Sandor

"I have a surprise for you," Sansa told Sandor one afternoon. "To celebrate the fact that your leg healed so well." The snow was finally melting in the sun and Sansa was admiring the first spring flowers. Sandor walked beside her. He still bore scars from that wound, but the limp had disappeared almost entirely.

"What kind of surprise?" Sandor asked, wary. He hated surprises but, for Sansa's sake, he forced himself not to scowl.

Sansa smiled. "If I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise any more," she said. "Dress nicely for dinner."

That did make Sandor scowl.

Among the people who had returned to the castle, there had been over a dozen of Joffrey's personal servants. Those people had been in charge of picking the prince's clothes, dressing him, bathing him, combing his hair, powdering his nose and who knew what else. Since their master had fled, all those people had taken to following Sandor around and waiting on him as if he was some wimpy lordling who couldn't even lace his own boots.

Sandor had yelled at them and sent them away, until Sansa scolded him. "It's not fair to take away those poor people's livelihood," she had said. "They were just trying to do their job. It's not about you needing many servants, it's about the servants needing a job."

She pouted and pleaded until Sandor had been forced to give in and his servants had stayed. Mostly they amused themselves by moving Sandor into a huge suit of rooms and cleaning it until it was sparkling. They made Sandor new clothes, much finer than anything he was used to, and frowned when they saw he was still wearing his old leather jerkin. Once, they attempted to comb his hair. It never happened again.

This time, however, there was no escaping from his own servants. As soon as Sandor went back to his rooms, his valet cornered him. "Lady Sansa informed us, m'lord," he said. "I've already drawn you a bath."

Sandor would have liked to know what Sansa was up to, and also why she had decided to plague him with a valet. He eyed the large copper tub in front of the fireplace. "She told me to dress nicely," he said, pulling off his boots. "So I'll need... nice clothes, I suppose."

The valet bowed. "I've already laid out your black doublet that you never wore," he said, with just a hint of reproach in his voice. "Your cloak is being brushed right now. Maybe I'll clean your boots too," he added, picking one up and inspecting the mud caked on the soles.

"You do that," Sandor replied. There were half a dozen servants fluttering around but two younger men were standing to attention in a corner. "Is this a bath or a public event?" he asked, jerking his head towards them.

The younger boy hid behind a large square of linen. "We have your towels, m'lord," he squeaked.

Sandor snorted, told himself that Sansa would be cross if he murdered anyone, and got into the bathtub. Thankfully no one offered to scrub his back. He tried again to ask what Sansa was doing, but all he got from the boys were more m'lords and the fact that the lady had sworn them all to secrecy.

After he'd bathed and toweled himself dry, his valet insisted on dressing him. Not only the doublet but every item of clothing was brand new, black velvet decorated with golden thread. On the doublet's breast there was the Clegane sigil, three dogs on yellow. His high boots were sparkling clean, so much that Sandor suspected that they'd been swapped with a new pair.

"M'lord looks splendid," the valet said, fastening his cloak. "Would you like to look at yourself in a mirror?"

"No," Sandor replied. "I look the same as always, fancy clothes won't change what I am."

He ignored the other man's affronted look and buckled his old sword at his belt.

Sansa was waiting for him outside the hall and smiled when she saw him. "You look very handsome and gallant tonight," she said.

Sandor almost didn't hear her words. Sansa looked beautiful in a silver gown that brought out her pale skin, and with her auburn hair tied in an elaborate knot. She took his arm and guided him inside the hall.

The Hound had thought that the clothes were the surprise, but now he realized that Sansa had done much more than that. The hall was full of people talking and laughing, while two fools were juggling and a singer was reciting a ballad.

"I wanted to wait for you before starting," Sansa said with a frown, "but you were a long time coming down. I've never organized a banquet before and I'm not so sure I'm doing this right."

She led him to the high table, but Sandor refused to sit down in the lord's seat. "Little bird, this isn't my place," he said.

"It is," Sansa insisted. "You're ever a better lord than Joffrey was, everyone thinks so."

Sandor shook his head but, for Sansa's sake, he sat down and listened as she thanked everyone for helping restore the castle after the evil enchantress's attack. Then she asked him to say some words.

"They came for food, not for words," he said with a shrug. "Let them eat."

That got him a round of laughter and applause, and Sansa motioned for the first course to be brought out. Serving girls went around with trays of roast fowl and tankards of ale, and under the tables the dogs started fighting for scraps.

Sandor feared that the evening would have been very awkward, with his new clothes and a seat at the high table and the servants serving him the choice portions even as they tripped over themselves to avoid looking him in the face. However, Sansa distracted him by talking about the harvest and the oncoming spring and asking him about the men he'd be training to replace the guards that Joffrey had brought away with him.

As the servants started clearing away the plates and brought cakes and sweet wines, Sansa tugged at Sandor's arm. "Dance with me," she said.

"I don't know how to dance," Sandor replied grumpily.

Sansa dragged him to his feet regardless. At her gesture, the singer started plucking a slow melody from his woodharp. "It's easy," she told the Hound, taking one of his hands and guiding the other on her waist. "Just follow the music."

"I feel stupid," Sandor said, but he complied. Sansa danced as gracefully as she did everything else. Sandor's own steps felt clumsy and ungainly, but if she noticed his limp she didn't say.

"Don't look at your feet," Sansa told him. He was afraid that he'd step on her delicate dancing shoes, and her smile was equally distracting. The room spun around him in a blur of auburn and silver.

Finally the music slowed down and faded, but Sansa didn't let go of his arm. "Thank you," she said, beaming. "Tonight feels like a fairy tale."

Before Sandor could reply, a boy rushed into the hall. He was small and badly dressed but armed with a sword. "Sansa!" he exclaimed.

Sandor and the guards drew their swords, but Sansa ran forward to hug the boy. "Arya!" she cried. "I missed you so much."

The boy (or rather the girl) squirmed in Sansa's grasp. Sandor finally recognized her as Arya Stark. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

Arya pointed her sword at him. "What are you doing here?" she spat back. "If you hurt my sister, I'll skewer you like a pig!"

"Arya!" Sansa squealed, while Sandor roared with laughter.

"It's not funny," Arya insisted.

"Why not?" Sandor asked. "If I'm a lord, you might as well be a knight."

Finally, Sansa got her sister to sit down and promise not to skewer anyone just yet. Arya's tale was a long one, but this is the short version since it's easy to guess how it went. (Hint: remember the part about Joffrey being up to no good and Tywin having a plan. That's foreshadowing. Or maybe shoddy writing.)

One day, Joffrey showed up at Sansa's home with an army, claiming that Sandor Clegane consorted with an enchantress to steal his castle and his betrothed. Joffrey said that he only wanted the Starks' help to regain what was his, but in truth he took over their lands and imprisoned Sansa's parents. Robb and Jon had some unfinished business with a glass slipper (Theon Greyjoy was being a dick and claimed that it fit him) and couldn't come home to help. So Arya had escaped and planned to rescue Sansa on her own.

"This is terrible news," Sansa said. "But I don't need rescuing, I'm here of my own free will."

Arya cast Sandor a dubious glance. "What do you want to do?" she asked her sister.

Sansa sighed. "I have to marry Joffrey," she said. "Then he'll let mother and father free, and everything will be well again."

"What?" Arya exclaimed. "You can't marry that brainless idiot! He hates you."

Sansa turned away. "It's my fault that Joffrey did this to my family," she told Sandor, almost apologetically.

"Then you must go home," Sandor replied. They were the hardest words he'd ever said.

She hugged him briefly and hurried out of the room. Arya stayed a moment longer. "Why would you let her go?" she asked angrily, and then she ran after her sister.

Sandor couldn't answer in front of everyone. Because she's free to do as she will, he thought. Because she will always choose the prince over the sellsword. Because I have nothing to offer her. Because she's a fool, and I'm a bigger fool for letting her leave.

He stormed out of the hall and locked himself in his rooms.