Note to reader: This my first fanfic so please be patient and leave some comments so I know how you like it. I've read a LOT of SanSan fanfics and have always been intrigued by the odd and unlikely relationship between Sandor and Sansa in the books as well as in the TV series. My image of Sandor is not the Rory McCann adaptation but instead the description of him in the books which I'll only briefly (and vaguely) describe through the story to allow you as the reader to see him (and Sansa) anyway you please. I also don't like the age different in the TV series, so the ages of Sandor and Sansa are relatively in line with the books where Sandor is in his mid to late 20s and Sansa is in her teens (I do imagine her in her later teens though, between 16 and 19 years old). I'll leave it up to you as the reader on your own imagination how you want to see Sandor and Sansa in this fic. Initially the story will be of Sandor's POV and the intent is to leave Sansa's thoughts and feeling a mystery for you as the reader as well as for Sandor. The story begins after Joffrey has executed Sansa's father but right before the Battle of Blackwater. I did want to create a story more unique than the typical "Blackwater rescue" where Sandor spirits her away, they have passionate moments in the forest, and then live happily ever after. I like those stories as a fun read but this will not be one of those stories. I cannot tell you if there will be a happy ending for this fic but I'm hoping to give you a darker but also romantically satisfactory exchange between these two unlikely characters that will hopefully be a more realistic chain of events. The idea is that Sandor is the abyss (dark), and Sansa is the sun (light), and only between darkness and lightness can they be their true selves.

Chapter 1:

The whore beneath him disgusts him even with his cock buried in her cunt. Just like any other time visiting the brothel, he waited until late into the night or early morning after all of the whores had entertainment for the night before approaching one to do his bidding. He's not sure why he does it. Maybe he likes to watch all of the whores scramble to find a customer when they see him so they're not the one who has to lay with the infamously brutal Hound. Maybe he likes the look of fear in the whore's eyes when he rises from his seat and stalks over to them knowing what's to come. Or maybe he does it so he knows they cannot refuse him without refusing coin for the night. A part of him believes he does it to see if for just one night it's different. If for just one night when he walks in he has one to choose him. He has just one who will stick to him throughout the night while he's drinking his ale and conversing with the disgraced knights around him just like he sees happen with all of the other men. He knows it's a boyish fantasy to even have a woman as lowly as the whores around him to desire him.

Sandor Clegane is not the type of man to attract any female. The left side of his face is burned, scarred forever with slick black flesh pocked with craters and deep cracks that ooze red and wet, his ear is only a hole with a hint of bone showing under his jaw. It's a gruesome sight. He attempts to cover his burns by pulling his hair across his left side but it only makes him look more ridiculous. He hates this part of himself but loathes even more the treatment he receives from others because of his scars. Everyone treats him just like the lowly whores: keep him at a distance, avert your eyes so you don't have to really see. The people around him haven't seen the horrors he's witnessed or inflicted himself. He's done terrible things, unforgivable things in the name of honor and duty. He spits on honor and duty. They're fools words. A lovesick romantic's words who writes all prettily about war but has never seen one. He loathes everyone and everything around him all the way from the beggar on the street who can't keep his eyes on him even for the promise of coin or the King who can look upon his face for an instant because he knows it strikes fear in anyone who looks upon it.

He loathes all men, women, and creature alike. He loathes this whore just the same. He approached her tonight just like all the other nights, with her scanning the room and averting her attention from his general direction. With his rough, rasping voice he told her to pick a room and like every other whore she nodded her head while looking at his chin. Now with his cock buried in her, he was attempting to let all of his frustrations and loathing out on her cunt. He was viciously thrusting into her and holding her steading with her bent over the table to save her from having to look upon his face. At the beginning, the whore would moan and gasp for his benefit but just like every whore before she began to like what he was doing. All of the whores are terrified and disgusted by him, but they soon get their own pleasure from the experience because of how large his cock is and how viciously he takes them. The whore now had a death grip on his hand at her hip and was arching and moaning like all the others. He finally reached his climax when he permitted himself to envision the one good, pure thing on this earth. While he was fucking the whore, he saw a glimpse of fiery, red hair and it was his undoing.

After, he laced his britches back up and tossed the coin on the table then went to the door without a word to leave.

He was reaching for the handle when the whore said, "Ser, wait. Ugh… that was… well what I mean to say is I wasn't really expecting that."

He turned his head just enough to look at her and she had a perplexed look on her face he's seen before. It didn't go unnoticed to him the sheen of sweat on her face and bosom.

With the fiercest voice he could muster he said to her, "I'm no bloody Ser, whore. I take my pleasure when I please for the price of a stag. I paid you your fucking sum even though your cunt felt like riding my stallion into an unoccupied barn. Took me longer this time with that used up cunt of yours." He stopped then to smile at her, which he knew pulled on his scars making them look grotesque. "If you like my cock then I'm sure you'll like my mouth. Want to give a try kissing the beastly Hound to see if you'd enjoy that experience as well?"

The whore looked petrified and sickly when she stated, "No, I've gotten my coin for the night."

"Next time keep your meaningless remarks to yourself then, whore." And with that he left without another word.

Later that night, in bed in his room within the Keep he lay there disgusted with himself for thinking of her while he was fucking a whore. She's of a higher breed, far above the station of a common whore and yet he saw her during the act behind closed eyes. He saw her red hair and flushed cheeks when he wiped the blood from her lip when Meryn Trant struck her. Sansa Stark didn't deserve to be thought of from someone like himself. The Little Bird was so naive and ignorant of the danger she was in when he first met her, yet her innocence reminded him of a time before in his life before his burns and before the game of thrones had snaked into his life. She was like a blooming flower amongst all the brutality and chaos in King's Landing. He hated her for it for a long time. Maybe he hated her still. But the Little Bird wised up pretty fast after Joffrey took her father's head. There was no room for naivety or ignorance after that. Even if she had some glimmer of hope for a perfect knight or for honor and duty, Joffery would have eventually had it beaten out of her.

Joffery had always been a problem child even when he first began serving King Baratheon. He would torment his brother and sister then torture the smaller animals around the stables at the Keep. Once they found a cat nailed to a tree in behind the stables with its hair gone on half its body. It didn't take a lot of considering amongst the adults to know who the culprit was. He was only seven at the time. As he got older, he became engrossed in the most brutal duties of any ruler which often involved executions and torture for information from the enemy. He insisted to be present for any act that involved violence.

He despised the puny, yellow-haired brat. The day he was assigned as the personal bodyguard to him was the day he wanted to finally fall on his sword. Sandor was a dutiful mut though, so he did as his King ordered. He'd been the brat's protector for years but never had he despised him more than when he subjected the Little Bird to his cruelty. He'd seen day by day the light in her eyes which used to me filled in merriment and innocent wonder slowly dissipate to despair. The Little Bird was suffering greatly while everyone around her just watched. Including him. Sandor hated himself even more for not protecting her. For not stepping in and putting a stop to her treatment. All he could do was give the girl some advice to arm herself. He did it in his brutish way which made the girl even more scared of him, but he had to make her see what he was saying to her was true.

Sandor hated his existence. He hated the people around him and he hated the Little Bird even more for making him want to care. With that thought he closed his eyes for another restless night.