When Sandor retired to his room for the night he paced back and forth for what must have been an hour. His hand and face still burned from her delicate touch. Funny. He hadn't felt anything on the scarred side of his face since three years after Gregor put his face to the flames, and now they burned with even more intensity than that horrible night. He stopped in the middle of his room, letting the breeze from the small window caress him, but even still, he felt as if he couldn't breathe.

What was she thinking? He thought. What was I thinking? He didn't know why he had gone into her chambers with her when they heard the Lannister men approaching down the hall. He could've just as easily shoved her inside and stayed in his post outside her chamber door. He regretted it the second they were alone in the darkness. Urges started taking over his entire body. He made himself stay completely still so that he wouldn't throw her on her soft bed and dig his face into her neck, inhaling her sweetness. His plans had almost gone to shit when he felt her fingers find his against the door. At first, he thought it was a mistake, she didn't realize it was his hand, but when she didn't remove her fingers from his calloused ones, he knew she was touching him with purpose. He felt like if he moved, it would break whatever strange spell she seemed to be under, and she would realize who it was she was touching. The ugly, ferocious Hound. So he stayed still, not wanting her to remember who he was.

He had never been one to crave the touch of a maiden as fair as she, but there was something about the Stark girl he could not deny. Her naivety had been annoying to him, but as he watched her grow, learn, and prevail through tragedy, something changed in her, and he had taken notice. Mayhaps it was the pup inside her turning into a wolf. She kept it in check, knowing if she spoke her mind, it would ruin her game, but he saw it sometimes. When she spoke to Joffrey, she was smarter than the brat King, and knew how to speak her courtesies with a tinge of mockery. She was learning how to use her weapons, her knowledge with words, much like the imp. Sandor knew it would only be a matter of time before she started to use another weapon, one all women possessed. The one between their legs. She was not like Cersei, he knew she would stay true to her Lord husband, but he could already see her changing from the young girl he met in Winterfell, to a beautiful woman who would one day be his Queen. One he would happily serve until his dying day.

Sandor looked out his bedroom window, he didn't have a great view. Though he was offered better accommodations, he was a man of little needs and decided on this room. From the small window, he could see one of the many stone courtyards, and the castle walls on the other side. He looked down at the fountain in the center of the courtyard and put his hand to the burned side of his face, feeling the leathery skin and crevasses with his fingers. Did she feel the same disgust I do when she put her hand here? He wondered.

He let himself go in that moment. She placed her hand on his 2*face, and he was so entranced by the darkness, and her scent, he did not have time to be self conscious. He didn't want to be. He had experienced the touch of a woman many times, but he never felt like they actually wanted to do so. This was different. He could here Sansa's breath quicken as she pressed herself against him. He was drunk off her touch...drunker than any sour red had ever made him feel.

How he wanted to take her in his arms and feel her flushed lips against his. He wanted to press his need against her, and make her feel how he was certain no man ever had. He wanted to explore her until time took his last breath. He almost groaned at the thought of feeling her naked flesh against him. He looked down at her and in the moonlight, he saw her perfect pink nipples peaking through her thin white nightgown. All thoughts of killing Gregor, and the brat King, and the war left his mind In that moment, the only thing he desired was to be with Sansa.

He stayed under this spell until she spoke his name. The way it sounded coming off her tongue made him want to hear it again, and again. It sounded like a song.

The longing in her voice made him remember himself and he tore her hand from his face. He remembered his horrible burns, how they must feel on her hand that was used to fine silks and velvets. He remembered that she was a highborn lady, a Stark of Winterfell, and he, nothing but a Lannister dog. She was betrothed to a monster, and he could never have her.

As he stepped away, he avoided her stare, knowing if he caught sight of her sad blue eyes begging him to return to her, he would be lost. He searched for the right words to say, but it was as if someone was squeezing his throat, so he left.

Now in his room, he unburdened himself of his armor and crawled into his bed. He reached for his wineskin, but alas, it was empty. He didn't have the strength to walk to the kitchens, so there he laid. As he tried to let sleep consume him, the vision of her, in her nightgown, glowing in the moonlight tortured him. He tossed and turned, but she wouldn't stop dancing in his mind. He decided enough was enough, and allowed his mind to open up, inviting her into his every thought as he finished himself off. Only then, as he laid there, catching his breath, was he able to finally drift off to sleep.

"We didn't do it on purpose your grace." A Lannister solider pleaded in front of Joffrey,

"It's true, neither of us had ever been close to a catapult before, and pulled the wrong string." The other soldier added.

Joffrey sat in the iron throne, leaning to the right, with the looked of boredom spread across his rat like face. Sansa stood to the side of the room, along with the other highborns, noblemen, and kingsguard.

She had hoped when Sandor informed her these men would be executed in the morning, he was lying, but unfortunately he knew the king better than she. Watching them beg for their lives was almost cruel, as they, and everyone else already knew what the King would decide.

As Joffrey spoke, and mocked the soon to be dead, Sansa kept her eyes fixed on him, and not the man who stood behind him. Sandor...Gods. As she thought of what happened last night, her cheeks burned red with embarrassment. She had been so forward with her touch, she wasn't sure what possessed her to do that. She felt what she could only describe as, animalistic around him. Standing so close to him, in her dark chamber breathing in his earthy, wild scent reminded her of how her beloved direwolf, Lady, acted around Grey Wind, her brothers, Robb's direwolf. When Lady started acting strange, howling constantly, and nuzzling against Grey Wind, her mother told her she was in heat. She said each dog had a distinctive smell, that's how they were able to tell the difference between each other, and find their mate. Sansa wondered if the same went for humans. She suddenly imagined herself howling in the middle of the throne room and had to suppress a laugh.

"I have heard your pleas." Joffrey said, as he stood. He walked down two steps, the men on trial trembled. "And have decided it would be best-"

The large wooden doors on the other side of the room opened and Tyrion emerged, followed closely by Bronn. Joffrey glared at his uncle.

"My King, if I might have a word in these soldiers defense?" Tyrion asked.

"Why?" Joffrey hissed. "Their fates have already been decided."

"I'm sure they were long ago, but I must reminded you that there is a war coming and we will need every able bodied man to fight." Tyrion looked at the two skinny men in question. "No matter how incompetent."

Joffrey paused, clenching his jaw and fists. He did not like to be told what to do, or made a fool in front of the court, but he knew Tyrion was right. He glanced at Ser Meryn, who stood with his hand of the edge of his sword, ready to slaughter the men. Joffrey put a hand up, and Meryn begrudgingly marched back to his side. His blood lust, unfulfilled.

"Your lives will be spared today." Joffrey said. The men let out loud sighs of relief, as Joffrey sat back in the iron throne.

"Thank you, my King." One of them bowed.

"However." Joffrey started. "You will be put in the front lines...when the time comes."

Fear washed over the men, but still, the bowed repeatedly and left the room.

"I'm tired, I wish to go back to my room." Joffrey muttered.

"Your grace, there is still much to be discussed." Tyrion informed. "If you would please save your nap for later, you are needed in the small council room."

Joffrey fumed, and he stormed down the steps to his uncle. "I don't see a crown upon your head, imp!" Joffrey spat, and snapped his fingers. Ser Meryn followed and they left the room, taking most of the tension with them.

Tyrion stood in the center of the room as the crowd began dispersing and muttered something to Bronn, he nodded and walked to the doors, smiling at Sansa as he passed her.

She let out a light smile. She looked back at Tyrion, who to her surprise was approaching her.

"My lady." He bowed. She returned the gesture. "Are you well?" He asked with concern.

"As well as one can be in the midst of war." She smiled. The guards closed the door behind the crowd, leaving the room empty with the exception of Sansa, Tyrion, and Sandor, who stood by the throne.

"I know you wish for Stannis's victory." He started. "I cannot say I blame you, but I feel I must warn you, I have something that will assure us to be victorious in the battle." Sansa did not know of what he spoke, and was sure if she asked he wouldn't say. Her heart sank. "Therefore..." Tyrion stepped closer to her and lowered his voice. "I highly suggest if you are able, to find yourself outside of King's Landing, you do so."

His words shocked her. Sansa knew Tyrion to be kind, for he had given it to her many times, but for a Lannister to tell her she should leave? He heart raced. Tyrion smiled an began walking away.

"Ser..." Sansa chirped. Tyrion stopped and turned around, "Why are you telling me this? Why are you showing me compassion?" She stood in front of him, fidgeting with her hands.

"Because, Lady Sansa, you have not been dealt a good hand thus far in life, and nor have I. I know what's it's like to live in a prison, and wish someone was there to give me the help I am trying to give you." Tyrion gave her a knowing smile and bowed before leaving the room.

Sansa stood there and watched as the guards opened the doors for him. She thought hard on his words, until the sound of metal clanking against the marble floor distracted her. She turned around and met his eyes. The now familiar feeling in her lower stomach made its presence known.

"Ser-" She muttered.

She expected him to say one of his usual jabs, but when she looked back up at him, she saw hurt and confusion in his eyes. As if the things he wanted to say to her were boiling inside of him, about to explode, but all that came out was. "Would you like me to escort you back to your chamber?" His voice cracked as he spoke.

"No." Sansa exhaled. "I need to speak to Lord Baelish, if you would accompany me to his rooms." She muttered.

Sandor straightened, and clenched his jaw. "And why does the little bird want to talk to a snake?"

"So that I can fly far, far away from this place." She whispered. She watched as his eyes moved from hers, to her lips, to her heaving chest. The dress she wore today was the color of sapphire, and the neckline was low. After last night, she wanted to please Joffrey, and knew he liked her in dresses that showed her skin. As Sandor's eyes trailed back up along her swan like neck, Sansa imagined instead of his eyes, it was his lips gently kissing their way up her neck, and his fingers lightly caressing her collar bone. He looked at her with hooded eyes, and she remembered that was the way he looked before he left her last night. Embarrassed, and a little flustered, Sansa turned and walked to the doors, with the sound of his metal stalking her. A small smile escaped her lips, knowing he was there.

They made their way down the corridor. Sansa was certain she knew were Petyr's chamber was, but the further down the hall they walked, the less familiar it looked.

"Is the Littlebird lost?" Sandor mocked.

"No." Sansa lied.

"Mayhaps this is what your Old Gods call fate."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, maybe you are not meant to find Littlefinger's room."

Sansa stopped short and turned to him, fuming. "Why not? Do you think the Gods don't want me to escape?" Sansa looked around after she said that, making sure none of Cersei's or Varys's spies were lurking in the hall. "Since when do you care what the Gods decide?" Sandor swallowed hard. The wolf was coming out of her. Her face softened. Something changed in her eyes that made him uncomfortable, like she could see his every secret. "Mayhaps it is not the Gods that don't want me to leave."

Her words filled Sandor with rage. He grabbed her by her arms and slammed her against the wall. "What are you saying, girl?" He growled. "That I want you here in this hell?"

His eyes burned through hers, though where he expected to find fear, he found only sadness. She did not make a sound, but tears streamed down her cheeks. Their faces were only inches apart. Her breaths quickened, and the sadness in her eyes turned to longing. Why is she looking at me like that? Sandor wondered. He wasn't sure if he misread her face last night, for it was dark. But in the light of the hall, it was clear. The urge to kiss her took over his body, but he didn't move. He searched her eyes for more answers, even though the look in her eyes gave him permission, he still could not believe a girl as fair and noble as she would want him. A dog.

"Take me to his chamber." She whispered. It was her turn to break the spell, and so he reluctantly let go of her, not realizing how hard his grip was.

"Did I hurt you, girl?" He asked.

"Yes."

He apologized with his eyes before turning away and walking in the direction of Littlefinger's chamber.

She had been in there for what felt like hours. Sandor paced back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, but time only seemed to pass by slower with each step. He had offered to go in with her, but she kindly denied his presence with her polite words. How he hated when she spoke to him as she did everyone else. He liked the fact that she felt so free to say what she wished when they were alone, even if it pissed him off half the time. When she spoke the same courtesies that she did everyone else to him, it made him feel like she saw him as just another monster she had to tip toe around. And yes, he hadn't treated her the way a knight in one of her stories would treat a lady, but he treated her better than anyone else, and knew she saw that.

So why did it anger him so much that she seeked help from Littlefinger and not him? She did you fool, but you said no. Why should you help her, you'll only be putting yourself in harms way along with her. The Kingsroad is treacherous, at least Littlefinger can give her a more comfortable passage to whereever he was taking her.

That was just it...where was he taking her. What if she left and he never saw her again? Get a hold of yourself Clegane. He silently cursed himself.

With a loud creak, Littlefinger's chamber door opened and he and Sansa emerged. Sandor watched down the hall as he took her hand in his and placed a prolonged kiss, never breaking eye contact. Sansa shifted uncomfortably, and Sandor stormed over to them.

"We shall speak again soon, sweetling." He smiled mischievously at her.

"You will address her as Lady Stark, snake." Sandor's deep voice boomed through out the hall.

Littlefinger payed him no mind, which only served to enrage Sandor further. He bowed to Sansa, and she walked away.

Silence followed them until they were at a safe distance from Littlefinger's chamber.

"What did he say?" Sandor rasped.

"That is none of your concern." Sansa's voice cracked.

"You think I will tell someone?" Sandor laughed.

"No, I don't believe you would do that." She replied.

"Then tell me." He tried to suppress the desperation in his tone.

"Why?" She continued walking.

"Do not play games with me Little bird, you are no good at them."

"I'm not playing anything, ser. I do not think my life to be a game. After watching my father's head fall from his body I realized the finality of death is the only certainty in this world, and I am just doing what I can to prevent that from happening to me."

Her honesty and harshness took him aback. They approached her chamber door, and Sandor couldn't take not knowing what happened in that room.

"What did he say to you?" He asked again.

Sansa turned to him. She took a breath before speaking. "He is taking me away from here." She avoided his eyes. "Now, if you'll excuse me." Sansa opened her chamber door and proceeded into her room, as she shut the door behind her a large hand stopped it from closing. She quickly turned around, and before she could say a word, Sandor closed the door behind them.

"What are you doing?" Sansa squealed. "You can't be in here!" As she stepped backwards to her balcony, Sandor walked to her closing the distance between them.

"What do you think will happen once he takes you back to your mother and brother?" Sandor spoke in a hushed tone. "He will be sure to ask for a pretty penny for returning their beloved daughter." He warned.

"He will surely receive enough coin to-" Sansa started, but was shortly interrupted.

"Coin?" He laughed. "You think that's what he'll ask for? I know you're not a fool, girl."

"He wouldn't ask for my hand. I am to marry a prince." Sansa protested.

"You think after your family promised you to Joffrey they'll care? They'll be so overjoyed to have you back, they would happily give you to the man who brings you home."

"I have a duty to my-"

"Duty? Do you think having a child is a priority when your family is fighting to keep their home?"

His words felt like an arrow piercing her heart. What if he was right?

"You know how Littlefinger is with words. He could sell a a painting to a blind man if he wanted to."

"Why must you do this?"

"What?"

"You know what." Tears welled up in her eyes. "You tell me I must leave, then say no when I ask you to take me, then when I find someone who will, you try to persuade me not to accept their help." She took a large breath in. "You're the one playing games Sandor!"

She reached up to slap him, but he caught her wrist and held it. "No more polite words for me, eh? Did he tell you that's what I was doing? A dog will die for you, but never lie to you. I'm not playing any game with you!"

"Don't touch me." She whispered.

"Does my touch disgust you now?"

"You should not touch a highborn lady." She shook.

"Is that what he said to you? That a dog should keep his filthy hands of you?" Sandor tightened his grip around her wrist. She inhaled sharply. "If that's what you think of me, I'll have my song."

"Sandor..." Sansa started.

"Sing to me Little bird." His voice betrayed him, for the threatening manner in which he spoke was laced with sadness.

Sansa looked at him, but he would not meet her stare. He looked down and his fingers that wrapped around her small wrist. What Sansa saw infront of her was not the monster Lord Baelish had warned her about. She saw a man whose wounds were deeper than the burns on his face. A man whose heart was blackened by the cruelties life had bestowed upon him. She had never heard him ask for anything, and now, as he asked her for a simple song, she felt it would only add to the cruelties if she denied him, so she sang.

Where Lagan streams sing lullaby,

There blows a lily fair.

The twilight gleam is in her eye,

The night is on her hair

And like a love-sick lenashee

She hath my soul in thrall.

No life have I, no liberty,

For love is lord of all.

And often when the beetle's horn

Has lulled the eye to sleep,

I slip into her shieling lorn

And through the doorway creep.

There on the cricket's singing stone

She makes the bogwood fire.

Then comes that soft sweet undertone,

The song of heart's desire.

Her welcome, like her love for me,

Is from her heart within:

Her warm kiss is felicity

That knows no taint of sin.

And, when I stir my foot to go,

'Tis leaving Love and light

To feel the wind of longing blow

From out the dark of night.

Sansa finished her song. It was one she hadn't sang for a very long time, and took her to another place. As she opened her eyes and remembered where she was, she realized Sandor was now on his knees in front of her with his arms wrapped around her waist, and her hands, around the back of his neck. The side of his face was against her stomach. He was so close to her, she started trembling uncontrollably. They stayed like that, silent and still for a few moments. She felt the muscles in his back tighten and he stood. She looked at him with wide eyes, but he kept his gaze down.

"Don't leave with him." He said quietly. He turned to walk away.

"Sandor don't!" Sansa begged. "Please, don't leave me again."

She was sure he heard her, and yet, he left. Closing her chamber door behind him.

Sansa heard a noise behind her and saw Shae peering out of the curtains by her balcony.

"Forgive me my lady, I was not spying." She walked to Sansa, holding her dagger. "I didn't know what to do, but I would've come out if he tried to hurt you..." Shae put her dagger back in it's sheath and looked at Sansa. "He is the man, isn't he?" She asked.

Sansa nodded and began sobbing.

"Oh my dear." Shae wrapped her arms around Sansa and they fell to the floor. She rocked her back and forth, and it reminded Sansa of something her mother used to do to comfort her.

Sandor stormed down the corridors to the stables. He had too much inside of him that needed to come out. He could barely breath and needed to get away from this place for a bit. He would ride Stranger through the Kingswood until darkness brought him back to the Red Keep.

As he made his way to the stables he saw one of the young lads outside playing with a wooden sword.

"What are you doing boy?" He rasped.

"Practising." The boy said. Sandor could see his eyes were red from crying.

"Practising, aye?"

"Aye." The boy replied.

"For?"

The boy stopped swishing his wooden sword and looked up at Sandor. "For the battle, ser. The stags will be here by the morrow."

"And how do you know this?"

"The dwarf, ser. By order of the King, all boys over seven are to fight, and the dwarf gave all the younger ones these wooden swords to practise with. He said they're coming tomorrow."

"Do you have wax in your ears? Are you certain he said tomorrow?" Sandor asked.

"Yes, ser." The boy answered. "Will you help me practise?"

Bugger the ride with Stranger, Sandor thought. He turned and made his way back into the castle to find Tyrion. He would be in one of two places. His study, or Baelish's whorehouse.

Sandor tried the study first, wanting to avoid as much contact with Littlefinger as possible, or he's sure he'd gut him as soon as he opened his mouth. Luckily for him, and Littlefinger, Tyrion was in his study.

Bronn opened the door.

"Let me in halfwit." Sandor growled.

"Well that's not very nice." Bronn smirked.

"I'm in no mood. Let me in or I'll slice your tongue out and feed it to my horse for dinner. He's tired of oats."

Bronn stepped to the side and allowed Sandor to enter.

"Tomorrow?" He barked.

Tyrion looked up from his book. It was almost as big as him.

"If I am correct in my math, yes Clegane. Tomorrow."

Sandor took a few breaths before barging out of the room. He had much to do.