The Hound's large hand cradled her head against his breast-plate as her wails grew louder, and her chest heaved stronger, shaking her entire form.
"It's alright, little bird. It's alright." He reasoned
"It's not though, is it? Not really. It's never going to be okay. Not with him as King. Not with the Lannister's in power. And I have to marry one of them. I don't want to."
"Hush now, little bird."
"Did you see them? Their little bleeding broken bodies? Did you see? Just like my family. All of my family."
They were at her chambers, and he opened the door with a surprising amount of grace for a man with full arms.
In the middle of the room, time stood still. He hadn't set her down, but she could feel herself growing heavy in his hold. Sansa wasn't quite ready to leave the comfort he'd brought, and it seemed neither did he, because with a silent mutual agreement, they slid to the floor. Embraced as one, Sansa's head buried in his chest, her arms still tight around his shoulders, and hands still clutched at his cloak.
She realized then, that this man, this Sandor Clegane, the frightening Hound - dressed in only a tough armor of crassness and hurtfulness, a known brutal killer, fueled with thoughts of anger and rage and hatred - was the only man left in the Seven Kingdoms whom she fully trusted.
He wouldn't hurt her.
Perhaps it was a moment of weakness for Clegane, but he embraced the fragile girl in his lap, wrapping his broad arms around her. Cradling her neck with stocky fingers, and enfolding his arm right round her thin waist, bringing her close. The brute man felt her warmth, and, knowing it indecent, wrapped himself around her tighter anyway, trying to still her shuddering body.
Steadily her body became static, and she quietened to emitting soft feeble sound of distress.
"I can hear your heart beat." She sniffed and looked up at him with her big Tully blue eyes. Though blotched and red and tear stained as they were, her eyes were still the most alluring the Hound ever known. There was a rough energy behind them, and even deeper still, a strong courage riddled with the need to fight for her preservation.
"Little bird." His words incited failure.
Sansa's eyes diverted as she focused on her nimble fingers reaching up to the buckles holding his breast plate in place, and shakily began to unlatch them.
A forceful, shallow, guttural growl came from Sandor, and he placed his hand over hers, halting movement. The sound was more animalistic then she'd ever herd from him before, even the day of the tournament when he'd fought his brother. Even on the occasions where he'd threatened her life.
"Sansa."
"Sandor." Her voice broke.
With a highly rapid movement not normally associated with the giant wreck of a man, the Hound stood and backed away from the girl, leaving her in a crumbled heap upon the floor.
"Please." Her tears spilt forth. "Please, let me. Let me feel your heart."
The Hound gave her a hard look, and drew a deep breath.
"There is no heart to feel. If you don't know that by now, I've taught you nothing. Now, get your self up, woman, bathe, get pretty. He will be requesting your presence again soon enough, no doubt."
And with the slice of words he left raw in the air, the Hound turned and strode out her room.
Sansa sat in the too-hot bath. She felt properly relaxed for the first time in twenty four hours, letting the hot water loosen her muscles, and the hands of Shae sooth her aching scalp. She could scarcely think that the news of her mother and brother's death had only found her yesterday morn. It felt like a lifetime ago.
"Shae, leave me, please."
"Yes, m'lady." Shae stood and curtsied, but before she left, Sansa grabbed her wrist.
"Thank you. For everything. Really. I'm so lucky to have someone like you in my life."
"It was nothing." She smiled.
When her confidant had left, Sansa held her breath and submerged underwater.
She knew this fleeting moment of slight content would not last for long. The King would summon her soon, and she would learn of her fate. Whatever it was that his sick mind intended. Mayhap she wouldn't have to marry Tyrion after all. Mayhap Joffery would find it fitting for his two dogs of court to mate, like he'd said.
The Hound.
Would he become her betrothed? Though terrified at the prospect, excitement became her.
The man truly baffled her.
He'd called her by her name just now, and a woman. That was a first. She'd been innately inappropriate, and scolded herself for her actions. What would he think?
Her cheeks grew red when she'd recounted the situation from his perspective.
She'd gone to unlatch his armor.
Mayhap he thought her actions to be too inappropriate. Carnal perhaps. The blush grew down her neck.
It wasn't meant to be. Simply, the sound of his heart, the speed of it's beating, had surprised her. It was a very grounding thing, to strip a person down to their most basic elements.
At that moment, he hadn't been the Hound. He wasn't his scar. He wasn't a man whom instilled fear from just one look. He was simply a warm, hard body with heavy arms and a loud beating heart. It gave Sansa a comfort beyond words that she couldn't understand, and she just wanted more.
Had he taken her actions differently?
Sexually perhaps?
Did he lust her? Is that what angered him? That she behaved in a way that tangibly mirrored his own feelings? And he couldn't accept any truthfulness behind it? Major or minor? Or did he truly believe her to be the stupid, silly little girl he called her on a so many occasion, and found nauseating that she might feel corporeal about him?
She was a child no longer. Ten and five. She'd flowered. She was a woman. He'd even called her so.
The Hound confused her. She couldn't decipher him.
Though he was crass and cruel in her regards, he'd been inappropriate also, she remembered. The night of black water when he'd held her down. And just now; he'd held her so tightly, held her like no other man had held her before.
No mater how he felt, Sansa knew, he cared for her.