Archive of Our Own ^beta

It was Saturday. The end of the work week and the start of his freedom. He'd get a reprieve from guarding the blonde haired twat for the next few days. He'd been looking forward to it after the shit day he'd had.

He woke that morning in a cold sweat with his blankets kicked to the floor. He'd had another fitful sleep full of night terrors. He didn’t need to remember to know it featured Gregor. It was always Gregor.

He reached for the black notebook on his nightstand. With a shaking hand, he logged what he could remember, along with his reactions to the night terror.

His phone was not beside its usual place next to his pillow and no dulcet voice came out of the speaker. He picked it off the floor and saw his grisly reflection in the black screen that was not turning on, no matter how many times he clicked the power button. The charger lay forgotten and unplugged on his nightstand.

The morning light shining through his curtains signaled that he was running late.

He plugged in his phone while he rushed through his usual morning routine. Only briefly pausing to attempt to fix his lank dark hair, moving the strands to cover his scars before pushing them back to his natural hairline and back over the scars again. 

The phone finally turned back on, and he received a single text from his dog sitter. Apparently, he was quitting, citing that he could no longer bear to work under a hostile and demanding environment. 

Sandor didn’t know what the fuck that meant. Since he paid the boy well and he had the privilege of spending time with the best fucking dog in the world. All the boy needed to do was follow Stranger’s exact regimen and routine, along with his feeding times and medicine, all in a timely fashion with no deviation or change outside of the schedule. Was that so fucking hard to do? 

He’d even given the boy written instructions of the routine, along with weekly voice note reminders, and would review how well the boy was able to stay on task and stick to the schedule after each sitting. 

He should work for the Lannisters and then Olyvar fucking Frey would see what a real fucking hostile environment looked like. 

He had furiously typed out a text in response before erasing it, throwing his phone on the bed, where it bounced off his mattress, crashing onto the wooden floor. He nearly picked it up and threw it at the wall before taking several deep breaths and leaving the room for five minutes. He returned, stared at his contact list, which only contained three people, one of whom was the dog sitter. He chucked the phone on the bed and left the room a second time.

While he tried to figure out who could watch Stranger for the day, he went about making his breakfast. He hurriedly ate over the sink like a buggering rat chewing away at his burnt toast and chugging a pre-made protein shake.

He grabbed his phone. Stared at his contact list for a second time and decided he would take the bloody mutt with him to work. 

When he got to his car after wrangling Stranger into the back seat, it showed that his gas was nearly empty. He stopped at the station to fill up his truck before breaking several traffic laws to get to the Red Keep. 

Tywin Lannister peered down at him from the end of an unreasonably long boardroom table. Fingers steepled together like a fucking Bond villain as he let out a deep sigh. His assistant stood beside him, always silent and tablet at the ready to type whatever the Old Lion commanded.

“You’re late, Hound."

Sandor did not offer an excuse and stayed silent. It would only make things worse if he opened his mouth.

Tywin Lannister raised a hand, and his assistant began to type one-handed, the blue light from the screen reflecting off his hollow eyes and grim face.

“You’ll be docked in pay for this week.” His sardonic green eyes met his, “If you're late again, we will extend that time.”

Sandor imagined bashing the Lannister patriarch’s face in on the long ass table, “Understood, sir.”

“Joffrey hired you at my recommendation and we can just as easily find another dog.”

Instead of bashing Tywin Lannister’s face in, he attempted to visualize something else. He was not in the gaudy red and gold boardroom filled with lion motifs and uncomfortable seating. No austere paintings lined the walls, containing generations of glaring Lannister men, looking down at him from their gilded frames. The Old lion was not before him, droning on about disrespect and the old days.

He was at home on his new couch, Stranger was cuddled next to him, and it was time to watch the latest video. Her soothing voice rang out in his living room, almost like she was speaking directly to him. He pictured the blue of her eyes and faint freckles on her face through the screen.

The vision came to a halt as he caught Tywin’s words. 

“You were hired as a courtesy to honor Gregor. Now, he was an irreplaceable dog, but here you are." The man trailed him from head to toe, face blank except for his eyes, which held contempt, "Your brother’s dead and he’s somehow doing a better job than you.”

His breath left him as if he had been suddenly punched in the gut. A tightness in his chest began to spread throughout his body.  

His hands began to tremble, so he placed them behind his back, clasping them tightly together. He gave a single nod, or what felt like an attempt at a nod, because he grew dizzy and his vision began to blur.

The Old Lion’s words sounded far away and muffled as he continued. Sandor nodded along as if he understood, though he caught on to some of what was being said.

An envelope of cash was placed in front of him. He was to drag Joffrey out of whatever shithole he’d found himself in the night before. He needed to pay off anyone who was involved in any ‘incidents’ caused by the boy. Then he was to drag the boy back to the Red Keep for a meeting with the family's publicist.

It was getting increasingly harder to breathe the longer he was in the room. The walls seemed to be shrinking in around him as the old lion’s words echoed around him.

He practically ran from the room at the old lion’s dismissal. Trying to find the nearest hidden alcove or room where he could have his fucking panic attack away from prying eyes. He shoved himself inside a far off broom closet, sinking to the floor next to a mop bucket and the smell of cleaning chemicals.

He couldn’t fucking breathe. He pounded at his chest before wrapping his arms around himself, crossing his arms in an X, hands on his shoulders. He attempted a deep breath and began to tap his hands against his shoulder, moving his left hand, then his right. Back and forth. Back and forth. He took another breath, a bit easier this time, then tapped his hands back and forth. He repeated the process again and again until the air filled his lungs.

He observed his surroundings. He saw the broom. The bucket. The shelf. The light. His shoes.

He felt his suit. The cold tile floor. A microfiber wash rag. The plastic broom handle.

He could hear his own breathing. The buzzing of the overhead light. The rustling of fabric as he loosened his tie.

He could smell buggering pine-sol and bleach.

He could taste his dry as fuck mouth.

He was back home. He wasn’t in a fucking broom closet in the Red Keep. He was at home, not having a bloody panic attack because of stupid bloody words echoing in his head. Stranger was lying on top of him and Sandor’s eyes were closed. Her voice rang out around him, lulling him into a peaceful, dreamless sleep. 

He opened his eyes to find that he was in the fucking broom closet, but that was okay because he could breathe now.

He shakily stood and wiped away the wetness on his face.

He was okay. He was going to be okay. It was Saturday. Today was Saturday. He could make it through. He could make it through. 

The end of the day arrived, and he was finally home. Stranger had decided to lie at his feet while Sandor sipped on his matcha fucking latte. The largest size with a splash of vanilla because he fucking needed it after today. Dr. Dondarrion said he should avoid caffeine, but since he gave up alcohol, the Doctor would have to pry his buggering tea from his cold, dead hands.

The next three days, he would be away from any bloody Lannister or Baratheon. The time was his. Not anyone else's to dictate.

He sank down further into his comfortable armchair with his laptop beside him. He felt his shoulders gradually untensing from the day and saw the notification for a new video.

“Hello, my beautiful doves!” the cheery, calming voice rang out from his laptop. His smile stretched and twisted at his scars, creating what was certainly an even uglier sight. She couldn't see his grin, but the beautiful redhead smiled all the brighter at him through the screen.

The events of the day seemed to melt away as her voice filled the dingy flat.

It was Saturday. The end of the work week, his freedom, and a new Sansa Stark video.

One thing alone led him down the path of becoming a devoted subscriber to Sansa Stark.

Court mandated therapy. 

Sandor had thus far avoided imprisonment, except for a few stints in juvenile detention, which were later expunged when Joffrey Baratheon hired him as one of his bodyguards.

It was a cushy job to work for the Lannisters. He made a decent living, except when they didn’t pay for perceived signs of disrespect or to show power over you. There were limits to what the Lannisters would cover for you unless they wanted you to owe them in some way. 

Gregor had been Tywin’s head of security. It had made sense that Joffrey would hire Sandor as well. Except his brother was a fucking monster and there was only so much the Lannisters could cover up before Gregor’s crimes caught up to him. 

Now he was dead and Sandor was the only Clegane left.

Sandor was called to identify his brother's body. He laughed and laughed when he first saw the lifeless eyes and partially charred remains, then he cried. He kept crying and couldn't seem to stop.

Afterwards, he frequented his usual haunts. Going on binge after binge until he couldn’t feel the pain on the burnt side of his face or feel the growing tightness in his chest.

He’d see his brother's face flash on the news and hear the reports. Then go to a dive bar and drink till he couldn't feel anything at all. Inevitably, start a fight, then get kicked out. So on and so on.

Drink, fight, and repeat. Drink, fight, and repeat. This continued until he chose the wrong place and the wrong person to fight with. 

He didn’t care who the fuck Ramsay Bolton was or if he was the son of a buggering Northern mogul? So what if the boy’s jaw was broken nearly beyond repair? He did the world a service since the bastard spewed utter horseshit.

The boy kept shoving a camera in his face, saying that he’d win $100,000 if he fought against fifty other people, or $10,000 if he didn’t take his hand off of a car for thirty-six hours, or he could give him money for face reconstructive surgery if he just appeared in one of his videos.

Sandor had broken his camera in response and the boy reacted as if nothing had happened. Sandor geared himself up for a fight, but the boy smiled at the crushed remains of his camera on the bar top. The boy's pale, lifeless eyes took on an intense gleam at the action and something shifted.

Through his drunken haze, Sandor became more aware of the shift. The boy confidently said his name. He'd never met this boy before, but he somehow knew who he was, or more accurately, who he was related to.

The boy quit his blathering about videos and began talking about Gregor. Said he admired his brother's work. How the boy sat glued to his screen as more and more bodies were uncovered. What was it like? Did he ever help his brother? Did his brother give him that scar?

That was all Sandor needed to hear and his response was to beat the utter shit out of the cunt. Except the cunt turned out to be connected to the Lannisters and was in fact a very well known microcelebrity. How the fuck could he be well known if he was a microcelebrity? It didn’t matter because he was popular enough that Sandor was arrested and put on trial.

Joffrey had been in uproar about his favorite dog in prison. Sandor knew the only reason he wasn’t rotting in there was because the boy couldn’t have one of his favorite toys locked away from him. 

The Lannisters' lawyers had settled with the boy's father, and Sandor was made to pay a hefty fine, attend ten sessions of anger management, and six months of weekly court mandated therapy.

Except those six months had passed and it had been over a year and a half since his first session.

The Elder Brother had said that he needed to find adaptive coping strategies that weren't solved with alcohol or punching things. It was maladaptive and harmful and such shit, but Sandor tried some of these new adaptive strategies and it fucking worked. 

So maybe the Elder brother wasn't a quack just trying to take his money. Maybe the Elder Brother was real with him and called him out on his shit, while also understanding him in ways no one else really had. Maybe he was the only fucking healthy relationship he ever had in his life.

“Sandor, I want you to envision a jar.”

Maybe he was still a quack. 

“Bloody hells.” Sandor groaned.

“Stay with me here,” Elder brother gave a placating gesture with his hands, “Picture a jar full of blue and red stones. The blue stones are adaptive and the red stones are maladaptive. When we take out all the red stones, the jar is not as full as it was before.”

“What the fuck are you bloody talking about?” Sandor blinked.

“I’m getting there. Stay with me,” Elder brother smiled gently, “Even though those red stones were harmful, it means that we don't have as much support anymore. Even if they’re only blue stones left, they’re fewer supports than we had in the first place.”

“I fucking hate riddles.” Sandor interrupted.

“What I’m trying to say, Sandor, is that we've cut out those red stones- the drinking, the fighting, and self destructive behaviors. While still working on some others- your catastrophizing, self isolation, and emotional numbing. All of which you’ve made breakthroughs with. Remember back to our first session? You didn’t speak a single word to me and look at what you’ve accomplished since then.”

Sandor ignored the impulse to grumble, bark, or shrug his shoulders because the Elder brother would call it out, or as the elder brother phrased it, call him in. But the man was fucking right. He'd been sober for over a year, was able to talk about Gregor without going into a rage or panic attack, and felt fucking human for the first time in years.

“However,” the Elder brother continued, “now you're left without as much support as you had before and what can happen is those red stones will come back or cause further harm if you don’t fill it with more blue stones. So what are your blue stones, Sandor?”

“I don’t fucking know. You’ve fucking lost me again.”

“I think you're deflecting and I think you do.” Elder brother countered.

Sandor let out a heavy sigh, “You think a fucking breathing exercise will give me enough support to deal with Joffrey bloody Baratheon every day.”

“No, I don't think it will. From what you’ve presented about your boss,  Sandor, you need something more than that. Much more. Support that’s not just therapy or AA, you need more blue stones."

"Where do I even fucking start?" he grumbled.

Elder brother gave him a considering look before replying, "Think of your interests and hobbies, what do you enjoy or wish you could do more of? Start from there and we can slowly build it up.”

So Sandor had reluctantly evaluated his hobbies, even though he had no idea how this would help support him. He spent most of his time working for the Lannisters or exercising.

The last enjoyment he could recall from a hobby was an old Nintendo DS one of his foster families had gotten him for Christmas. Sandor dug it out from the recesses of his closet and played a few games. It didn't make dealing with the Lannisters any better or stop him from going into an internal panic whenever he saw a flame, but he had fun, and he hadn’t felt that in a long time.

This wasn't the only change that took place. He brought in a new addition to his household.

Sandor remembered an old, bleary-eyed bloodhound from one of his foster families. The family didn’t take much care of the dog or him, for that matter. So he and the dog had taken care of each other. It wasn't all bad in that home, but he wasn't allowed to take the dog with him into the next group home, and it was the last he saw of the old girl.

Elder brother suggested the idea of caring for an animal either through volunteering or having one as a pet. Sandor entered the pound and saw a black beast of a dog raging against the cage and looking like he would like nothing more than to maul everything in sight. It was love at first sight for him.

The staff tried to dissuade him, saying it wasn't the first or third time the dog had been returned, but Sandor knew what that was like and wanted to keep him all the more. Stranger didn't trust him overnight, but Sandor didn't expect him to. It took time and patience for the mutt to feel safe with him. Sandor could understand that, too.

The addition of Stranger led to more walking and more time outside. He'd started hiking, bringing Stranger along as he traversed the different trails around the Crown lands. He'd even created some goals for future hikes, like summiting the Mountains of the Moon near the Eyrie and eventually making his way North to trek the remains of the Wall.

What the Elder brother had not told him was that this was all a ploy to get him to do activities he enjoyed by himself, so he could get out of his bleak flat and see that there was more to life outside of the Lannisters. Even further, his ultimate goal was for Sandor to eventually do those activities with others and build up his social support. The sneaky bastard.

That’s how he found himself playing Red Dead Redemption on his recently purchased PS4. He’d entered a lobby with someone named She-Wolf-Nym. She got into a screaming match with him for killing a villager whom she wanted to aid on a quest. He'd told her that life wasn’t fair and it was made for the strong, not the weak and she had better–

She’d spam reported him on the spot and his account had gotten banned, which normally would have had him destroying anything in sight, then feeling regret, then reaching for the bottle and continuing that cycle, except he had built up his blue fucking stones. 

So he walked away, screamed into several pillows, then headed for his garage to work out his rage. 

From there, he made an appeal and got his account unbanned. No matter what he did to avoid it, he kept getting put into the same lobby as She-Wolf-Nym. They continuously blocked each other, only unblocking to exchange disparaging, curse-filled insults and rants. This would prompt Sandor to scream into his pillows before putting on his gloves and punching his sandbag into oblivion.

Despite this, they were both damn good at the game compared to anyone else paired with them. Before he knew it, she’d added him as a friend on the PS4 and would send invites to play different games. She claimed the friend request was an accident and he said his thumb slipped when he accepted it.

A routine had developed and his Tuesday evenings were spent raiding towns, pillaging for treasure, and beating the shit out of NPCs with She-Wolf-Nym.

Not only that, but She-Wolf-Nym had convinced him, after much berating and bribery, to play squads in Fortnite. She-wolf already had two of her mates that played and he was to be their fourth. The other two were Shaggydog69, and tigolbiddiestentacles, respectively.

Tigolbiddiestentacles had uttered merely two sentences before Sandor left the lobby and blocked the player. His screaming pillow was always within reach now, as it continually needed to be on hand when playing with She-wolf.

She-wolf spammed him in chat, telling him to get over it. He told her to get over it and it escalated from there, as it always did between them. She-Wolf-Nym rage-quit in response, which left him and Shaggydog69 alone in the lobby. The boy didn't acknowledge She-wolf's abrupt exit and calmly asked Sandor if he wanted to play duos with him. 

Sandor would never tell She-wolf this, as to avoid overuse of the screaming pillow, but he preferred playing with Shaggydog even if he didn’t understand what the boy was saying half the time. Always talking about ‘ligma’ or ‘sticking out your gyatt for the rizzler’ and whatever the fuck a ‘chungus’ was. 

Sandor never responded to these statements. Shaggydog would say he’s so sigma for that and the cycle of utter confusion would continue.

Despite all this, the boy seemed to genuinely enjoy speaking with him. Would always initiate games and chats outside of playing together.

When Sandor thought about it too deeply, that one of only three contacts in his phone, outside of his therapist and dog sitter, was a nineteen-year-old university student who went by Shaggydog69, he wanted to hospitalize himself.

“Come on, man, I know you hate the new season, but just one more round? We can play RDR with She-wolf after this game.”

Sandor had merely let out a grumble and accepted the boy's invitation.

“You got any socials, Hound?” he asked.

"Socials?" Sandor replied while they landed at their designated spot on the map.

"Social media," the boy said, then cried out as a team suddenly descended on them.

“What do you think?” Sandor rasped back, shooting Meowscles in the face as Shaggydog got shot from behind by Darth Vader.

“Gyatt, Damn!” Shaggydog said in response to the headshot, “Nothing!? What do you use your phone for?”

“Calling and sometimes a voice note, what else would it be used for?” Sandor grumbled, attempting to revive the boy.

“Damn, Hound. I'm surprised you even know how to do a voice note. Then what content do you watch?” The boy said distractedly and got shot once more.

“Contents of what?” Sandor asked, “Bloody hell's focus, I’m tired of reviving your ass.”

“How can I focus when you're the only being on earth who doesn’t use social media or know what content is?” Shaggydog protested.

Sandor let out a grunt in reply, hefting Shaggydog’s character over his shoulder and carrying him away from the team and out of the oncoming storm.

“You know what? I’ll give you recs to start with. I don’t think your brain would be able to handle the clock app right away." Shaggydog said.

Sandor had no idea what the boy was talking about since he already had the clock app and used it as his alarm. He had no clue why the boy thought he wouldn't be able to handle that.

"We’ll start you off with YouTube. You’ve at least watched a YouTube video before?” Rickon asked with skepticism.

Sandor grunted again as he attempted to revive Shaggydog for the nth time, “once for trying to set up furniture, another time for how to hook up a printer.”

Shaggydog let out a deep groan, despairing, saying, “Hound, Hound, Hound.”

Shaggydog then proceeded to give him names of content creators he had no intention of writing down or remembering.

“Oh, last one, I may be biased, but Sansa Stark is pretty dope, sometimes boring, but dope.”

Sandor let out another noncommittal grunt, half listening as they were surrounded and ambushed by another squad.

“Seriously, man, didn’t you say you were having trouble sleeping? Put on one of her videos and you’ll fall right asleep.”

Sandor Clegane had no intention whatsoever of listening to any advice from someone named Shaggydog69.

Until he awoke in a cold sweat, fighting off an assailant that turned out to be his blankets. He settled down, releasing his foe, then stared up at his ceiling fan, attempting to breathe.

This was the third night in a row and showed no sign of stopping. He was fucking tired and just wanted to sleep. He was feeling desperate, so he messaged the boy.

Wow, Hound. A ‘you up’ text? I’m flattered.

Fuck off. What were those videos you mentioned that could help with sleeping?

The boy had sent him three paragraphs' worth of names and particular videos to watch. Sandor pulled up YouTube on his phone and typed in the name Sansa Stark. She was the boy's first suggestion and Shaggydog mentioned that if he needed to fall asleep, she was the one to watch.

He selected the top video without reading the title. A stunning, fucking cute and freckled red head with bright blue eyes smiled at him and said, “Hello, my beautiful doves!”

He immediately exited the video with a quiet, “the fuck?”

He searched up other names Shaggydog had suggested, but her cheery voice echoed in his head. He watched a couple videos of Twitch streamers before growing restless. 

Her smiling face flashed in his head and he quickly typed in her name, going back to the original video he saw.

This time, he read the title: The yassification of traditional Northern garb in Westerosi fashion.

He nearly exited the video again, but her voice stopped him. It was soft and sweet. He faintly wondered if she sang.

He’d give it five more minutes and see if he could stand whatever drivel she was spewing, then he would try another recommendation. Perhaps she would bore him to sleep, which seemed to be Shaggydog's intention with the suggestion.

Except it didn’t become five minutes and he did not nod off in boredom. Instead, he became engrossed in the lives of Qartheen textile workers who received little pay and worked under horrific conditions to produce clothing for much of Westeros, and how it tied to the appropriation of Free Folk garments and fashion. He also learned what yassification meant. Sort of. He’d ask Shaggydog or She-wolf about it later.

One video became three before he felt his eyes growing heavy and drifted off. The sound of Sansa Stark’s voice lulling him into sleep.

Her dulcet voice came out of the speakers when he awoke the next morning. It was the most restful sleep he’d gotten in ages.

He did not understand what it was about her videos that alleviated his nightmares. It could be the sound of her voice or how engaging she was, no matter what topic or content she covered. In quieter moments, he admitted to himself that it was nice to hear another voice outside of his own.

The Elder Brother was gladdened about the alleviation of nightmares but concerned about his sleep.

“Sandor, blue light interferes with your ability to produce melatonin- your ability to fall asleep. It triggers the part of your brain that is alert and wants to stay awake. Even if you do fall asleep, you may wake up throughout the night and have a restless sleep.”

“I’ll take that over the nightmares,” he prickled in response at the idea of not having her videos as part of his weekly routine.

“I’m wondering if your sleep would improve in addition to your nightmares if you listened instead of watching the videos, at least when it comes to sleep. What are your thoughts?”

Sandor wanted to grumble and protest because he couldn’t truly enjoy the video if he couldn’t see her expressions and would miss out on the quirky visuals or sketches she sometimes did.

“I suppose it's something to consider,” Sandor replied, attempting to weigh the pros and cons.

The Elder brother nodded and gave a large smile, “Regardless, I’m glad to hear you reached out to your friend for suggestions.”

“He’s not my fucking friend. He’s a pain in the ass.” Sandor quickly responded, arms crossing over his chest.

“Well, I’m glad you reached out to this pain in the ass and seem to enjoy being in communication with him.”

Sandor gave a noncommittal grunt, looking away at the Elder brother’s softly smiling face. He wasn’t even smug about it and seemed genuinely glad for him. What a bloody cunt.

“You’ve even become closer with She-wolf-nym as well.” The Elder Brother added.

“Fuck, no. She forcibly gave me her contact and said it was unfair that Shaggydog had my number and she didn’t.”

The elder brother leaned forward and paused in a way that had Sandor preparing himself for whatever would come out of his mouth, “Sandor, have you ever considered meeting them in person?”

“Seven Hells no, absolutely not.” He immediately protested.

“Tell me what you mean by that response, Sandor.” The Elder brother replied.

“There’s a reason we haven’t given out our names.” Sandor shook his head, “It’s because it's virtual only. It's too much fuss to be in person.”

“Let’s walk through a hypothetical together. What’s the worst possible scenario if you were to meet them in person?”

“I’d look like a fucking creep hanging out with a nineteen-year-old and a twenty-three-year-old.”

“Sandor, there is nothing creepy to insinuate when there is mutual consent and respect between adults, particularly as I know your relationship is platonic. You all are aware and have addressed the power dynamics at play and created boundaries around it, correct?”

Sandor remained tight-lipped, but nodded in response.

“What’s the best-case scenario if you were to meet them?”

“I don’t fucking know. We meet, they put up with me for an hour, and then we never meet again.”

“Is that what the best looks like to you?” The Elder brother asked.

“It’s the best for me,” Sandor softly said.

The Elder brother gave him that look. That one made him feel uncomfortable and felt like his gut was knotting in on itself. Full of compassion and care.

“I’m wondering if you are avoidant of meeting them because it means letting down walls you haven't let down in a long, long time. And that feeling of vulnerability and letting people in brings up this discomfort for you.”

Well, damn the Elder Brother to the Seven Hells he preached about, the man didn’t have to read him like that.

“What else do you feel is holding you back?” The Elder brother asked.

Sandor’s response was slow and nearly inaudible, “I don’t want to deal with their reaction to me. Their reactions when they find out my name. Who I am… Who my family is. It's better this way. Better for them and for me.”

The Elder Brother solemnly nodded, “Is that better for you, Sandor? Or is this another protection in place for yourself?”

The Elder brother met his shifting eyes with a soft gaze, “I want you to consider and reflect on how this could lead to some friendships, perhaps it will be a one time thing and you never meet again, but you would have tried Sandor. You would have tried and given them an opportunity to change your mind. You wouldn’t give that voice in your head that sounds an awful lot like your brother any control over your choices. You’ve seen the worst of humanity, and not enough of the best. Perhaps you should give them a chance… For now, just think about it. It can stay a thought or become something more.”

That Saturday was not as disastrous as that one several months ago. His phone was plugged into its charger. His new dog sitter had arrived on time and followed all of his instructions to the point that he did not have to write out instructions or send weekly voice note reminders. The sitter even sent him pictures of Stranger throughout the day.

Joffrey was in a rare good mood and seemed to curb the worst of his assholery today. He didn’t see any Lannisters besides the boy. Cersei was away at some fucking wacko wellness retreat scam that she was hosting in the Reach. Jaime Lannister was in Tarth for the thousandth time, citing a business trip when they all knew he was trying to get in the Stormland’s three time champion, Westerosi gold medalist, Brienne of buggering Tarth’s pants. The mad fucker. He had no idea what hole the imp had crawled into, nor did he care.

The only blight on his day was running into Petyr Baelish. The family’s publicist. The man was rigorously shaking Joffrey’s hand, as he assumed some kind of deal was exchanged. The man had sneered at his entrance and muttered something about dogs and leashes, but made a quick exit when Sandor asked him if he wanted to repeat himself. There was an extra pep in the publicist's step as he left the boardroom. He wondered what kittens and puppies were drowned in order to cause the little fuckers joy.

It didn’t matter to him because he was finally fucking free.

When he arrived home after working out and taking Stranger on his walk, he set up his laptop and settled into his chair, eagerly awaiting the new video. 

Except that no new video came. It was Saturday, but he did not receive a notification, nor were there any new uploads on her channel. He refreshed the page and still no new video of a smiling Sansa Stark on his screen.

Thirty minutes passed, then an hour, and then two. He watched other videos, filled his time with other things, but still checked in to see if a video had been posted.

That evening, as he got ready for bed, he redownloaded Twitter. She-wolf had helped him set up his account, and he still couldn't figure out how to change his username, TheHoundisacunt. He refused to call it X after discussing the company’s name change with She-wolf and hearing the ‘lore’ as Shaggydog often said.

He checked the site to see if Sansa Stark had tweeted anything, but her account was silent, same with her Instagram. Except she’d posted a story five minutes ago, apologizing for the delay, saying the new upload would be out next week. Her freckled face was smiling up at him from the phone screen and she had several stickers of crying animals surrounded by way too many heart emojis. It was revolting and fucking cute at the same time.

Relief flooded through him and he prepared to queue up some of her older videos in the meantime. He paused before exiting out of her story. Noticing something strange in the corner. It was nearly out of the frame, but there was an undeniable arm wrapped around her waist. A male arm. Blonde, wiry, and familiar. 

He felt a brief chill go through him, but he didn’t understand why. Perhaps it was the latent worry that something had happened to her. Yes, that was it. No other concerns.

He slammed his phone down hard against the nightstand. He watched it slightly shake and the wood creak from the pressure. Perhaps it was time for a night walk with Stranger. He’d wait for a new video next week.

Next week came and no new video arrived. Sansa Stark always kept to schedule. Always. Even if she didn’t, she’d give advance notice of her delay. She was steady. Consistent. Dependable.

She was part of his routine. He looked forward to her weekly videos. It was practically the only thing that got him through the week.

This silence was unusual. Not at all like her.

He pulled up the Sansa Stark Reddit page. 

Rickon had introduced the site to him, saying he’d reach the next pinnacle of brainrot, whatever shit that meant, and that with great power came great responsibility. Sandor needed to spend only five minutes on the site to start to understand what the boy was talking about.

Redditors voiced concern about her silence. While others discussed rumors about her two week hiatus. He didn’t believe any of them. What the fuck would they know? They were just as clueless as he was. She hadn’t run off with the fucking imp to the Wall. Nor was she dying of grey scale because she hung out with Shireen Baratheon, the ableist fucks. 

He was desperate enough to look up fan compilation videos. He’d even re-watched her reviews of the yearly Tyrell Gala and he usually skipped those videos. He came this close to downloading TikTok, the aforementioned clock app, but was able to stop himself when he thought about how fucking obsessive he was being.

Instead, he took Stranger on another walk, the third one today, and scheduled a session with Elder Brother.

“She’s your emotional support youtuber.”

“My fucking what?” He grumbled over his headset to Rickon. The boy had convinced him to play Minecraft and he had no earthly idea why he agreed.

He hadn’t taken Elder Brother’s suggestion to meet Shaggdog and She-Wolf in person, but he had thought about it. At the very least, he and the boy had exchanged their irl first names. Sandor even knew what irl meant without needing the boy to give him a definition. He wasn't quite ready to share his last name. He didn't want to deal with the fallout once they knew. At least, not yet.

Regardless, Sandor was somewhat relieved to be rid of Shaggydog69 in his contacts and put a genuine name in its place. He didn't even know their last name or where they lived, but spent most of his free time with them, virtually at least. He wondered if that's maybe what friendship looked like sometimes.

Now he had four contacts in his phone with Arya’s number. They’d even started a group chat.

He was social as hell, the Elder Brother would be proud.

“You know how people have emotional support pets? You have an emotional support youtuber.” Rickon stated matter of factly.

“No, the fuck I don't.” He growled.

“Whatever you say, Sandor. She just helps you get a full night’s sleep without any nightmares and her voice is like a soothing chirp from a little bird. Like the tinkling of a chime.” Rickon spoke in a dreamy voice.

“Fuck off.” Sandor rasped.

He could hear the grin in Rickon’s voice, “I'm just quoting what you said."

"I didn't say shit like that," he protested.

Rickon snorted, "Sure, mate. Sansa this and Sansa that. Oh dear, whatever has become of the precious little bird?"

"Fuck off," Sandor growled without any heat.

"You never know, man, you may see her sooner than you think! She probably has a big announcement to share and is taking her time. I bet a new video will come out this week.”

Rickon was right and wrong. He did see her sooner than he thought, but it wasn’t a video.

It was Sansa fucking Stark in the flesh and she was walking directly towards him. 

At first, he thought he'd need to schedule an emergency session with the Elder Brother. He was certain this was stress induced psychosis and he was suffering from hallucinations.

When her image did not fade despite his repeated attempts to rub his eyes, shake his head, and pinch himself, he started to accept the fact that she was real.

He let out a startled gasp when the realization hit, which led to choking on his own spit, then turned into hacking coughs. He bent over with his hands braced on his knees, attempting to bring air back into his lungs.

Thank all the bloody gods she didn’t see him make an utter cunt of himself. The girl didn’t seem aware at all that he was keeled over, choking on air. In fact, she hadn’t even noticed him yet. She was entirely engrossed with the man beside her.

Joffrey fucking Baratheon.

Several thoughts clicked into place as he stared at their interlocked hands. Joffrey leaned down to kiss her cheek as a blush spread over her face. 

He felt himself grow hot and cold at once, shivers erupting across his body. His heart squeezed tightly in his chest.

She was getting closer and closer. On Joffrey’s arm, staring up at the boy in adoration. 

He straightened up as she came further into his line of sight and he didn’t know where to put his hands. He crossed his arms. Then uncrossed them and placed them at his sides. His palms were sweaty and he quickly wiped them on his pants before crossing his arms again. He glanced down to see that his pants were covered in Stranger's hair. Blast all the Seven Hells, she would notice, and what would she think of him?

But she was with Joffrey. Why in the Seven Hells was she with him of all people? And she was headed his way. She was heading right towards him.

She still hadn't noticed him. Why wasn’t she looking at him and to all the Old Gods and the New, please don’t let her fucking look at him.

And why the Seven hells was this hallway so fucking long? It felt like a buggering eternity they were walking towards him. 

He could see more of her features as she drew closer. Her videos didn’t do her justice, not compared to the real thing. She was fucking beautiful.

Her copper hair seemed to glow, shining red against the lamplight. She was wearing some sort of form fitting dress. It was a long white dress with ruffles and shit. There was a bow, basically a black piece of string, right between her breasts. That bounced with every step she took, but tastefully. Fucking hells.

He was awoken from his trance as SHUSHU/TONG Spring 2023 collection floated in his head, disturbing him greatly and nearly sending him into another choking fit.

This was all her fucking fault. He’d had to watch her fashion reviews and knew the name of the fucking dress she was wearing. Why the hell did he know that and what in the seven fucking hells was she doing with Joffrey bloody Baratheon!

“Dog!” the boy cried out, finally noticing him standing there like an utter twat. The boy's blond, wiry arm wrapped around her waist, just like it did in the picture on her stories, “Come here!”

Sandor trudged down the long ass hallway to meet them, never taking his eyes off her. His heart pounded loudly in his ears with each step, full of dread and anticipation that brought him closer to her side. He attempted to subtly wipe away the sweat from his hands onto his pants.

It's not like he hadn't thought about this moment before. Had dreamed about it even, but that's all it was, a fantasy. He knew it was a possibility with his line of work. He worked behind the scenes for the famous and wealthy. Still, he suffered no illusion of meeting her or sullying her presence with the likes of him, but here she stood right before. Real and undeniable.

Sansa Stark finally turned to look at him. Her beautiful blue eyes met his and he could almost hear the echo of her voice, ‘Hello, my beautiful doves!’ Except she remained utterly silent, and she flinched when their eyes met, the smile falling from her face. 

He did not feel hot anymore. Only cold. Something churned within his gut. His chest tightened further.

The smile was back on her face, but it was a little less real, a bit more forced. She stuck out her hand to him, all politeness, “Hello. My name is Sansa Stark. It’s lovely to meet you.”

Hurt. Inexplicable hurt filled him and feelings of betrayal followed. Except that didn’t make any fucking sense because he didn’t fucking know her. Except he did. Because the Sansa Stark he knew smiled at him and helped soothe his nightmares and restless nights. 

Not the one who flinched at the sight of his face.

Bitterness, old and familiar, helped him find his tongue, “I’m sure it’s a fucking delight, that must be why you're shaking like a leaf.” He stared at her trembling outstretched hand and something crumbled within him, “Does my face frighten you so much, girl?”

She let out a gasp, growing paler than she already was as she stumbled over her words, “Oh no! I’m not– I didn’t mean- Sir, I am so sorry! I only-”

“I’m not a fucking sir,” he harshly cut her off, staring down at her still outstretched hand, “Spare me your fake fucking courtesies.”

“Settle down, dog! She’s a lady and doesn’t need you barking at her.” Joffrey said in a tone full of amusement with a smirk on his face as he watched the exchange.

The boy tossed an arm around her increasingly shrunken shoulders, “Don’t mind my dog, you're right to be scared, he’s a fright to behold.”

Her brows furrowed and her lips thinned in a tight line briefly before settling back into an uncomfortable smile. 

Her hand was still outstretched between them, but Sandor did not take it.

“Come on, Sansa. I still need to introduce you to mother. She’s just returned from her conference. You can stare at the Hound’s ugly mug another time.”

Again, her lips thinned, and she did not follow Joffrey’s command. The boy's eyes sharpened, and his voice grew strained. “Now, Sansa.”

At last, she brought her outstretched hand back to her side, but continued to ignore Joffrey, “What’s your name, Si–,” she cut herself off before finishing the sentence.

“I’m the fucking Hound,” Sandor growled and brushed past them without a backward glance.

He blocked Sansa Stark on all social media and unsubscribed from her YouTube channel.

He looked up the Sansa Stark snark Reddit page that night. He’d intended to write his own post, but ended up arguing with other redditors that yes, she was fake and annoying, but they could not lie about her beauty because she was fucking stunning. What did they mean by her freckles were distracting, or that she had cellulite on her legs? What the fuck even was cellulite?

They were making things up that weren’t true. He wanted to hear the real stuff, damn it. Not this bullshit. She’d not even had any controversies or scandals, except that one time her video got demonetized because she said the word suicide— in her video about suicide prevention. Fuck’s sake.

They should hate her for the same reasons he did. They didn’t need to make shit up about her. She wasn’t prideful or arrogant like they were touting. 

She was just a stupid little bird. A stupid, polite little bird that chirped her courtesies, hung off Joffrey Baratheon's arm, and flinched at the sight of his face. 

"What'd I tell you, Hound?" Rickon said over his headset.

Sandor didn't respond to the boys' inquiries, focusing on where he was riding his horse in the game.

The boy didn't care, as per usual and trudged on.

"She posted a new video and I haven't heard a peep from you."

Sandor wouldn't know. He'd stopped watching her videos and he was better for it. The growing dark circles under his eyes said otherwise, but he didn't need her. He'd find someone else's video to watch.

"As her number one stan, I thought you'd be rejoicing!" Rickon responded after the continued silence.

Sandor let out a noncommittal grunt and tightly clenched his controller.

"Focus, boys!" Arya called out to them both, "We've got company."

"Bet!" Rickon shouted, charging forward with his wolf, he'd coded to befriend them in the game.

It was blessedly quiet with no more conversation about Sansa Stark until they'd captured their bounty and began looting.

"You know I've got some connections I could pull," He could hear the grin in Rickon's voice, "If you'd ever like to meet Sansa Stark."

Sandor envisioned her widened eyes. The smile freezing and dropping from her face.

"Stop it." Arya protested before Sandor could.

"Come on. Hound is chill, maybe he'd be able to help with that bloody prick-"

"Cool it, Rickon." Arya firmly stated.

"Back me up here, Hound, wouldn't you like me to pull some strings to meet Sansa Stark?"

"I don't give a fucking shit about Sansa fucking Stark."

"Whoa, dude! Slow your roll." Rickon exclaimed.

"Bullshit." Arya said in response, "You always talk about her."

"Both of you shut up about it! I just said I don't give a shit about her. Quit your bloody blathering on about the cunt."

There was a brief, stunned silence before it erupted and Arya and Rickon simultaneously began to shout at him.

"Shut the fuck up, Sandor! I know you did not just call her a cunt? I'll shove a fucking poker up your--"

"What the hell, dude? You can fuck right off!" Rickon interjected, with more rage in his voice than he'd heard before.

"What the Seven fucking hells? Why are you both getting fucking pissed about stupid shit! You're the one who keeps fucking bringing her up. Shut up about it!" Sandor shouted in confused anger.

"Don't fucking talk about her that way! I don't give a shit who you are." Rickon shouted over the headset.

"Arya literally called her a cunt last week and you didn't raise all the Seven bloody hells about it then," Sandor interjected.

"I can call her a cunt! That doesn't mean you can, asshole!" Arya growled.

"Yeah? Well, I don't give a fuck what you say. I don't need whatever fake fucking connections you're blabbering about because I met her already, and guess fucking what? She's a fucking cunt. So I'll call her a fucking cunt if I want to!"

"So what? You met her and she didn't give you a reaction or fall at your feet like you were hoping for? Big fucking shit. Get over it, man. She doesn't owe you anything. You don't know anything about her. Just what she's shown you and whatever fucking manic pixie dream girl you've built in your head." Arya bellowed.

"Go touch some fucking grass, you bloody wanker." Rickon added.

The two quit the game, and he was left to stare blankly at the loading screen.

"What the fuck?" He said aloud to himself.

"What the fuck?" He said again, confusion twisting into anger.

Sandor ripped off his headset and shut off his PlayStation. He threw the controller against the wall, leaving a dent in its place.

"Fuck. Shit. Balls. Cunting, motherfucking. damn them both to the Seven Hells!" he breathed out, shoulders shaking up and down with each breath he took.

"Fuck!" he shouted again as he slammed his fist down on his desk.

A faint whining sounded in the corner, and he turned to find Stranger whimpering and staring up at him in fear. All the rage drained out of him instantly at the sight. He almost felt lightheaded at the instant change.

"No, no, no," he said softly, crouching down on the floor and raising a hand towards his dog, "I'm so sorry. You're a good boy. You're a good boy, Stranger."

He felt his chest crumple at the hesitation as his dog approached him. Stranger tentatively sniffed his hand, then slowly approached him, "Fuck. I'm sorry for scaring you, buddy... I'm sorry. It's not your fault... It's me. It's always me."

Stranger moved closer until he settled into his lap. Sandor leaned down and hugged him, anger fully seeping out of him, leaving confusion and something hollow in its wake.

He didn't wake up to the text because he was already bloody awake. His sleep had returned to its shitty schedule. For once, Sansa Stark was not to blame for the sleepless nights.

A few days had passed, and he hadn't reached out to Arya or Rickon after that fight. Neither had they. Not that he expected them to. Good fucking riddance to them both.

So what if he kept checking his phone throughout the day and re-reading old messages from the group chat? Or that he kept checking their accounts and saw that neither was ever online.

So what? They both got mad at him for complaining about Sansa fucking Stark. Why in the Seven Hells would they get so angry about that? It wasn't like he did anything wrong. He was fucking honest and called out what he saw. A cunt. Because that's what she was.

Except he fought with anonymous people on social media and Reddit who called her the same name, but that was different because they were just speaking out of their arse. They'd not met her, like he had.

It didn't fucking matter. This is why he didn't reach out or talk to people. It was safer behind a screen. Not even that. It was safer not to talk at all. Look where it fucking got him. The Elder brother was wrong. People were shit, just like he always knew, and he didn't have to meet them in person to know that.

His phone vibrated and he quickly grabbed it off his nightstand, nearly ripping it from his charger.

Rickon had broken the silence first because, of course, he did.

Hey dude. Sorry bout the other night. Got heated real fast and said some shit that wasn't cool. Shouldn't have taken my anger out on you. You're allowed to have your own opinions. Even if their shit and i don't agree.

It's all gotten a bit too parasocial, i fear.

Look, i don't know what happened when you met her, but you have your reasons for thinking that way. i can't say much and it may sound fucking unhinged to talk about an influencer like this, but whatever Sansa you met is a small part of her. She may have had a bad day or was busy. We don't really know ppl or what their going thru. That doesn't excuse her if she treated you wrong. Either way, your aloud to think what you want.

You're my bro and i miss playing with you. Arya does too, even if she won't admit it.

i'll stop talking bout Sansa if you want. FR. You do the same and maybe... don't call her a cunt, at least where we can hear, deal?

You better text me back after I sent this cringe ass text. i really am sorry. love you, bro.

Sandor vacillated between anger, irritation, and fondness for the boy. Especially those last three words, even though they were accompanied by too many heart emojis. It was said so fucking casually and something he'd never heard or knew he needed to hear.

Sandor quickly typed out his response.

You're right, this is cringe as fuck.

Come on, Hound. i pour out my fucking heart to you and im repaid with insults. Think about my pride, bro.

Sandor didn't have time to respond before Rickon quickly typed out another response.

We cool?

Sandor typed a response before hesitating, deleting it, and typing it again.

Sorry for taking my anger out on you, too. That wasn't okay. We have a deal, no more talk about Sansa Stark. I missed playing too. Even Minecraft.

As soon as he sent the text, his phone began to vibrate and lit up with the name Rickon.

Sandor hesitantly answered it with a gruff, "Hey."

"You down to play Minecraft, bro?"

"Don't you have class tomorrow?"

"Hell yes, but that's for tomorrow, Rickon, to worry about."

"Be on in five."

“Sandor, are you familiar with parasocial relationships?”

Sandor stared at the elder brother, who appeared to be twice his age, and asked, “How do you know what a parasocial relationship is?”

“How do you know what it is?” The Elder brother rebutted.

Sandor wasn’t quite ready to say it was because of the nineteen-year-old he plays video games with, even though his therapist would be thrilled to know he and Rickon were on good terms again after their fight.

“It sounds like you have an understanding of what it means. Is that right, Sandor?”

“Aye.” Sandor warily replied.

The Elder brother nodded, shifting in his chair to lean in closer, “Much like we talk about projection- how we can place our own thoughts and feelings onto others. The same happens when we may not even know that person, perhaps like a celebrity or a–”

“Emotional support youtuber.” Sandor unwillingly interrupted.

“Emotional support youtuber?” The elder brother echoed with confusion.

“Yeah, you know how people have emotional support dogs? It’s like that, but with a YouTuber.” Sandor said, internally screaming at himself.

“I see.” His therapist paused for a long moment, face shifting before he repeated, “Yes, or an emotional support YouTuber. You may build them up into something they aren’t because you do not truly know them as much as you may enjoy their videos or the comfort they give you.”

“Then what the fuck do I do?” Sandor said, “She and the boy are together.”

“Speak more to that.”

“I have to see them together. Almost every day. All the time.” Sandor leaned deeper into the chair, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Does that bother you?” Elder brother asked.

“Of course it fucking bothers me." Sandor spat out, "He’s a bloody wanker, you know this. I know this.”

“Does Sansa Stark know that?”

Sandor shrugged, “I have no fucking idea, but she’d be daft not to.”

The Elder brother took a sip from his tea before asking, “What bothers you about the two being together?”

“I just told you. He’s a wanker.”

Elder brother nodded, “I can understand that, but what is it about her being with him?”

Something was rising inside him and twisting itself around in his mind and chest. His throat was tight, nearly aching, “Now that they are together, I have to see her every day. That’s something I don’t want.”

The Elder brother took a breath, “That’s not how it's been for you for the past year watching her videos. I know her response hurt-”

“It didn’t fucking hurt me,” he interrupted before the Elder brother could finish that sentence.

“What word fits better for you?”

“I wasn’t fucking hurt. Her reaction was a pretty typical response. I'm used to it.”

“Then what was it if not hurt?” Elder brother asked gently.

His throat seemed to tighten, “She doesn’t mean anything to me. Why would it hurt?”

The Elder brother let silence fall between them before ensuring that he was making eye contact, “You can tell me if I’m wrong, Sandor, but I think that’s why it hurts. It hurt because it meant so much to you. She’d come to mean so much to you.”

Sandor felt a strange sensation in his eyes that coincided with the tightness in his throat as he choked out, “That’s fucking stupid.”

“No. It’s not stupid.” The Elder brother gave him that gentle smile, “I think it’s all rather human.”

“It’s good I’m a fucking Hound then.”

“Are you?” the elder brother challenged, “because I think you are very human just like the rest of us. I think you’ve been raised in an environment where it's not safe to show your emotions or the soft parts of yourself. I think the Hound is easier to put on because it means you don't have to feel the human parts of yourself or the hurt parts.”

Sandor felt his hands begin to tremble and he glanced at the clock that showed ten minutes left in the session. He grit his teeth and looked outside the tinted window.  

“I think,” the Elder brother paused, drawing out the words until Sandor glanced back into his warm moss green eyes, “you found some safety in another person for the first time, in a long time and built her up to be something she may never live up to, because there’s safety in that, but you met her and she responded how nearly everyone else has.”

The sensation in his eyes did not go away and he attempted to blink it away before letting out a thick and raspy, “Fucking hells.”

Silence fell between them before Sandor spoke up again and admitted, “That shit hurt, more than it should have.”

“She was safety and solace. You had built up expectations and hopes that did not materialize. There is grief in that.” The elder brother reflected.

Sandor nodded, “But I think the worst of it is that she doesn't know me and I didn't know her... I don't know her at all, not really.”

“Sandor, you have a rare opportunity. You can get to know her. The real Sansa Stark with all of her flaws and humanity. I think that if you do, you’ll learn to let go of the one in your head.”

He could still hear the pulse of the music from outside the club. He leaned against the wall by the side doors as he pulled out a small notebook from his jacket, quickly jotting down some notes.

He'd done as the Elder Brother suggested and started getting to know her. Without any judgment, which was fucking hard.

He’d made a list, because that's apparently all he did these days. A list of how he perceived her and what she actually was like. So he could find out everything that was wrong about her.

He began by observing how she interacted with others. People she knew and didn't know.

She was fucking nice. To an almost saintly degree. She greeted everyone she passed by name. Didn't matter if you worked for the Lannisters, were a Lannister, or someone greeting her on the street. She'd stop and speak with them.

He'd thought it was an act, but no, she was really like that. Even to her detriment, since he had to physically block fans and crowds from reaching her on several outings with the boy.

She wasn't perfect, though. She was dating Joffrey fucking Baratheon. So she wasn't all right in the head.

He'd seen her crashout once, a word that Rickon and Arya had to explain the meaning to him on several occasions. Gods, he needed older friends.

The crashout happened after Cersei had slipped and spilled her wine over Sansa's dress.

The little bird's face had paled and shifted into a blank expression, with her eye twitching furiously. She brushed away Cersei's lackluster apologies and said, 'Oh, it's no worry at all! It was just an accident. Do please excuse me!'

She'd quickly made excuses and left the room in a hurry. The little bird did not return for over twenty minutes and Joffrey commanded him to fetch her.

He'd found her in the kitchen, crouched down and going through the cabinets under the sink. She furiously pulled out items in a huff while mumbling to herself.

There was a pillow beside her and she suddenly stopped in her movements, grabbed and shoved her face into it while letting out a dulled scream.

He found himself nodding in commiseration. Been there. He quickly shook the thought away and cleared his throat.

The little bird froze and dropped the pillow, but did not turn around to face him.

He watched her quickly brush her hands throughout her hair, ensuring everything was in place. He saw red rising on her neck and imagined her face was similarly colored.

"Peroxide and detergent aren't down there. It's in the laundry room." He rasped.

She whipped around to find him leaning leisurely against the doorway and quickly stood from her crouch, "Hello, Mr. Clegane!" She shrilly greeted as if he did not find her rummaging through the cupboards and screaming into a pillow.

He was right, her face was nearly as pink as her dress.

"Oh, Joffrey must be waiting for me!" She continued in the shrill voice, red-faced, and eye twitching.

She began to brush past him, but he held out a hand to stop her.

"Won't get the stain out of that dress if you go back now."

Sansa Stark promptly burst into tears.

Through her blubbers, he began to make out words, "Can't find anything to get this out... Housekeeper told me it was here, but you say it's not... I don't even know if I will be able to get the stain out if I do find it!"

"Oh, fuck. Shit. Ah, there there, miss Stark." he panicked, nearly patting her shoulder, but quickly drew back his hand, "It's just a dress."

As soon as he said the words, he regretted it.

"Just a dress!" she nearly shouted, visibly growing angry while also simultaneously sobbing, "This is Christian Lacroix 1991! Marpessa Hennink walked in this dress!"

He unfortunately knew all of that information. Thanks to her.

"Yes, Yes." He agreed, "It's archival fashion, it's fancy old fabric and shit."

Sansa didn't seem to hear him and continued her tirade, "You'd think Mrs. Lannister would have some sort of stain removal with how clumsy she seems to be!"

Through his panic at a sobbing and angry Sansa Stark, who was looking less like a little bird and more like an angry wolf. Her real feelings about the Lannister Matriarch began to show.

Sansa seemed to realize this, too, because she quickly stuttered, "But she's been so welcoming, and it's such an honor to learn from such a successful entrepreneur."

"Entrepreneur, my ass. She sells a candle that's supposedly the scent of her cunt."

Sansa appeared flummoxed, caught between shock and amusement, but her tears had stopped. "You shouldn't speak of your employers that way!"

"They pay me to protect them, not to think the sun shines out of their ass, but gold certainly does. Why else would I work for them?"

He turned away and walked out of the room to see an indignant look on her face, "You coming, little bird? I'll show you where to get the stuff for that stain."

She rushed to catch up with him as he guided her towards the laundry room. They stopped at a guest room where he sometimes crashed during long weekends. He'd grabbed his gym bag from the room, then unceremoniously handed it to her while barking at her to change in a nearby bathroom.

She came out of the nearby bathroom in a plain, baggy white t-shirt that nearly looked like a dress on her. She wore black basketball shorts with the drawstring tied tightly that nearly slipped down from her waist.

Oh, gods, Sansa Stark was wearing his clothes. This had only ever happened once in that dream, which he would never speak of again because it made him feel oddly guilty and lecherous.

He stared dumbfounded at her and she called out his name several times before he registered she was speaking to him. He quickly led her away from the room and towards the laundry room. He avoided looking at her the entire way until they reached their destination. He turned towards her at her quick inhalation of breath.

She let out a shiver and crossed her arms over her chest, rubbing them up and down. Before he knew what was happening, his body acted on its own accord, taking off his leather jacket and placing it around her shoulders.

"Oh," she breathed softly, pulling the jacket further around her, and glanced up at him.

He turned away from her piercing blue eyes, "Speak up if you're cold. I bet they can hear your teeth chattering all the way in the North."

Sansa's soft smile dropped at his statement and she tentatively held up the dress, "Do you think it can be saved?"

He shrugged, "Don't know."

Her lip began to tremble, and he lightly took the dress from her, "but it's worth a try."

She gazed up at him with hopeful eyes, and he quickly turned away, reaching for the detergent and hydrogen peroxide. She stood nervously beside him, watching every move that he made. He felt slightly disconcerted by her gaze, but each time he turned to look at her, her eyes were fixed on the dress.

"How do you know how to get wine stains out of clothes?" Sansa peeped beside him.

He didn't answer, so she filled the silence.

"Is it because of the Lannisters?"

Again, he did not answer and focused on his task. Ignoring Sansa Stark, wearing his clothes, standing right beside him, while they did ordinary tasks together.

"Or perhaps did you learn--"

"Quit your chirping at me," he snapped at her, "Do you want me to get this stain out or not?"

She quickly shut up and drew away from him. She seemed to shrink down on herself, and he let out a deep sigh.

"Learned from one of my foster families. Foster mom always had these types of stains on her clothes. I always did their laundry and learned how."

"Oh," she said, glancing up at him.

"No pretty chirping for that?" He sneered.

She frowned, but she wasn't looking at him or the dress anymore. "I have a foster brother."

"You make him do your laundry?" He snickered.

"No!" Sansa sharply said, taking on a lofty tone, "We each had an equal share of chores with one another. Whether that was my cousin, foster brother, or sister. Mother and Father would never take advantage of him like that."

"How charitable... picture fucking perfect family then? Sounds about right." He couldn't remove the bitterness from his voice.

She was frowning again, but didn't say anything in response. It remained quiet between the two of them for some time, other than the soft rustling sounds as he gently blotted out the wine stain. He'd nearly finished. The wine stain wasn't completely gone, but it was hardly noticeable.

"Didn't know if that would work on 1991 archival clothes, but here you are,"  Sandor spoke gently, pointing to the barely there stain.

Sansa's eyes raised at the statement as she asked, "Mr. Clegane, do you know much about fashion?"

"More than I've ever wanted to," he mumbled as he handed her the dress.

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Clegane!" Her perplexed look shifted into joy. She was rocking on the balls of her feet, nearly jumping up and down.

"Don't need your bloody thanks. Hardly got the stain out." He waved away her gratitude, turning away from her beaming face.

"You were very helpful," she rested her hand on his arm, "It may just be a dress to you, but this belonged to my mother." She met his eyes and gave him a warm smile, "Thank you."

Sansa Stark was touching him. She was thanking him. She was wearing his fucking clothes and smiling at his face. He glanced down at the pale, freckled hand resting on his arm-- his burned arm, to make sure it was not a dream.

She was real. She wasn't behind a screen, unreachable and unattainable. She wasn't just a voice. She was someone who crashed out, cried over a stained dress, and attempted an awkward conversation with him because she was uncomfortable with silence.

The intensity of his gaze must have startled her because she quickly drew her hand away and he felt like he could breathe again.

He quickly grumbled out a brief farewell and fled away from her.

Now, a few weeks later, he still couldn't get Sansa Stark out of his mind as he stood outside the club. Joffrey and his entourage were no doubt wreaking havoc inside. He was taking a break from the chaos by checking the perimeter of the building.

The door beside him suddenly flew open, and Sansa Stark came out in a huff. He'd seen her earlier on the drive there, but seeing her standing there again made him lose his breath.

She was wearing a black mini dress with tights and heels. The dress had dragonflies, flowers, and other garden shit over it. The dress shimmered in the street light. He was thankful that he didn't know the name of this dress, but he did recognize that it was beaded all over.

She looked stunning, and he wondered how she could look equally as beautiful in his shirt and gym shorts.

She let out another huff as the door closed behind her.

"Where are you flying off to, little bird?" he asked from the shadows.

"Oh! Mr. Clegane!" She seemed to let out a relieved sigh, "I just needed some fresh air. Joffrey was..." she cleared her throat, "he can be a bit intense, so I was just stepping out to cool off."

Sandor let out a snort at her forgiving description of the boy nearly inciting a riot inside the club.

"Actually, I'm glad to see you," she chirped up at him.

He just stared down at her in disbelief as she stammered out, "Terribly sorry for the delay... I'd meant to give this back to you, but there wasn't a good time to hand it over."

She reached inside her gargantuan Mary Poppins bag and brought out his black leather jacket.

He took it back and continued to stare down at her while she fiddled with her thumbs.

"Thanks again for letting me borrow it and for helping with the dress. I took it to my friend who's a fashion restorer. She was able to salvage the rest, but said if you hadn't done what you did, she may not have been able to save it... So thank you!" She breathed out in a rush.

He merely nodded his head and continued to glance down at her.

He could hear Elder Brother's words echoing in his ear about how, whenever he was in a safe situation, he should try to be friendly, even if it was uncomfortable.

"You're welcome," he grumbled quietly. There, he could tell Elder Brother he did it.

She seemed to beam up at him at the reply before turning away and glancing back at him again.

"You know Mr. Clegane. I can't help but feel we got off on the wrong foot." Sansa took a step closer to stand right in front of him, joining him in his shadowed corner.

His mood plummeted at the words as he growled out, "So this is what your thanks is for...Don't worry your pretty head about it. Flinching at my face? You wouldn't be the first."

She seemed to recoil at his angry tone, but held her ground, looking into his eyes, "I'm sorry for that. It wasn't right of me."

"I don't give a shit," he said while giving absolutely more than a shit. He should shut his fucking mouth.

"Still," Sansa dithered, seeming to lose steam as she hesitantly continued, "if there's some way I can make it up to you--"

"Don't bend yourself backwards for me when you're only trying to make yourself feel better about it." He cut her off, staring at a point over her shoulder, screaming at himself to stop and shut the fuck up.

She let out a scoff and began to sputter, "Mr. Clegane! Do not presume to know my actions!"

"What else am I supposed to think? You're just a spoiled chirping little girl." He took a step closer, invading her space, faintly smelling citrus from her perfume. Lemons. She smelled like lemons.

"You don't know anything about me!" She rebutted, hauntingly echoing what he'd been dwelling on for the past few weeks.

She held out a pointed finger and poked it into his chest repeatedly, "You keep putting words in my mouth and misconstruing my actions! Would it kill you to fucking listen!"

Bugger him. He should've kept his mouth shut and stopped making an ass of himself every time he was in her presence.

Distantly, a part of him enjoyed this. Enjoyed her reaction and how she repeatedly poked her hand into his chest with no fear and all anger. Dear gods, he hoped this wouldn't awaken anything in him.

She stared up at him, blue eyes shining, face snarled, and she suddenly froze. A look of shock came over her face as she muttered, "Oh dear."

She quickly withdrew her finger and wrapped her arms around herself. Her face resembled a tomato that spread down her neck and chest. He wondered if the red spread further down and how he could cause such a response before quickly shaking the thought from his head.

She took a deep breath, seeming to regain her composure, "Gods, I am so sick of people trying to make me out to be something I'm not. I have to hear it from Uncle Petyr, Mrs. Lannister, Joffrey, and now their bodyguard!"

Silence fell between them, and Sansa began to shiver at his side. He cautiously handed her the jacket she had returned.

"Here. If you're cold," he rasped.

She took the proffered jacket and wrapped it around herself.

"Thank you." She softly spoke before making sure their eyes met as she continued, "I truly mean it, Mr. Clegane. I apologize for how I reacted when I met you. I don't care if you don't care, because I do. A lot, actually."

His heart plummeted and then froze at her next words.

"I'm sorry. You don't need to forgive me, but I wanted you to know. You may not believe me, but I didn't flinch because of your face. It's because I recognized you."

Fear filled him and he wondered for an anxiety-filled moment if she knew he was one of her subscribers and watched her videos. Then a worst fear took over. She knew him from Gregor and the blood on his hands. She'd know what a monster his brother was and how much of a monster that made him.

"Recognized me?" he trembled.

Her smile was secretive. "You unknowingly helped my family once."

"What?" he asked flatly, trying to recover from the emotional whiplash.

Her smile dropped as she said, "Ramsay Bolton. Does that name sound familiar?"

"Aye. The most expensive punch I've ever thrown."

Sansa covered her mouth as she let out a lilting laugh before it transformed into a cough, "It sounded like you did a great deal more than that. They had to wire his jaw shut. Multiple surgeries, still ongoing."

"Did the world a bloody service then," he peered at her out of the corner of his eye and saw her covering up another laugh.

A small smile stretched onto his face before quickly falling. He blinked at her as his mind spun and made connections. His voice was a low rasp as he asked, "Did the fucker hurt you?"

She let out a hurried, "No! No...but" she glanced up at him as if debating whether or not to share, "my best friend Jeyne dated him for a while. He was awful to her. He isolated her from us until we stopped hearing from her altogether."

She glanced away, staring down at her shoes, eyes misty, "My foster brother, Theon, went after her. He was determined to get her away from him, but then Ramsay got him too and Theon was lost to us for a while."

She was quiet for a long time before continuing, "but they both survived and have been slowly rebuilding. A few years ago, they took him to court, but it was rigged from the beginning. 'He said she said,' the judge said, all the while he was in the Boltons' pockets. Ramsay only got away with a slap on the wrist." The little bird shook her head, brows heavily furrowed, "We're trying to settle in civil court, but he's drawn out the litigation, and it's all been very hard on Jeyne and Theon."

Her eyes were far away and she wrapped her arms around herself.

"I should've punched him harder," Sandor muttered.

She let out a surprised laugh, and his laughter joined hers.

"After everything, it felt like a small victory when we found out what you did to him." Sansa nudged his arm, "We even toast to you at most of our family functions. It's tradition at this point."

Sandor couldn't describe the feeling of knowing Sansa Stark toasted to him for punching a man in the face, which led to his court mandated therapy and led him to her.

"My brother Bran found out who you were. I wasn't expecting that The Hound Joffrey told me about was also my family's hero."

He scoffed at being called a hero, but didn't bark at her for it. Instead, something more pressing ate at him, "I wasn't expecting to find you... A girl like you, with Joffrey that day, either."

Her face appeared surprisingly blank and closed off. She offered another secretive smile as she merely stated, "It's complicated."

What in the Seven Hells did that mean? He didn't have much time to dwell on it as she took another step closer to him and the scent of lemons filled his senses.

"So, if you're up for it. Let's try again." She stretched out her hand, offering a handshake, "I'm Sansa Stark."

His lip twitched rapidly as he stared down at her hand. Silence stretched between them, and the tentative hope in her eyes faded as she slowly lowered her arm back to her side.

He quickly grasped her hand before it could fall back to her side. His hand nearly dwarfed hers, but he was acutely aware of the warmth and softness of her fingers pressed against his.

"Sandor," He rasped, a small smile spread over his face that seemed to match her radiant one, "It's Sandor. Not Mr. Clegane."

"It's nice to meet you, Sandor."