Sandor never felt more like a hound than he did next morning. He paced the doorway he knew she would walk through like a dog gone mad, almost growling as his eyes kept darting to the doorway.

He had to talk to her, had to see her, had to demand an explanation from her.

Underneath the confused rage ran fear, fear; fear choked by that wild joy he didn't dare acknowledge.

Sandor Clegane had always been afraid, he just hadn't realized so until now. Not until the little bird flew heedlessly into his life.

Oh, he knew he feared fire. But that was a fear easy to wrap his head around; that fear was tangible, something he could see and smell. He knew all too well the searing pain unlike any other in the world.

But this other fear….

This fear wasn't directed at anything in particular, not even the bird, really. She just sparked it.

He remembered when he first came to after Gregor destroyed his face. Those moments in bed before his memory of the incident came back in full force, before the pain hit him through the ineffectual numbing ointments, were the most terrifying of all. The disorientation of knowing deep in his bones that something terrible had happened but not quite remembering what haunted him still.

The uncertain fear of the six-year-old beat inside him now, only he could remember quite clearly what was troubling him so deeply.

Sansa fucking Stark kissed him.

As clearly as he remembered it, the kiss failed to feel real to him.

How could it be real? Her cool lips, innocent but sure, pressed against his twisted and hateful ones…none of that could be real.

The door opened. Just like a loyal dog, his entire body stood at alert.

Sansa walked through. She was wearing the dark blue gown from her audition.

She stopped when she saw him. Her eyes sparkled more dazzlingly than the crystals in the grand chandelier.

He knew then what she would say. Knew it with such certainty he scarcely had to think about it. She would look at him with regretful, embarrassed sympathy and in that melodious courteous voice apologize for forgetting herself yesterday. She hadn't meant it. She'd just been so touched by his kindness and so afraid that she let her gratitude get the best of her, and – well, she hadn't meant the kiss in a romantic way, he knew that, didn't he? It was a kiss of gratitude, friendship. Then fighting his despair he'd snort some insult that proved it didn't matter to him a tinker's cuss. She'd blush uncomfortably, curtsey, and then hurry to her dressing room.

He waited for the inevitable.

And Sansa smiled like a child.

With more boisterous energy than usual she sped over to him. "Hello," she said in a voice both shy and sweetly mischievous. Her smile grew wider, almost lopsided in her infatuated enthusiasm. "How…how are you?"

Her eyes weren't like crystals, crystals are cold; her eyes were river water warmed by an underground spring.

The fear made breathing difficult. His face was as grim as if she were the executioner come to take his head. "Last night," he barked.

She started at his harsh tone, his grim face. She cast her eyes down and her cheeks flushed red. She swallowed a giggle. "Yes…I was rather forward, wasn't I? I hope I didn't offend you."

She inched closer to him. There was something almost…coquettish in her expression as she looked up at him again. "I didn't offend you, did I?" She almost whispered.

Her mouth was parted a little. Her plump lower lip gleamed crimson.

Along with the fear was now a terrible, immobilizing lust. He clenched and unclenched his fists. Fuck, what the fuck…fucking…fuck –

"What were you doing kissing a dog like me?" He loathed himself for the tragic throb in his deep voice.

Yet he felt tragic – like he was on the verge of a great collapse. This whole thing didn't feel real to him because he knew, he knew what she and everyone else saw when they looked at him. He saw it in the way the ballet girls squealed and hid their faces whenever he came near and they thought he couldn't see, he saw it in how the actors coughed awkwardly and grew pale, how Baelish subtly directed him never to show himself when audiences were present. He'd seen it more than anyone else each morning as he faced his bedroom mirror.

He was never unaware of his burns. He felt them all the time. Always he carried Gregor's stamp on him, the stamp of the world's disgust.

And she, she was a delicate, sweet, precious little birdling, and his chest hurt with tenderness for her and contempt for himself –

Her eyes widened with slight alarm at the growing panic evident in him. Very quietly she answered, "Because I wanted to."

He could do no more for a moment then gesture violently at the burnt side of his face. "But this – this" – His growl was filled with a tragedy so deep she wondered if she'd ever fully comprehend it.

Ever, ever like a bird, she tilted her head. She studied him. Then she grinned dreamily and shrugged. "What about them?"

"Don't they frighten you?"

She closed her eyes for a moment. Then looking very tenderly and steadily into his eyes, she said, "At the very beginning, yes. They did. I…I associated them so much with your initial rough manner and with what happened to my aunt that…yes, I was frightened."

Her expression melted into sorrowful softness. "But…once you told me the story of how you got them, I didn't fear them anymore. Or you. Truly. I…I saw a dear, frightened, six-year-old boy with dreams of becoming a soldier, playing with a toy and then he was hurt for it very badly. I can't fear such a boy as that! No, I can feel for him very deeply instead."

As if to make sure he believed her, she took off her glove and cradled his scarred cheek in her bare hand, much as she made him do for her the night before.

The ruined skin felt leathery and craggy, but…oddly smooth, too.

She looked like a child as she caressed his burns. She looked like a happy, sweet child.

He flinched away from her as if burning all over again.

There was a hard lump in his throat.

He spoke swiftly, brutally. "You're daft. Fucking daft. A young girl like you…what would your parents say if they saw you all hot and bothered for a filthy workman, brother to Gregor Clegane? Eh? Ah, but you don't mean nothing serious, do you? Just trying to experiment, aren't you? The adventurous little leading lady experimenting with the most unappealing lech she can find, that's all it is. What, think touching my scars will make you a brave lady like your Jonquil? Do you think" –

She slipped her soft hand in his.

For some reason this simple action shook him even more than touching his burnt cheek. It was something…sweethearts would do. The lump in his throat turned into a spasm – which, more importantly to Sansa, robbed him of speech.

Another bright giggle. "There! That shut you up." She leaned up and kissed his unburnt cheek. She squeezed the hand she held.

He closed his eyes for a moment. He sighed, hoping to exhale out of his body all the sorrow in him. He couldn't let the primitive, brutal darkness in him touch her, a darkness fighting against his happiness even now.

He opened his eyes and just looked at her silently.

And she gazed and gazed at him. She…she adored him. She looked at that strong, familiar face, so dark yet full of true gentleness – kindness.

After she kissed him the night before, she was full of doubt and fear herself. She knew she was drawn to him, had known on some level soon after they met. She hadn't realized how much, however. Now she knew. As she settled into bed that night, she knew with a certainty that she would never regret that kiss. His deceptively soft lips, wet yet dry at the same time, unsure, his tender eyes containing a strange, ancient wisdom…she adored him.

Furthermore, she needed him right now.

She shivered as she remembered why.

Anxiety peered out of her gaze as she suddenly grabbed his arm. "Sandor, do you know they've put me in Cersei's dressing room? There's nowhere else they can fit me and all the costumes Jonquil wears. I know it sounds silly, but…" She bit her lower lip. "Will you walk me there?"

His forehead creased and she realized he might be a bit jarred by her drastic jump in subject. "It's just that…well…a boy died in there yesterday! Murdered! I'm sure I don't believe in ghosts, but it's all so ghoulish…." She was a perfect picture of supplication. "Won't you please take me?"

Had there been a hint of flirtatious manipulation in her words he might have scoffed at her. Yet as always, she was nothing but candid.

And he hated when she was afraid – even though her eyes grew larger and her panting made her bosom heave up and down –

Fuck off, you dirty bastard.

Her hand still in his, he gestured with his head out the backstage door. "Come on, then."

There was a lightly teasing but fond light in his eye. Sansa hoped desperately that meant he was accepting…the state of things between them. Whatever they were. Sansa wasn't exactly sure. What he'd said about her parents…that was a good point. There was also the matter of his age.

Yet as he led her to the dressing room, and she felt the reassuring warmth and solidity of his hand in hers, there was no doubt in her heart. None.

He held open the dressing room door for her. He both admired and was fondly amused by the way she steadied herself before entering, like the little soldier again.

While all evidence of police tampering was by now gone, the room still had a gloomy feel. Cersei's maids removed her personal effects, and so the room looked ominously bare. A box containing Sansa's possessions sat on the vanity.

What impressed Sansa the most was the size of the room. Compared to the quarters she'd shared with Mya and Myranda, this space was a hotel suite!

Sandor stood in the doorframe as she slowly explored her new dressing room, the large man just barely fitting inside it. She exited his line of sight when she turned past the corner of the partition in the middle of the room.

He followed her when she gasped.

"What is it?"

"I had no idea this was here!"

Sandor shrugged when he saw what she was referring to. "Just a wall-mounted mirror."

She looked it over, up and down. "Yes, but it takes up the whole wall! At first I thought my reflection was someone else!"

He laughed, pricking her vanity. "You find me amusing, do you?" She said with affected haughtiness.

She couldn't stay angry at the suddenly youthful look of merriment in his eyes. "Aye, I do." Softening, now it was he who took her hand. "Don't worry, little bird. I told you I'd keep you safe. I'll look out for you."

Sansa trembled with happiness.

He glanced around the room. "Besides, nobody's stupid enough to come back to the scene of the crime. The police are buzzing all over, too." In a gruffer voice, he asked, "By the way, you ever talk to Selmy?"

"Oh, about how I was probably one of the last to see Joffrey alive? Yes, just before I came in this morning."

He tried to suppress the flutter of anxiety in his breast. The brat attacked her and then was found dead…if that didn't make her a suspect, he didn't know what would.

Smiling gently, she reassured him. "Don't worry. Officer Selmy said even with a rope, it's doubtful I could possess the necessary strength for such a crime. He doesn't suspect me. You see, sometimes it pays to be so delicate and feminine." She batted her eyelids and twisted her mouth in a caricature of insipid girlhood.

Sandor couldn't help laughing, though he tried to give it a derisive edge. "Huh! Well, Selmy at least has his head screwed on straight." He looked at the clock behind her. "Better let you get to it. Your maids will be here soon, I reckon."

He shuffled a bit awkwardly. As always, he hid any facial evidence of discomfort with that sardonic twist in his burnt cheek. He very briefly rubbed her shoulder with his large hand. Then he turned to go.

Sansa spoke. "Would you like to wait for me just outside this door after rehearsal?" There was a high-pitched hint of hopefulness to her voice.

He looked at her darkly over his shoulder. She could hear his deep breathing. Then he nodded. He sternly reminded her to lock the door behind him then left.

In contrast to Sandor's frightened moodiness, Sansa felt airy, light after their encounter. They hadn't kissed again, but…they were…courting now? She guessed?

She giggled again. Yes, that's nice. Just as it should be. She'd had her exhilarating first kiss, standing in the moonlight while danger was all around her. Now she would be courted like a lady. She was having it both ways, she thought happily: the romantic adventure of the novel and the courtship of class-driven chivalry.

Sansa's feelings for Sandor were genuine, but she was quite young. She was falling love with him, but in a sense she was almost playing at a grown-up relationship. What was serious as death to Sandor was also important to Sansa, but in a far more playful, lighthearted way.

Had she known how their attitudes differed, she would have contemplated the matter in a graver light. She would make haste to tell him to trust her, yet not to expect too much right away. As it was, she was lost in a dream world with her strong, fearsome protector. How he made her heart soar with his deep voice, harsh laugh, and devotion to her safety! Just like out of an opera. Her Florian.

She stood daydreaming for a moment before her maid knocked. She entered and helped Sansa dress.

Her understudy costumes for Jonquil fit her wonderfully, she was relieved to see. The bathing gown, garden dress, dungeon shift, all were diaphanous and beautifully embroidered.

Her penchant for daydreaming overtook her again once she put on the dungeon shift. She was so lost admiring the stitching even on this comparatively plain dress that she failed to realize her maid had left her alone until she looked up and saw her gone.

She glanced at her clock. Oh, good. The costume tests flew by much quicker than anticipated because the gowns fit so well and required few adjustments. She had a while yet before she was needed onstage.

She fiddled with her skirt. She imagined her fingers were longer and darker and thicker, coarse and gentle and warm on her thigh.

Sandor.

She stood in front of the wall mounted mirror to look over herself in full view.

Smiling at her pretty reflection, she started singing "The Jewelry Song" to herself, swaying to the music.

As she sang, she could almost hear a light accompaniment….

Then she stopped singing altogether.

Wait a minute…

She had heard accompaniment.

A violin.

She listened carefully. Silence.

Experimentally, she sang a few notes more.

The violin played ghostly and soft in the distance.

Eyes darting this way and that, she ran to the door and looked outside.

No one. The dressing room was too far away from the stage. The music from a single violin couldn't travel all the way here.

She shut the door. Was she going mad?

She approached the mirror again. Taking a deep breath, she sang.

The violin came again, a little louder now.

It…it seemed to come from the mirror.

Almost transfixed, she continued singing.

She stopped with a small shriek when an unearthly pure tenor joined her.

Silence again.

She shivered, unable to make a sound.

Then the tenor spoke to her, almost as if the mirror itself had become sentient.

"Do not be afraid, child."

Contrary to this instruction, she'd never felt such fear in her life. Her insides quaked.

"Who are you? Where's your voice coming from?" She tried to make herself sound as commanding as her mother, but was sure she sounded like a trapped mouse.

The sweetest, kindest chuckle in the world was her answer. The voice circled her. "Now Sansa," he chided like a fond father, "Old Nan surely told you about the Angel of Music, did she not?"

Sansa couldn't find breath for a moment. "The Angel of Music…?"

"Yes, my child. It is I."

Warily she shook her head. "No…no, that's just a story…."

"Is it, Sansa?"

She tried to form words of indignant denial, but he only chuckled again and sang.

He sang of old Northern gods, of the First Men.

He sang in a voice that wasn't of the mortal plane.

He sang like an angel.

Her eyes watered. Oh Gods…could it be true?

She could scarcely form words. "Why…why…?"

"Why have I come to you, sweet girl? Why do you think the Angel would come? I've come to teach you."

"Teach me?" Her voice was barely above a whisper.

"Yes, Sansa. Your perseverance and talent called to me. You are the worthiest pupil I could ever train."

A sharp pang of ecstasy shot through her, but cleared almost instantly. No. No. I must be going mad.

She shook her head fiercely. "I don't believe you! I don't! Someone's playing a trick on me! I" –

"Shhhhhhhh." She suddenly felt so weary. Her vision blurred a little. The edges of the mirror melded into the wall, everything fluid and connected. She was so, so weary. Yet she felt oddly…safe.

"Stare into the glass, Sansa."

She did. The glass rippled like water. The sight was…hypnotic.

As she stared she felt her mind leave her body, hover over her, miles and miles away.

There was only the voice now.

"Sing."

She obeyed.

Sandor waited for Sansa just as he had that morning. Only instead of the hallway, he stood sentinel outside her new dressing room, and instead of pacing, he stood with rock-like stillness.

Yet there was still anxiety within him, only of a vastly different nature.

Instead of fearing for himself, he feared for her, someone far worthier.

She'd looked so radiant and lively when he left her in her dressing room. The parting glance she gave her poor dog was full of bright affection.

When he saw her onstage for rehearsal, however….

She was like one undead.

She played the role perfectly, with just the right amount of animation, her voice glorious as always. But in between scenes, her movements were minimal, her usually mobile face expressionless and dead. She looked like a doll; pretty and porcelain, but hollow.

The only sign of life in her was the occasional slight furrow of her brow, as if she were concentrating on trying to recall…something. She'd turn her glassy eyes to the rafters.

Many times Sandor was tempted to step forward, to see if she was sick.

Then Oakheart would call places for the next scene, and as if by magic, she was the charming young performer again. Color returned to her cheeks and Sandor would wonder if he imagined it all.

However, this didn't lessen his anxiety. He trusted his perceptions. They usually did not fail him. No, he hadn't imagined anything.

She emerged from her dressing room.

The dull glassy look was back. Her face was so drained of color she looked like one of the vampire victims the ballerinas always talked about from the latest serials in the paper.

She jolted back to life the instant Sandor's hard hands gripped her arms. "Girl…girl! What's wrong with you?"

She stared at Sandor. She stared at her protector, the one person she knew she would always trust.

Then she sobbed weakly and collapsed into his arms. "Sandor, I'm afraid, afraid."

There was a hunted, hysterical tone to her voice unlike the slightly tremulous notes from this morning. She sounded as if a beast was devouring her, and she was powerless to stop it.

She could say nothing else through her tears, and so Sandor just held her, watchful and alarmed.