Sandor eyed Sansa across the great hall. She was flushed with anticipation, which only made her more appealing. She was talking and laughing with her friends. Sandor might as well have been scaling the far side of the Wall, for all the notice she took of him. He'd done many, many things to change that lately but, to his frustration, nothing worked. Sandor himself wasn't certain why he was making such an obvious blunder, but he felt compelled to do it just the same. She effected the tide within him, pulling him toward her, and then pushing him away simply by her very nature. Tonight, they were being "treated" to a singer. Sandor would have gladly foregone the dubious pleasure but he knew Sansa would be there and so he'd put on a fresh tunic and breeches and had shown up. He sat far enough to the side to not have to pay attention to the singer but close enough to the front to be able to see Sansa. As the singer and his accompanying musicians came out to enthusiastic applause, Sandor took a sip from his flagon and let his mind wander. It didn't wander far - it went where it always did - to Sansa. But why? They'd grown up together, after all. Or, she'd grown up with him. So why, suddenly, was his head full of her? Why was he hopelessly and pointlessly attracted to a girl he'd known for all the years of his life that had mattered?

The upbeat opening notes were at odds with Sandor's bloody thoughts. The day Gregor had murdered their father, Sandor had fled his home and made his way to Casterly Rock where he served under Tywin Lannister during Robert's Rebellion. He'd been consumed with loathing for his brother but wasn't fool enough to think he was a match for him - yet. Sandor savored his first taste of combat. Every opponent was Gregor and he fought with a ferociousness that drew the attention first of the other men and then of his new king.

Robert had clapped a hand on his shoulder and laughed from his belly. "That'll do, boy. You can only kill them once," he'd said.

Lord Stark had been there, too, a look of distaste on his face.

Sandor liked Robert. He'd fought a war and won it, and Sandor wanted his favor. As the campaign came to a close, Sandor hovered more and more around the royal tents. He wanted to offer his services to Robert but couldn't risk offending Lord Tywin. He had yet to figure out how to broach the subject, assuming the king would even see him, so he resorted to listening in on whatever he could hear, wherever he could hear it. One day, he overheard a servant boy saying he was bringing the king more ale. Sandor slinked after him and, grabbing a basket of something or other as a cover, made his way to the rear of the tent.

Sandor determined the only people in the tent were King Robert and Lord Stark. As they had a dull conversation about supplies, Sandor wondered how they'd ever become friends. Lord Stark fought well enough but lacked utterly Robert's enjoyment of life. War, wine, and women - that was the future Sandor wanted. He could dispatch his brother, become head of House Clegane and lord of its keep, enjoy the favor of both the Lannisters and Baratheons, and bed the stream of willing women who'd make their way to his lands once . . . what? Hmmm . . . Sandor wondered. What would bring the ladies to his bed? It rankled him to know it wouldn't be his looks but surely, as lord of even a small keep . . . would it be enough? He was shaken out of his fantasy by the sound of his own name. He'd been so distracted by thoughts of the future that he'd nearly missed the fact that his future was currently under discussion.

"The boy fights like a demon," Robert noted.

Sandor's heart beat faster in his chest. What had he missed?

"That he does," Lord Stark agreed.

"I'd send him back to Casterly Rock, get him trained properly, but there's no sense in giving Lord Tywin an advantage."

No! thought Sandor. He needed to be in King Robert's service. If the king became his champion, extracting his revenge on Gregor would be a far easier task. Lord Tywin was a powerful man, but Ser Gregor was one of his bannermen and, so, had his protection, to an extent.

"If the boy lives long enough to become one," Lord Stark replied.

Piss off, Sandor thought.

"He's Ser Gregor's brother. Some bad blood there, to hear the young one tell it. I've half a mind to keep him myself but Cersei . . ."

"But Cersei what?"

"He's still young enough to need a firm hand. You saw him. Left to himself he'll grow wild."

"Like you."

Robert laughed. "Take him home with you. Train him for me. I may need him one day, if he's anything like his brother."

Sandor's heart sagged. He'd liked Casterly Rock well enough. King's Landing seemed even better, what little he'd seen of it. There was nothing but nothing happening in the north - besides it being balls-freezing cold and boring. And he wasn't like his brother.

"I don't know, Robert. Cat . . ."

"Cat what?"

Lord Stark sighed. And that sigh sealed Sandor's fate.

Sandor glanced over at Lord and Lady Stark. They were listening attentively to some wailing in their honor. Lady Catelyn was smiling and nodding her head along with the music. Lord Stark maintained a polite expression. Past them, Sansa had her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands, a smile lighting up her face. When someone offered him something harder than wine, Sandor took two long slugs.

Sandor hadn't thought Lord and Lady Stark would be a family for him and they weren't. He'd had more than one sharp word from his lady over the years and he saw, clearly and repeatedly, her preference for her own children over all others. There was no warmth for him from her. Sandor avoided her. Maybe that's why, now, he couldn't recall much of Sansa's childhood. He barely saw her between her mother, her septa, and Septon Chayle. She was still little when he found himself interested in girls and not much older when he first snuck off into the woods with one of the kitchen maids.

Sandor's first clear memory of Sansa was when she must have been about 8 and he was 16. She'd skipped over to him, presented him with a flower, and wished him a happy name day. Sandor still had no idea how she'd found out when his name day was, but she presented him with a gift each year. Usually a flower, once a leaf, once an unidentifiable drawing, a girly bracelet of twisted embroidery thread. Once she'd given him a lemon cake that she'd clearly coveted herself. When Sandor had split it in half under the pretext of never being able to finish the whole thing on his own, she'd been nearly ecstatic. He'd been amused, then, at how easy it was to please her, a feat he no longer had any idea how to achieve. He wished, now, that he'd kept some of the things she'd given him.

Sandor remembered more of her brothers, having spent time in the yard and even a few lessons with them. They were nice boys. Not like him. They had the right family and the right name and parents who cared about them. It made him sick by turns. Their goodness. Their polite manners. It could be grating. He was jealous, sometimes, of the interest their father took in them and the love their mother showed them, but, being older and lucky to be there at all, he could never show it. There weren't many others his age. It was as though he'd been born during some kind of baby drought. Still, he figured he couldn't complain. He had food, clothes, a warm bed, a good sword, and armor worthy of his skill. He also had a measure of respect and acceptance among the household that he suspected he would not have had elsewhere.

Not that Sandor was friendly with everyone. Robb, Jon, and some of the older boys, yes, but not particularly Theon. He didn't usually bother himself with their children's games but one day Theon's teasing of Sansa had turned tasteless and Sandor had bloodied his nose. Sansa looked distressed over the whole event.

"You tell me if he bothers you again," Sandor had instructed her, his grip firm on her arm. Theon was no Gregor, but Sansa's hurt feelings had brought back for Sandor a rush of memories of his sister. As a child, Sandor had been unable to do much but, now, retribution was well within his power, especially against a skinny adolescent whose main talent seemed to be running his mouth.

Sansa hadn't agreed or disagreed to tell him anything, which Sandor found odd, so he took it upon himself to keep a watch over her.

"Children argue," Farlen said to him when Sandor visited the kennels, as he often did. "You're better off staying out of it."

"He shouldn't tease her." Sandor was playing with one of the puppies from the latest litter.

Farlen shrugged as though the whole matter was inconsequential. "He probably likes her. Lady Sansa is very pretty, after all, and young men are hopeless at expressing themselves."

Sandor snorted. "She's a child."

"She is Lord Stark's child, not yours."

"And Theon is his hostage. He should know his place." The puppy had sunk his teeth into Sandor's forearm and Sandor was tugging his arm back and forth, enjoying the game.

"As should you."

Sandor glared at Farlen. "As should you."

Farlen chuckled, as Sandor had known he would. "Theon's just a puppy but you're a hound for true."

"What's a hunt without a hound?" Sandor asked.

"Oh, just a ride through the woods, I suppose," Farlen said. "Still, though, mind yourself, Sandor. Intimidating Theon is beneath you. Especially at your age."

"Protecting young girls isn't," Sandor replied with no little pride.

"Lady Sansa has all the protection she needs. If she chooses to make her father aware of Theon's behavior, Lord Stark will no doubt address it."

"If she really wanted to make Theon suffer, she'd tell her mother."

Farlen gave him a look. "I'm going to presume you aren't so liberal with your speech outside of the kennels. You have a way with animals so I'll forego thinking you're stupid for now." He eyed Sandor's tug-of-war with the puppy. "You're going to spoil that dog and make him impossible to train if you keep that up. Give him here."

Sandor scooped up the puppy and was rewarded with a slurp on his cheek. He handed the dog off to Farlen.

To an extent, he took Farlen's advice, but he shadowed Sansa often enough that it became known among the younger set that anyone teasing Lady Sansa would be dealing with the older, bigger Sandor Clegane. This created even more of a distance between him and them, which generally suited him just fine. It gave him a purpose . . . one he never really had to act on besides being present, but a noble purpose nonetheless.

"You don't have to follow me all the time," Sansa said to him one day.

"I don't want Theon to upset you."

Sansa drew her eyebrows together. "Why? I mean, besides the fact that he's supposed to be polite."

Sandor had never had to articulate it before. He bristled. "It's wrong." A bully imposing his cruel will on others would always incense him. It struck him he was doing the same thing to Theon, but Sandor let the thought drop. Theon had brought it on himself and that was all the justification needed.

Sansa looked more confused than before. "Shouldn't my feelings guide the matter?"

Sandor gave her a look. Even as a girl, she had a stranglehold on propriety. "You want him speaking filth to you?"

It was Sansa's turn to give him a look. "No, but I don't want you to be mean, either. You're nice. I like it when you're nice." She laid a hand on his arm and smiled encouragingly at him.

Sandor had nothing to say to that. She was missing the point and he'd continue to defend her even if she didn't see a need for it.

A couple years later, Sansa returned the favor. During one of the Cerwyns' visits, Sandor overheard Cley ask Sansa, "What happened to his face?"

Sandor froze in the hallway. He hadn't told anyone the cause of his scars. He assumed Lord Stark had heard and possibly believed the tale put about by Sandor's father about burning bedclothes. It wasn't a topic Sandor chose to discuss.

"Sandor has always had them," Sansa said with a surprising amount of authority.

"No one is born like that."

"He could have been."

"You don't know that."

"I know it's rude to gossip."

Sandor smirked.

"It's not gossip. I'm just asking a question."

"And I answered your question. Sandor has always looked like that."

Sandor could tell the Cerwyn boy wasn't buying it but wasn't going to argue with Sansa any further.

"He's not your father's ward, right?"

"No . . . but he was raised here. He's a part of our household, just like Jory or Alyn or -"

"Is he a man-at-arms?"

"Yes, you could say that."

Sandor let them walk off. He didn't care what the Cerwyn kid thought of him or his position at Winterfell, but he was amused as all seven hells that Sansa had set him straight.

Sandor took another furtive look at Sansa. He'd never known another girl like her, and he felt certain he was one of the few who knew her delicate manners concealed a steel core.

She was clapping. He hadn't realized the song had ended but any indication the night was moving along was a good one. He was growing impatient, both with the singing and with the lack of progress with Sansa.

When the musicians started in on another ballad, he all but groaned. Sandor drained his flagon and took two more from a serving girl when she passed by. It was like waiting for a tourney to begin. He was prickling for action.

Sandor grew bigger and stronger and packed on all the muscle his imposing frame could carry. It was a thrill when Lord Stark started to allow him to compete in local tourneys. He pounded more than a few opponents into the dust. Some credited only his size but the more discerning swordsmen recognized his skill as well and a few even told him so. He saved up his prize money and went to market after market until he bought the meanest horse he could find. Lord Stark had not been pleased with his selection but his scowl didn't translate into a refusal so Sandor had ridden back to Winterfell on the biggest, blackest courser in the north. He'd named his horse Stranger, which earned him another scowl from Lady Stark, but he didn't care. Even Hullen, the master of horse, had backed away. Sandor was proud of his horse and coddled him in secret whenever he could. The only time he'd questioned his choice was when Sansa had come to see him. Stranger, not Sandor. (Of course, he thought at the memory.) She'd reached up to pet Stranger's nose and Sandor had recognized the bite that was about to happen and grabbed her arm just in time. She'd shrieked and he'd feared for a moment that he'd broken a bone but then she apologized to him while rubbing at her wrist.

"I didn't mean to scare him," she'd said, looking at him with contrite blue eyes.

He'd taken her hand in his and squeezed his way from her wrist to her elbow. "Anything hurt?"

She was about 13 or 14 years old then.

"No," she said, looking at him quizzically, her cheeks flushed.

"If you visit him more often, he'll grow used to you."

Sansa looked dubious. "Perhaps I will," she'd said.

But she hadn't. Lady Sansa didn't care for horsemanship.

When she was 15, the king had come to Winterfell with his entire family. To Sandor's surprise, Robert remembered him. They'd drunk together. A lot of them had but Sandor had not thought to be included. It seemed King Robert wasn't choosy in his company so long as the ale was flowing. He'd even pulled Sandor aside and asked him, on behalf of the queen, if he'd consider coming to King's Landing and serving as sworn shield to the young prince Joffrey. He'd found Joffrey repulsive and declined, claiming loyalty to the Starks.

Looking back now, Sandor was mildly amused at the thought that Sansa would have envied him, spending all of his time around the little blond prince. Lord Stark had reluctantly agreed to be King Robert's Hand but had refused an offer of a match between Joffrey and Sansa, to his daughter's great distress.

"It's not fair!" she'd complained to Jeyne, unaware that Sandor was behind them.

"You're better off," he'd replied.

Sansa and Jeyne both whipped around, Sansa looking hurt, Jeyne looking irritated.

"How can you say that?" Jeyne challenged. "Sansa would be queen one day!"

"She'd be miserable every day. Believe that."

"Sandor, you just don't like him because of that misunderstanding in the yard."

Sandor snorted. "That was no misunderstanding, little bird. You heard how he mocked your brothers and challenged Ser Rodrick. He's an entitled little pain in the arse. And he's not good enough for you."

Sansa's mouth fell open. Jeyne looked openly hostile and said, "You don't know him."

"And you do?"

"I know you and you just like -

"And what do you say, Lady Sansa?" Sandor asked, cutting off her friend.

"I think I'd make a good queen. I would try -"

"Aye, you'd make a good queen, and Joffrey would make a terrible king."

"He's too handsome to be terrible," Sansa said dreamily, staring off into the distance, as Jeyne nodded in vigorous assent.

Sandor couldn't stop laughing. Hard. Directly at the two of them. "Too handsome to be terrible?" he choked out.

They walked off and Sandor shook his head at how deliberately blind young girls could be.

***

Sansa had been hoping to come on the journey as well, even if just to visit the capital for a short time, but was refused.

"I don't like that Queen Cersei," he'd overheard her mother saying to her. For once, Sandor agreed with her.

When the morning of departure had finally come, Arya had skipped off with barely a look back once she'd said goodbye to her father and a few others but Sansa lingered as though, if she could just look sad enough, her father might relent and change his mind.

Sandor himself was excited to go. He wanted to be around real knights and try his skills among the best. If he somehow got the chance to obliterate his brother, all the better. But he felt for Sansa. Being in the castle all the time was boring and, obnoxious as Joffrey was, Sandor even felt a measure, a very small measure, of sympathy for her that she'd been parted from him. It's not like she could just disappear with a stable boy like he'd done with the kitchen maid at her age.

He walked over to her and raised her chin with his fingers. Sansa attempted to smile at him, but her eyes were threatening to spill over at any moment.

"What would you like from the capital? I'll bring you something."

Sansa seemed surprised. "Oh, no. It would be a bother -"

"If it was a bother, I wouldn't ask. Name it."

"I - I don't know. I don't know what's there."

"It's all there. Anything you want."

Her mind seemed to have gone blank.

"Don't say 'Joffrey.'"

Sansa gave a sad little smile at that.

As he looked at her, he suddenly realized she was taller. Not as tall as he was, of course, that would be monstrous, but as tall as some of the other women. And they were talking about someone who had been proposed as a match for her. The absurdity of it astounded him. He was several years older than her and he wasn't yet married himself, not that there was a line, but she was . . . well, she wasn't a child anymore. Somehow, she'd grown up and he'd failed to notice.

"A fancy dress, then. The kind your mother would disapprove of."

"You'd get us both in trouble."

Sandor chuckled. "She never liked me anyway."

Sansa threw herself at him then and started crying in earnest. For a moment he could only stand there, stunned, before awkwardly patting her back and saying, "Little bird," in an urgent undertone. She needed to get herself together before this scene got any worse. When she didn't respond, he said, "Now you're going to get me in trouble for true. Everyone is going to think I made you cry."

Sansa stepped away and laughed a little while she wiped the tears from her eyes. "No one who knows you would think that." She squeezed his hand and looked up at him. "I'll miss you, Sandor."

Sandor squeezed her hand in return and then, on impulse, kissed the back of it. She giggled, and Sandor's affection for her warmed him up inside.

The memory did little to warm him now. A sense of desperation clawed at him. Everything had been easy between them before he'd gone to King's Landing. He'd made a mess of things when he'd come back. One way or another, he had rid himself of the anguish of not having her. He was sure it wasn't just the wine talking when he thought that, the sooner he acted, the better. It might as well be tonight.