just melt into his embrace for days but reality had required them to stand up and get on with their tasks, preparing for the long journey north.

And now they were leaving. Sansa could hear the horse being led into the yard and knew Sandor was attaching all of their packs to Stranger. They were going to walk, 'For now,' the Hound had said, 'until we have a better plan.'

She followed him into the yard. Pearl was moving about like a fluttering insect, not resting on one place for more than a second. She was speaking softly to Sandor and Sansa moved closer to join them.

'Is Grendle not returned yet?' Sansa heard Pearl asking him. They had expected him back the previous evening. Sansa had been keen to show off her new knowledge of herbs and flower remedies by brewing him a soothing tea to rest him after his journey but he hadn't appeared. The Hound had been jolly, drinking different fruit wines and telling them not to worry about the daft little sod. But Sansa knew him well enough now to know that he too was anxious.

Now the horse was ready, their packs were stowed and the Hound had cut Sansa a long elm stick to help her walk through the trees, 'or bash any bugger that comes near you with it.'

Then they ran out of things to say to each other, the fear dried their tongues and they stood in the gloom waiting for Grendle.