"I am malicious because I am miserable. Am I not shunned and hated by all mankind?"

Sansa was spending her night reading Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. She was sitting in her bed, her back supported by the headboard, her legs drawn up, the book lightly touching her lap. Usually she devoured the words of every book she had chosen to hold in her delicate hands, but tonight she could barely concentrate on the words that came to her all the way back from 1818.

Margaery was out on a date, and for some reason, unbeknownst even to her, Sansa was now feeling as though the walls around her were closing in around her. She wanted to get out. She wanted to lose herself in the arms of the city she loved.

She was out now, walking. She had no idea how long she had been walking. She wasn't even certain of where she was. Her thoughts were running around in her head like flies around a corpse. They had consumed her, leaving no room for other thoughts.

"Your money or your life, bitch."

At that moment she woke out of her trance-like state. She took in her surroundings, noticing that she was in a dark alley. She had thought that she was alone, but now she saw that there was a small man in front of her, holding a knife in his hand and extending it to her. His eyes were the eyes of a mad dog.

She supposed that she should run, hoping that as she was young he might not be able to catch up with her. But she couldn't do that. She was frozen to the spot. She was so shocked - and afraid, although somehow the shock was stronger - that she couldn't move. She could do nothing but look at him with her pink lips slightly parted.

"Give me your money!" the man insisted.

And then she remembered: she had left without taking any money with her. She had only wanted to walk around a bit, so why should she?

"Please," she said, "I don't have anything to give you."

"You lying whore!"

She closed her eyes as she expected him to attack her, but not before she caught a glimpse of a shadow grabbing the small man. Something hit against the brick wall, close to her. Then, something fell unceremoniously on the cold ground. Still, she did not open her eyes.

"You're all right now, little bird. You're all right."

She knew that voice. She would recognise it anywhere. Could it be? Should she allow herself to hope, or was her mind playing tricks on her after all those thoughts that had occupied it?

She forced her eyelids to move and she saw him. The long black hair, the grey eyes, the hooked nose, the horrible scars. There it was, the face that she couldn't get out of her head no matter how hard she tried to.

She realised that she had fallen on her knees at some point, probably when she closed her eyes. The Hound was extending his arm to her, and she gratefully took his big hand and stood up with his help.

"Thank you," she said. "I-"

"No need to thank me, little bird," he said, releasing her hand. "Where do you live?"

When she told him, he nodded. "Good," he said, "you're not far from here. I'll walk you to your place."

She smiled at him, but he didn't see it because he turned around and started walking. The smile melted off of her face and she almost let out a sigh. She followed him, gratefully noticing that he had not set up a quick pace so she could catch up with his long strides.

They fell in deep silence. The Hound didn't seem to mind, but she was uncomfortable. She always filled silences with mindless, meaningless chatter. Now, however, she didn't know just what to say. That she wanted to know more about him? That she couldn't stop thinking about him for some reason?

"Did you hit his head against the wall?" she asked, guessing that that was what she had heard. When the words left her mouth, she almost hit herself. That was such a stupid question.

"Yes," he merely said, looking straight ahead.

"I wasn't paying any attention to where I was going," she confessed, speaking a little fast. "That never happens to me. I should have been more careful."

"Yes, you should have, you stupid little bird."

Her lips formed a small o, but he didn't see that either because he still had his eyes fixed in front of him. She knew that the nickname he had given her was supposed to be offensive - even though tonight he had used it with something that could be characterised as tenderness and fondness when he told her that she was all right - but in their last encounter he had called her pretty little bird. She didn't like the adjective he had used now.

"I was thinking of something," she said in an attempt to prove that she wasn't just a stupid girl who got out with no idea of where she was and where she was going. "That something won't let me concentrate these days."

"What is that something?" he asked, intrigued.

You, she almost said. She stopped the word before it escaped from her lips. She could imagine his reaction. He would laugh at her face and call her stupid again. Or, he would pin her to a wall and have his way with her. Alternatively, he would tell her that he was interested only in real women and she was just a silly girl. She didn't know which of these scenarios was the worst one.

"That's none of your business!" she snapped at him.

He chuckled and finally graced her with a short glance at her. "The little bird has a bit of a she-wolf inside her." He sounded amused but also almost proud.

neither of the two said another word, but shortly afterwards they reached their destination. He finally turned around and looked at her. The ruined side of his face was almost lost in the shadows.

"Thank you for saving me," she said. "You were so brave."

"Brave?" He grinned maliciously. "A dog doesn't need courage to chase off rats."

She looked at him defiantly, a little angrily. She was expressing her gratitude to him; couldn't he be nice for once? "You saved me," she said as though to remind him of what he had done. "It is rude to not thank you."

"Action speaks louder than words."

She looked at him, blinking rapidly a few times. What did he mean? What would he do to her, with her? And how would she react?

"A date, little bird," he explained.

She supposed that the reasonable thing to do would be to tell him that he couldn't make her go out on a date with him just because he had happened to be in the right place at the right time and he had saved her. Instead, she apprehended that she was not in the least insulted or angry. She was actually warming up to the idea.

"Okay."

He was trying to not show his relief, she noted. How many times had he asked a woman out? How many times had he been rejected? She recalled the words of Frankenstein's Creature, the words she had read that very night. She felt sorry for the man in front of her.

"We haven't been introduced," she remembered. "I'm Sansa."

He took her extended hand and shook it. "Sansa," he rolled her name in his tongue like some sort of exquisite wine. She shivered, and it was not because she was cold or afraid. "I'm Sandor."

She smiled and noticed that her delicate hand was still sheltered in his large one. He seemed to notice as well and slowly let it go. She missed the warmth of his skin instantly.

"I'll pick you up at 8 tomorrow."

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