Chapter 7:
She saw the blood spurt from the delicate ivory throat of her mother, the choking, scraping sound of Lady Stark's last breath. There was Robb beside her, all those arrows sticking out of his body like branches on a tree, the blood pouring down his body and dripping to the floor like grotesque leaves. Next came her father, lying headless on the steps of that place which had once been a place of beauty, his hands frighteningly still by his side, his head being held aloft by Ser Ilyn. And the sword was being raised, coming for her next.
"Bring me her head," Joffrey said, "But keep it pretty. I like her pretty."
Before she could scream for help, a pair of strong hands were on her arms, a large figure above her, shaking her, telling her, commanding her, forcing her to wake up. But if she woke up Joffrey would be there to hurt her, to have her beaten bloody and then to drag her helpless and begging for mercy to those steps. Suddenly arms were around her and someone was pulling her into a hard embrace, keeping her locked against them. I'm safe, she tried to tell herself. She could feel her hands trembling. Whoever was holding her could feel it as well, for those large coarse hands suddenly held hers with tenderness, a kindness that she had thought no longer existed in the world. She looked up, and it was Sandor holding her. It was Sandor protecting her.
"Hush now, little bird," He whispered gently, "Enough. You're alright now. Just a bad dream, as all."
Yes, she was alright. Just a bad dream. It was dark but warm and she was not alone. She had Sandor, watching over her as he had in King's Landing, with his cloak over her, protecting her honour when they stripped her. It was enough. He had told Joffrey enough when they were hitting her. Now she could never be harmed again, it seemed. Gazing down at his arms she could see the muscle in them, their raw strength intensified by all the scars from battle. Surely nothing bad could happen to her were she to stay in these arms like this. It was now she realised he was bare chested. Without realising what was happening she found her lips searching for his. When she found them she kissed him softly at first, softer than the dull glow of the dying candle, but when she felt him pulling her closer she grabbed his head with her hands and her mouth opened for his tongue. His hands were running down the curve of her back and she pushed herself up against him, as if she wanted to disappear inside of him. Suddenly she felt a surge from him and she was on her back, him on top of her, a large dark shape with a burned face. This one who has protected me. The hound. But he is no dog, he is a man.
She had never known anything like this. It felt as if beyond Sandor, the room and the rest of the world was a gaping, vast, unknown, eternally dark. But he was here, he was the guardian bringing her back to reality with his rasping and his brutal honesty. They remained like that for some time, moving as one with their bodies and lips as the candle on the bedside table flickered and eventually burned out as their lips parted and sleep fell upon her. As they lay back against the pillows she nestled her head into the crook of Sandor's chest and her eyes slid shut. She had no bad dreams. The tight security of his arm around her told her she never would again.