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Sansa’s beautiful golden prince rides into Winterfell’s gates; so much like the romantic songs and tales she loves with fair maidens and brave handsome knights. He is all she sees, until she notices the large man behind him. He pulls off his metal and leather gauntlets. She is not shocked by the size of his hands, for they match the size of the man; but she is riveted by the long, thick, well-formed fingers that briefly sit on his muscular thighs. She tells herself, ‘This is not proper, look away.’ It is not until he moves those hands to the snarling dog helm does she realize who has stolen her attention. When she sees The Hound is looking back at her, she looks down at the ground and then back to Prince Joffrey.
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Meryn Trant uses his mailed hands to slap her across she face. She can feel blood pooling on her lip. She turns and sees Joffrey's back is turned to her at the edge of the battlement. One swift push and they will both be done for. The next thing she knows, a firm hand on her shoulder stops her forward progress and spins her around, not ungently. The Hound covers her attempt to end his charge’s life with his second hand wiping away the blood. That hand passes the handkerchief to her, along with a lesson on survival, “chirp pretty, sing the right songs”.
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She looks away from the severed hand releasing its grip from her arm, falling to the ground. The Hound’s hand reaches out for her in mid-fall, pushing her back up onto her horse. He mounts in front of her, his hand on his sword, backing the last of the crowd away from them as they escape back to the Keep. He sheathes his sword once the gates close behind them. He dismounts and slides his hands around her waist. They are warm, gentle and protective, and then, they are gone. He leaves with, “The little bird's bleeding. Someone take her back to her cage and see to that cut.”
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Years later she knows every detail of his strong, hard hands like the back of her own; the look and feel of them, the pleasures they bring her, the protection for which they are infamous. She goes into labor with their second son a moon’s turn early. Given the size of their first son, it is a bit of a blessing, but still a curse. The poor babe has not put on his fat layer before birth, and is still covered in fine black hair. Their biggest challenge is keeping him warm in the frigid north of Winterfell. He fusses and fidgets non-stop to stay warm. She keeps him close to her chest every moment she is awake, warm and fed. When she sleeps, Sandor holds his naked son between his two hands or on his naked chest, and keeps him warm enough for the babe to sleep peacefully throughout the night. Nigh on a fortnight, the babe is fat as a piglet and loses his fine black coat of fur, but not the nick name of Little Bear her Hound gives him. It stays with him until he is taller than Sansa at ten name days; then Lord Eddard Brandon Stark Clegane is just called Bear.