Author's Note: Sorry for the delay in updating. I'm suffering from major writer's block right now so the next update might be a long time coming. You have no idea how long I agonized over this chapter. :( For this story I have aged up Sansa. (Dun dun dun!) I am also going to deviate quite a bit from canon ACoK so don't freak out.

Chapter Two

Standing beside the iron throne Sandor scanned the crowd again. No sign of her. He returned his attention to the king and the peasant kneeling before him. The man was crying pitifully, his tears and snot running down his dirty face into a scraggly beard.

Sandor eyed him with vague contempt. Grown men simply should not cry.

"What are you weeping about?" Joffrey asked, annoyed. "You should be happy you are being of some use to me."

The man looked momentarily confused. "But your grace you have taken all my stores, all my crops to feed your goldcloaks. Come winter my children, my pregnant wife, will starve."

Joffrey sneered. "What is this, Lord Varys? Why am I being made to listen to such trivial matters? Get him out of my sight!"

The peasant got to his feet slowly. Sandor watched him. There was something about the man that did not sit right with Sandor. Something in the stiff way he now held his shoulders compared to before. When he caught the glint of something in the man's hand Sandor stepped forward, pushing his white cloak back so it fanned around him for a moment and blocked Joffrey's view. He sauntered ahead and took hold of the peasant's shirt. He dragged him upwards so they were face to face, so that his long dark hair fell into the peasant's eyes.

"I would tuck that knife back into my sleeve if I were you," he rasped, low enough so no one else heard.

Joffrey's shrill laughter echoed in the room. "What are you doing, Dog? I didn't say you should frighten him to death. I don't want him wetting his breeches in my throne room. Just get him out of here."

"As you command, your grace," he said, starting to drag the unwilling man away.

"My children!" the man howled to the room at large, his eyes wild and unseeing. "My children will starve!"

"Shut your fucking mouth or I will slit your throat right here," Sandor said loudly, his voice harsh and carrying. "And when I am done with you I will find your wife and children and do worse to them. Then none of you will have to starve to death."

The man went limp then, the fight leaving him.

As Sandor led the peasant away he finally saw her. She was standing by the door, her slim form clad in green silk. When he met her terrified gaze she looked away quickly, pressing a hand to her chest as if to still her heart.

He felt the familiar bubbling of hot rage within his chest, the one that build each time she turned away from him. "Move!" he barked at the peasant, pushing him forward.

"May the gods save you," she whispered as they passed her by.

Sandor wondered if the prayer was for the peasant. Or for him.

She squinted and pushed back the hair sticking to her forehead with perspiration. It was almost evenfall before she decided to brave the heat and make her way towards the godswood. But when she stepped outside she found it was cooler than in had been in the castle. A gentle breeze stirred her skirts as she made her way across the courtyard.

Several knights were lounging under the shade of a tree and drinking from mugs of ale. Some of them looked her way and she nodded and smiled at them. One gave her a curt nod but the others simply averted their gazes.

Sansa looked to the ground, plodding ahead.

That was how things usually were nowadays. So different from before. Back when they had always stared at her, their gazes fixed on her as she walked by them and went about her day. Though she was young she had known when men watched her. At some level she had even reveled in it.

But no one looks at me now, she thought, smoothing her hair subconsciously. Not the knights, not even Joffrey. It is because I am not pretty any more.

Her father's and septa's deaths and sister's disappearance had taken a toll on her. Plagued with frequent nausea she could barely get herself to eat. Her Lannister maids gave her cream and honey every morning to help her regain weight, and Maester Pycelle made her disgusting potions to drink at night. Still she seemed to lose more and more weight.

She touched her fingers to her face, to the tender skin under her eyes and the space between her fine eyebrows. Grief had etched lines into her face. She was not yet sixteen.

Only Ser Dontos, my homely Florian, looks at me now, she thought.

This was not strictly true. There was the Hound, of course. The Hound still watched her, but it was not the same as other men had watched her. When he was sober there always seemed to be anger in his eyes, as if he were accusing her of some terrible crime she could not remember committing.

When he was drunk he was different. She recalled the times when she had been unlucky enough to cross his path at night. On those occasions he had pulled her aside, he had pinched her chin painfully and made her look at him. His sullen eyes had roamed her face, searching for what she could not say.

Entering the godswood she was startled to find him there. He was sitting on a fallen log, diligently scraping a whetstone across his massive two-handed sword. He had shed his armor for the day so only a rough gray tunic stretched across his muscled back.

Her first impulse was to stop in her tracks, turn around, and run back to her rooms. Though he had never hurt her, the way he had threatened the peasant today had indeed frightened her.

But Sansa just stood a little away from him, hesitating, watching him. He had not noticed her yet so she wondered if she should say something. She walked closer to him and fidgeted. Surely now he could see the skirts of her dress?

Scrape scrape scrape.

She bit her lip and made to turn away. He laughed then, a soft rumbling laugh. "I know you're here. I could hear you coming from a mile away. For a little bird you make as much noise as a lumbering horse."

Sansa blinked, unsure of what she should make of that. "Then why did you not say something?"

No reply. He tilted his sword edgewise and examined it. "Do what you have to do, little bird," he rasped. "I'll not bother you."

He began working on the other edge.

Scrape scrape scrape.

What was he doing here? Waiting, sitting on a damp tree trunk without even a skin of sour wine to keep him company? He snorted at his own foolishness and pulled out a whetstone from his pocket. He was slowly scraping it across his already sharp sword when she finally arrived.

He knew it was the little bird even though he did not look up. Even when she stood before him expectantly and he could see her small feet peeking out from beneath her dress, could smell the sweet lilac scent of her skin rise above the earthy smells of the godswood, he honed his sword.

"I'll not bother you," he told her.

She was such a miserable thing. A stupid little caged bird, her once bright feathers dull and tattered.

He hated himself for wanting her despite it.

He knew he had frightened her yesterday with his words. In truth he had been drunk and having her so near him while he was half naked had annoyed him as much as it had heated his blood. What price could he possibly exact form her? Not only was she a mere child she was his future queen. She would not always be as innocent and as powerless as she was today.

And yet he had come anyway, thinking to protect her from the strange men roaming the keep. He had thought to guard her in silence as he usually guarded Joffrey.

But his eyes strayed to her eventually, inevitably. She was kneeling before the heart tree. A soft breeze ruffled her hair as warm rays of evening sunlight filtered through the leafy canopy above them.

Sandor gripped his sword pommel till his knuckles turned white.

Sometimes, when the sunlight touched her fiery hair like that, it was almost painful to look at. She was almost painful to look at.

Sansa inhaled a trembling breath. The Hound was staring right at her now. She had not before realized how vast and secluded the clearing in the godswood was, how alone she was here. The silence pressed in on her and she could hear the slow thudding of her heart.

She had to walk by him to leave. Something came over her, causing her to pause before him. Pushing a strand of hair behind her ear she spoke without meeting his eyes. "Why did you have to frighten that poor man so?" she said. "He was only worried for his family, and winter is coming."

"Winter is coming?" he countered, his expression one of sardonic amusement. "Very rarely do you sound like a Stark, girl." He stood slowly and sheathed his sword. "You are a stupid bird indeed if you have to ask me. Tell me what you think King Joffrey would have done if I let that bugger go on wailing about his starving brats?"

Her eyes widened with understanding. The Hound had made threats, but Joffrey would have commanded action.

He sneered at her. "Don't look at me like that. Like I'm some fucking knight from your songs. The chore of finding the starvelings and running them through would have fallen to me. And I have better things to do with my time."

She blinked and looked away. It was a while before she spoke. "I will be here again tomorrow, my lord," she said, her voice soft. "At the same time."

He gave a bark of laughter "Same time, little bird? Too courteous to keep me waiting are you? And what makes you think I will be here tomorrow when I could be at a tavern with cool wine in my belly and a warm whore on my lap?"

"I don't know, se-… My lord," she said. She started hurrying away from him. Despite all she had been through, his coarse speech never failed in bringing a blush to her cheeks.

"Will you not ask me, little bird?" he called out to her.

She stopped. "Ask you what, my lord?"

"I am lord of nothing, my lady," he taunted. "Call me Hound or Dog and be done with it. Will you not ask me the price for my silence?" He looked around the clearing as if appraising it. "This is a nice prime spot. If you aren't too keen on it I could suggest this as a good place for His Grace's target practice."

"No, please," she said, biting her lip. She thought of the animals Joffrey liked to torture and kill. The godswood was a holy place. Innocent blood should not be shed here. "I have some jewelry, and a few dragons saved."

He snorted. "Keep your baubles. And I managed to win more gold than I'll ever need at the Hand's tourney."

"Then what is it you want… Hound."

"There are many things I want, little bird," he rasped, his face acquiring a pained look. "The true question is: what do I want from you?"

She waited for him to continue, but he said nothing. I know one thing you want. I know you want your brother dead, she wanted to say. To remind him that she kept his secret and he should keep hers. But she was afraid of how he would react to that. So she held her silence, and for a long time so did he. He stood there, looking towards the heart tree, a slight breeze blowing his soft black hair away from his horrible face.

"You Northerners are strange people," he said after a while. "What do you hope to gain from praying to an oak tree? Acorns?" He turned his steely gaze back to her. "Be here on time tomorrow then. Or I'll have to come get you."

He followed a few paces behind her, watching the sway and twitch of her green silk skirts. She was walking fast today.

In a hurry to get away from me, I suppose.

The light was fading fast and after returning her to her rooms he would need to take up his shift guarding Joffrey's door. But first he would make his way to the kitchens for some wine. He was much too sober for his liking right now.

"Good night, my… Hound," she said to him before slowly pulling her door shut.

He stood for a moment, looking at the cracking varnish on her door. Then he shook his head and went to find his wine.

Ser Meryn was leaning against the wall outside Joffrey's door. He was one of the few men Sandor had seen able to fall asleep standing up. Sandor watched him for a few moments until he woke and stood himself straight.

"You're late," Meryn said, scowling up at him.

"Am I indeed?" asked Sandor, grinning crookedly. "Could be I've been standing here for some time while you snored like a boar."

Meryn ignored that. "And drunk. Again. Can you not hold off getting pissed drunk for when you don't have guard duty?"

"It takes more than a cup of wine to get me drunk. And even drunk I could cut your head off as easily as I could sneeze. Especially when you're asleep. Now bugger off and leave me to it."

After Meryn walked away the door creaked open and Sandor saw his king's head stick out. "Oh good," Joffrey said. "You're here."

"Aye, I am," Sandor agreed.

"Come in I want to talk to you." Joffrey opened the door wider. "Sit," he ordered, gesturing towards the seating area where a table with wine and cheese was set.

Sandor poured himself some wine. Just one more cup wouldn't hurt.

"Do you like it?" Joffrey asked, helping himself to some of the wine. "I had two dozen casks imported from Dorne."

It was a strong wine but cloyingly sweet. "Good enough," he replied.

"I have a gift for you." Joffrey said, handing Sandor a small wooden box. "Go on. Open it."

It was a jeweled brooch.

"Just like your helm," Joffrey said, pleased with himself.

Sandor looked at it. Yes, the color of the stones was grey, but the shape of the dog's head resembled a direwolf more. "Thank you, your grace," he finally said, careful to keep his voice neutral.

Joffrey plopped himself on the other chair and reached out for an apple. "For your nameday I'll have you new armor made. And a new sword. The king's Dog should look the part, don't you think?"

"You are too kind, your grace," Sandor rasped.

Joffrey waved away the thanks. He bit into his apple and chewed thoughtfully. "Hound, tell me about fucking."

Sandor was too used to Joffrey to be startled by the question that seemed to come out of nowhere. The boy had an inherent inquisitiveness to him and had posed many questions to his bodyguard over the years. Although the nature of his curiosity was often sadistic. The pregnant kitchen cat whose belly Joffrey had sliced open came to mind.

"There's little enough to tell," Sandor said, balancing the box upon his knee. "You find a willing whore and push your cock inside her untill you're done."

Joffrey giggled. "Willing, you say? And what if the woman is not a whore."

Sandor watched the boy's face and felt himself grow cold. "Aye, willing. No point risking otherwise. She could have something sharp hidden somewhere within her skirts."

Joffrey laughed. "But that is something you would have to worry about, Hound, not I. What with your face."

"Aye," Sandor agreed solemnly. "What with my face." He moved the box left and right, watching as the grey-blue stones of the direwolf glinted in the firelight.