Dreams rarely found Sandor Clegane. Perhaps, in the depths of sleep, phantasms or one sort or another came to him, but they rarely existed beyond waking. Lately, however, he had been plagued by them.

It was all that damned Wildling's fault. The night after he had first seen and heard her, his slumber had been filled with visions. So much so that he woke before first light and, splashing some cold water on his face, went to aimlessly wander the halls of the Keep.

Again and again, they had crossed paths, and she continued to torment him with her smiles and hellos. And those looks he could not fathom. Soon enough she had him gaping after her, eyes dragged from his duty by a glimpse of auburn waves, ears piqued at the ringing of her laughter in the courtyard below.

Hand on the balustrade, half-concealed by a pillar, he peeked down. There she was, crouched next to one of the young servants - a girl no more than twelve -, who giggled as she teased one of the stable cats with a loose bristle from her broom. As he watched, the Wildling snapped another off and proceeded to tickle the feline's ears and snout. Much to its annoyance, and the girl's amusement. Thus provoked, the cat began to swipe and jump at their hands, only to be knocked on its back and subjected to the Wildling's scratches. Emboldened, the girl stroked its head, laughing again as it batted her hand playfully.

"Alright, Pangur." That clear voice filled his ears. "We can't play with you all day. Come on, Rosie."

Whining, the girl followed, only for both of them to be halted by a pining, mewling cat who blocked their path and sought to pull at their skirts with its sharp claws.

Good luck getting rid of that fucking vermin. He chuckled to himself, then noted the guards at the other end of the way and collected himself. Again, the girl laughed, this time as the Wildling proceeded to cradle the creature in her arms and sing it what sounded like a lullaby. The fool of a predator did not seem to mind, but laid back, eyeing her as he seemed to enjoy his serenade. The girl tittered ever louder, especially when he refused to be put down. With a sigh of resignation, the Wildling carried the blasted thing away, repeating the simple tune until it faded away.

It was not until she was gone that the Hound became aware of his own predicament. Now as he stepped away from his vantage point, he grimaced as he felt his half-hard cock press against his codpiece.

"Of all the days to wear this blasted thing." He hissed to himself, struggling to move. They would be expecting him at court any minute now, and he could scarcely walk.

There was only one thing for it. There was a privy in the western corner and he shuffled over to that, thanking the gods he did not even believe in when he found it completely empty. This one had stalls, too, and he hobbled over to the furthest one, undoing the confounded metal prison on the way.

Ranking this among some of the lowest points in his life, he proceeded to stroke himself then and there, in the midst of the piss and shit and whatever else might be decorating the walls and floor, adding his own mystery stain to the ones he was trying to ignore.

Close your eyes, idiot. And your nose at that. Better. But yet again, there she was, tits straining against that peasant dress that was just a bit too small, her hips swaying enticingly as she walked in front of him, those long legs stretched before her as she sat on a bench in the gardens, smooth skin, silky hair, blue eyes smiling up at him as he fucked -

"Oh fuck." He gasped, releasing his seed into the latrine as best he could. Swearing, he shook out the last few drops and tucked himself away.

Unsurprisingly, court passed in the usual mundane rigmarole of complaining peasants, demanding nobles, and stuck-up knights. King Robert sat atop the Iron Throne, slowly drinking himself into a stupor, not even feigning concern for his subjects and more often than not allowing his Hand or his queen to make his decisions for him. Sandor stood at his usual place at the back of the dais, the very embodiment of vigilance in his snarling helm, gradually falling asleep on his feet.

A shout snapped him out of his daydreams, followed by a string of what had to be curses. A man was thrown at the foot of the steps, dressed in rags and sporting a bloodied, purple face. One eye was swollen shut, and he appeared to have recently lost a tooth, as he kept tonguing the hole where it had once stood. His hair was a tangled mess of sandy curls, and he was sweating profusely in the midday heat.

Sandor scowled down at him. Another fucking Wildling. The man did not catch his look, however, for he was too busy babbling up at the king and queen.

"King… I Garoyn...cedh i...I."

Robert belched loudly. Cersei sighed.

"Who the fuck is this bumbling idiot!"

One of the guards explained: "He has been accused of theft by several businesses, Your Grace, and resisted arrest, injuring two -"

"No! No, King!" The man grovelled on the marble steps, reaching out imploringly. "I no fight! I- nach - I hit…"

Robert stared down at him blankly. "I haven't a notion what you're saying, man."

The prisoner slumped defeatedly. It was clear he understood Westerosi well enough, but had little experience speaking it.

From across the way, a high voice offered: "He is one of the Free Folk, Your Grace. One whom, as is plain, has not had much instruction in the Southern tongue."

Lord Varys materialised before the king, smiling his customary knowing smile.

"Well we can't help him if we can't understand him." Lord Arryn remarked. "And we can't just allow him to be hanged without being given a chance to defend himself."

Cersei let out a little hmph, as though she would be more than happy to see the man hang.

On the floor, however, the Wildling had understood enough of Arryn's words to become panicked, and let out another barrage of gibberish.

"Nach fé! Please, no! Not hanged! Agha shán! Li Dayi-"

"Shut the fuck up!" Ever a man of the people, Robert sought to calm him.

"If I may, Your Grace." Varys sang. "I believe there is a Wildling woman in your employ. I have seen her about the kitchens."

What are you looking at, you little shit. Those beady eyes had flickered over to him for only a fraction of a second, but Sandor had caught it. What had he seen? What did he know?

A servant boy was sent to fetch her, and before Sandor could fully prepare himself she appeared, trailing hesitantly after the lad. Did she fear for her life? It did not show. She was unsure, that much was certain, but a subtle curiosity burned in her eyes.

Though she did falter when brought before the throne, glancing around at the spectators gathered in the wings.

Not fond of crowds?

He did not like the way the prisoner was looking at her. At first his face only showed surprise, but now there was something else there. Sandor rested his hand on the hilt of his sword.

Rowan was no fool, and once she noticed the man she placed herself on the second step, firmly between him and the royal couple. She did not trust this stranger, either.

It was Arryn that spoke to her: "What is your name, my lady?"

Sandor huffed.

My lady.

"Rowan."

Her voice barely reached him.

"Lady Rowan, can you understand this man?"

She eyed the Wildling for a moment before speaking: "Cé terra?"

The man's smile did not reach his eyes. "Li Garoyn, ba. Gul a ríat-"

"He speaks a western dialect, my lord. But I can understand him well enough."

There. The ghost of anger flitting across his bloodied face.

"What did he say to you just now?" Arryn quizzed.

"He only told me his name."

"Ask him what he's doing in King's Landing."

"Qyer déna terr nigh balyí sho?"

It was a sweet, singsong-like language, and the way she spoke it had a soothing effect on him. Her counterpart, on the other hand, sounded clunky and gravelly, words running together arhythmically.

"Li bannad. Unsó fich has."

"He says he's a wanderer. He just wanted to see the city."

It went on like that: Arryn slowly probing until he got to the matter at hand. By which time it was plain that the man was growing increasingly frustrated. With a hint of desperation. He was guilty, the Hound knew it. Rowan knew it. Arryn only had to keep pressing.

Another bumbling barrage of the northern tongue, louder than last.

"What was that?" Arryn demanded.

"He says you're wasting both his time and yours, and… Well… The rest was mostly profanity."

"Tell him we will not tolerate such talk in the presence of the king!"

"Ardrí i mai a rá nach hé sho."

"Kyunta! Ma a elleo! Li-"

"Terr a ma a elleo!" As he watched, her hand slipped behind her back. At first he thought she was merely scratching at the hem of her skirt, before the glint of steel. Now he saw that she grasped the handle of a knife.

Arryn saw it, too and thumbed his pommel.

"Li lún a adda!" The man growled. "Himí li!"

"Nach."

He moved like lightning. Sandor hardly blinked and he was at the steps. Making to leap up them at Arryn. If not for Rowan, he might have caught him. She lunged, knife in hand, and brought him down. The snake twisted, however, and she hit the stairs, pinned under him, letting out a yelp. When the man punched her square in the face, she snarled and elbowed him in the head, knocking him aside. Then Arryn was over him, and the Kingsguard all around, dragging him to his feet and hauling him away as others saw the king and queen out safely. The courtiers were shooed away like rats.

He stood next to Rowan as she cupped her nose, blood seeping through her fingers. He did not recall walking over, but here he was, listening as Arryn sang her praises. She tried to smile, she really did, but the pain in her nose and blood in her mouth was clearly at the fore of her thoughts, and the Hand quickly excused himself.

"You have bad a habit of getting on the wrong side of flying fists." He remarked, and she laughed. He had made her laugh.

"Seems so." She mumbled, removing her hand. He winced. Her palm was red.

"Here." He grunted, shoving a handkerchief into it.

"Oh. Thank you."

She seemed off. Was she dazed?

"You don't…" He cleared his throat. "Don't feel ill, do you?"

She shook her head.

"Anything broken?"

Shake.

What was he doing, standing here like an idiot? Cersei would be looking for him…

Yet there he stood, letting the silence stretch out as she tried to staunch the flow of blood.

He cleared his throat again. "You should go to the maester."

She nodded this time.

"Come on."

He walked her as far as the courtyard. The same one he had spied her in only a few hours ago. The same place where she'd made him.

He stopped dead. The kerchief. He'd wiped his hand in the kerchief. She still had it pressed to her nose. Seven Hells it probably smelled like -

Her nose is bleeding. She can't smell a thing beyond that.

He had to admit, he found some sort of perverse pleasure in thinking about her rubbing her nose in his stuff.

"Hound?"

His cheeks were burning. He, Sandor Clegane, was blushing. With a clang, he closed the Hound's mouth and turned to find her lingering at his elbow.

"The maester is that way." He rasped, pointing. She followed his gesture and then blinked up at him, puzzled by his attitude. "What, you expect me to escort you all the way?"

Brows furrowed, she edged away, then seemed to remember his handkerchief, and proffered the bloody rag silently.

"Keep it." He grumbled, storming off.

Weeks passed in which they did not speak. In fact, for almost a fortnight she scarce looked his way. He knew he deserved it, what with the childish way he had dismissed her that day. A better man might have tried to find her, to apologize, laying his feelings down before her so as to rationalize his foolishness. But he was Sandor Clegane.

He still watched, hiding like a coward in the shadows, or behind the Hound's visage. He still waited for her to smile at him.

No use. In an instant he had completely alienated the one person who could bear to look at him.

He did not dare visit the kitchens. The one thing he did not need was for her to take one glance at him and walk away, After a time he began to avoid the mess hall, so that he had only banquets and the odd convergence of their paths. He took his meals alone more and more frequently, until they came without asking.

This time, it was Rowan's friend who brought it, tiptoeing carefully across the floor as he struggled with his breastplate. They both said nothing, and she darted out before he even turned around. Did she know? Of course she did. He knew how women talked. And why else would she run away without so much as an attempt at her usual, quavering greetings.

Armour off, he finally sank down into his chair, empty stomach sounding its sonorous demands

It was only then that he noticed it.

A little square box of polished wood, with a ribbon clumsily tied around it. He scowled. What on earth? Opening it, he found a brand new kerchief; stark white and folded neatly so as to display the sigil of House Clegane, stitched in fine detail into one corner.

Why had she done this? Where had she gotten it? How much had it cost?

The next day he sought her out, forgetting his duties a while to walk and length and breadth of the Red Keep and its grounds, working up a sweat in the process. It took him an age to spot her, until a glimpse of red hair had him half-running through the rose garden.

When his brutish hand clamped around her arm, she startled and immediately turned on him, a fist raised high. He laughed in spite of himself, throwing his hands up in surrender. Typical Wildling.

"You!" She exclaimed, then blushed, remembering her niceties. "I mean...You startled me, my lord."

My lord. A dagger through the heart would have felt nicer.

"Not a lord, remember?" He rasped back, trying to smile.

Her eyes lit up, though the fire needed coaxing. "A Hound, then. I apologise."

At least she was looking at him now. And she made no move to put any distance between them. Now...what had he meant to say?

When he produced the handkerchief from his pocket, her cheeks reddened more. The colour even spread to her chest, which he appreciated.

"I'll have to thank Suzana." Was her only remark.

Me too. "What is the meaning of this?"

She blinked, and her expression faltered. Oh, he had said that wrong.

"I mean...it's…" He stammered.

"Do you like it?"

"...yes."

That smile. He could die for that smile. "I'm glad. I was worried about the crest."

"You did this?"

A fit of sweet laughter met that. "No, no! I can hardly hold a needle."

"Then," he thumbed the little yellow shield. "Who did this?"

"Margaret's brother-in-law sells such things."

"You…" She had commissioned it. Had gone and spent her own money on it. "How much did this cost?"

"You like it?"

"I told you: yes."

"That's all that matters."

"You...I…" He tried to give it to her. "Why did you not simply wash the other one?"

"I tried. Twice. It turned orange."

He huffed, lost for words. Even more so when her soft hand closed around his, nudging the piece of cloth toward him.

"Keep it." she urged. "I want you to have it."

I could kiss her. She was so close, he could feel her warmth, her little hand squeezing his, holding it to his chest. She might even let him. Might even kiss him back…

Who are you fooling, you ugly old dog.

And then he was backing away, stuffing the damned thing back into his pocket.

"Thank you." The words sounded foreign, coming from his filthy mouth, but she grinned when he said them. "I...appreciate it."