Chapter Text
An eerie, green light flickered outside Sansa's window, as she snuck through her door, shutting it quietly. The fire in her hearth was burned out, only ashes left, but it still smelled of smoke. Turning her head towards the window, she realized from where the scent was coming. It was an acrid smell, of burning wood and burning men that wafted through her window. A smell of war and death.
The only thought running through her mind was the hope that Joffrey might suffer death, but that brought along the fear of what would happen to her. She was no longer safe in Kings Landing after tonight, but had she ever been?
A crash and a grunt abruptly interrupted her reverie. A startled gasp escaped her lips as she whirled her head around to face the intruder. She squinted her eyes in the darkness but could see nothing but her bed and her table which were close enough to be faintly illuminated in the green light. The rest of her chamber was shrouded in darkness.
"You should probably lock your doors, little bird." A gruff voice slurred, as a mountainous figure materialised out of the darkness. "Y' got no idea what you might let in."
As the Hound approached, Sansa noticed the crazed look in his eyes; anger and another emotion she could not quite name in her current state of panic. When he stopped, mere inches from her face, the sour smell of alcohol enveloped her in a cloud. The Hound was always kind to her, but he frightened her nonetheless. And even the most noble men were known to act in unseemly ways when their heads were clouded with drink. And the Hound was not a noble man. He had once told her he enjoyed killing, and that thought frightened her.
Sansa attempted to step back, but the window was directly behind her.
"Quite a mess those shits have gotten themselves in, wouldn't you say?" chuckled the Hound. "Glad I'll be rid of 'em soon." The green light danced on his face, casting his scars into terrible relief.
When he turned his head away from the fire, he affectively hid his scars and Sansa was able to pinpoint what she had first missed. In this light, without his terrifying scars, the Hound look fearful. He looked like a scared little boy.
"I'm sorry, ser. I'm not quite sure what you mean by that," Sansa said calmly. "I'm sure you will fight gallantly and win against Stannis, the traitor."
She could not be sure if this was a trick to give Joffrey another excuse to punish her; she had learned through experience that courtesies were always the safest route.
"Damn your courtesies, little bird! I'm a deserter now," shouted the Hound, inches from her face. "It's the fire, gods be damned. I can't get near the fire, so I have to leave this city."
He trailed off, walking to the dark corner from whence he'd come. Sansa heard the clink of a mug and the gulping of the Hound taking a swig of the strongwine he had been drinking earlier, no doubt.
Sansa approached the Hound, quiet as a mouse. She found him slumped in a chair in the far corner of her sleeping chambers. In the faint light from the burning city below, he almost looked a man and not a monster. She found she did not fear the man.
As the war raged on outside her window, Sansa found comfort in one of her songs, a favorite of hers since she was a child. As she sang of the seven gods, she noticed the Hound staring at her in a peculiar way. Not in an unkind or gruff manner, not the way a man looks at a woman, but his look was, even, almost peaceful. Although she still found his scars hideous and terrible to look upon, she would look upon them anyway, for now she believed she could gentle them. Maybe not the scars on his skin, but perhaps she could gentle the scars on his soul.
When she sang of the Mother, she silently pleaded with her to gentle his rage and calm his heart, but she never finished the verse. A terrible cry coming from outside her window broke their reverie.
"I'm sorry, but I must know-"
"Save your courtesies! We haven't the time." Sandor whispered harshly. He was collecting things-her things-and putting them in a bag she had not noticed earlier.
"If you are a deserter, why are you here? Why haven't you left the city?" Sansa asked from her place by the chair Sandor had just recently vacated. His frantic packing stopped immediately and he turned to stare at her incredulously.
It was quite obvious now that she thought about it, being a deserter on one side of the war could mean being a saviour on the other. He meant to sell her to her brother in hopes of winning his favor, because he had no where else to go.
She stared at him, pondering whether to allow him to take her willingly or if she would fight him. For a man who smelled as if he had been living in a wineskin for a fortnight, he was surprisingly sharp and deft. He could keep me safe, she thought.
"You do want to see your family again, don't you?" he snapped as he through some of her sturdier, northern clothing in his bag. "Because that's where I'd take you."
At this he turned to stare at her again. He looked as though he was warring with himself, trying to hide his fear and irritation, trying not to scare her. His face was a mask, but Sansa could detect all this underneath it. It was a skill she learned well during all her time at court. She weighed the consequences of each decision as quickly as she was capable with him staring at her.
If she went with him, she would see her family again, and the north again, something she dreamed of for a long time. The thing that held her back from answering right away, were the dangers. What if they were captured on the road? What if the Hound turned on her? What if, gods forbid, Robb lost?
He noticed her hesitation and he was within inches of her before she blinked. She could smell the wine on him again as he leaned in closer.
"This is a one time offer, little bird. Getting out of this city is never going to be as easy as it is right now. It might be your only chance of escaping that sack of shit everyone calls King," he snarled.
Although she was frightened, of the Hound, of the dangers of leaving, she knew there was only one answer she could give and not regret.
She steeled her nerve and met his eyes, even when a flash of light illuminated his scars, she didn't flinch away. They were no longer as frightening as they once were.
"I would appreciate my own horse for the journey, if it's not too much to ask. Your horse frightens me."