After the King left, many onlookers seemed to want to approach the Lady Sansa, perhaps to bid her their pity or mention words of comfort, but the Hound growled low and dark whenever one came close. Sansa couldn't decide if she considered his actions chivalrous, protecting her from even more belittlement, or if he was simply following his master's command with an expert articulation. Regardless, she was grateful, for as dutiful as her courtiers became her, she naught felt like sprouting any more of them today. Less then half the hour had passed before news of Sansa Starks humiliation had reached the furtherest walls of the Red Keep, and a many a new faces entered the throne room to look upon her shame.
Sansa was learning her defiance, and was still a lady, even if the King demoted her with his words and actions. So she stood tall and still, mirroring the calm fierceness that the Hound exhibited, always on a constant ferocious display.
It lasted only a second, but the small, coy upturn of her lips brought with it the knowledge that she was reflecting the Hound's stoney cold, persistently erected shield that created a most tough exterior. And she was thankful she had the courage to borrow it. It was safe, she liked the way it made her feel.
The girl would lick her wounds later, but for now, she refused to let the hundreds of eyes, disgracefully pointed in her direction, chasten her. In the hour that would pass, naught once did she drop her gaze, and she knew Sandor Clegane would applaud her for such a feat.
Sansa was frighteningly close to loosing her will when the Hound began to snap at heals.
"Alright, alright, you've had your show, now get out."
"Gods be dammed, have you no shame?"
"Give the girl her privacy."
He threatened every single man, woman and child in the room until they began to flee.
"You tell the King I sent you running, and I'll murder you in your sleep, boy." His guttural voice echoed about the room as the last person tripped out the doors. And with just the Hound left, Sansa finally allowed herself to relax a moment.
"Thank you Ser,"
"I spit on your courteous, damn girl," He growled. "You know that."
"I'm not giving you my courteous, I'm merely being kind, and I, truly, I mean them. Thank you for making them all leave."
"Your a strong little bird, I'll give you that." She bore no witness to his face upon these words, but it sounded almost like a smile had fallen across it. But when he turned and strode toward her, she saw no evidence, save, perhaps the smallest of glint in his eyes - and yet that could have been the light.
His approach didn't strike her as an angry man's stride would, but by the time he was close, his demeanor had changed to that of one.
This small flash of rage was short lived, however, when he made a grunted, gurgling sound that she couldn't quite place. Not a rasp, nor a gripe. More like a - a whimper. She knew he was capable of such an emotion - she'd witnessed it before, rather - felt it on her hand that night.
The clear-cut difference. The Hound didn't smell of dorinsh sour. He wasn't drunk. Not even a little. He wasn't throwing profanities. He wasn't his usual crass self by any means. He wasn't even hidden by the cover of night. She recognized the significance of this moment and couldn't bare the thought of saying anything that might ruin it.
His face - that sad broken and burnt face of his - looked right through to her core. It made her groin ache, but she dared not move a muscle.
He looked at her so intently that he forgot to hold his shield, and his toughness melted like wax under flame.
The Hound was naught but gone. The much hidden Sandor Clegane stood firm in his place.
With a tentative movement, Sandor cupped her cheek. She didn't flinch, instead wished to lean in, but rather wary the kind of ripple effect it may cause the sleeping beast to take. She wanted to be here for just a little while longer.
Tentative. Sansa .
Sandor Clegane was everything the Hound was not.
His hand was warm. Calloused, like his face. Rigid and cracked with a million imperfections. A killers hands. But warm. Very warm hands.
The twinge between her legs had gotten a lot worse, and she couldn't keep the stillness for any longer. Perhaps much to suddenly, Sansa settled her hand atop of his. The small gesture of acceptance shattered the illusion, and instantly Sandor was whisked away, packed tightly in a dark, dank box and buried deeply beneath the Hound's much hardened soul.
The scowl was back, but he was surprisingly soft spoken.
"He had no right to do that to you, little bird."
"Hu," she took a second to re-collect herself, "oh." she paused. "But he had every right. He's the King."
"Aye, He is the King, and by laws of men, he had that right. But by the laws of nature -
"Being cruel is his nature...and anyway, it doesn't matter." She found herself growing hard-hearted against him. "Please, I don't want to talk about it."
The Hound sneered before nodding curtly.
"Yes, as the little bird wishes." He turned back to face the empty hall, as though it were full with people. His stance wide, hand on hilt, ready to draw as though he stood before the King. Sansa didn't exactly understand what had happened, nor the insult he propounded, but his actions stung all the same.
"That was unkindly, Ser. It doesn't become you."
He barked and faced her. "Oh, it doesn't become, It doesn't become me - have you. Have you met me, girl." He growled. "You might live higher then the rest of us, but do pull your silly little head in from the clouds before you loose it, like your father. You believe I am noble - I neither deserve, nor want the thought, little bird. I am a monster who kills, and you choose to ignore the vile things I do, because you still - still, even after all of this, -" His arm flayed in the direction of her chains. "- believe in your knights and fair maidens. And you - well, you act the part they make you play so sweetly, don't you? Just like the little caged bird I name you for, chirping your cortices, singing of all your pretty songs. Serving your masters. Making them happy for being good, and well, and proper. For doing as you bid."
His words were harsh, but It wasn't until later would she realize the man was drawing parallels between them.
"The King could shaft his sword into your belly, watch virgin blood spill across your legs, and you'd still see the world as beautiful. Its not." He bared his stained crocked teeth into a snarl.
"And If I don't cut your wings, Sansa, you'll never grow into a wolf."