Hold on, since when is SanSan canon?
“Take a good long stare. You know you want to. I’ve watched you turning away all the way down the kingsroad.”
She found his massive shoulder with her hand. “He was no true knight,” she whispered to him.
Sansa said, “I knew the Hound would win.”
“Yes … but you are no true knight, Ser Meryn.“ Sandor Clegane would have laughed at that, Sansa knew.
“Here, girl.” Sandor Clegane knelt before her, between her and Joffrey. With a delicacy surprising in such a big man, he dabbed at the blood welling from her broken lip.
“The girl speaks truly,” the Hound rasped. “What a man sows on his name day, he reaps throughout the year.”
“A hound will die for you, but never lie to you.”
“I will sing it for you gladly.”
“Enough,” she heard the Hound rasp.
Sandor Clegane unfastened his cloak and tossed it at her. Sansa clutched it against her chest, fists bunched hard in the white wool. The coarse weave was scratchy against her skin, but no velvet had ever felt so fine.
Sandor Clegane cantered briskly through the gates astride Sansa’s chestnut courser. The girl was seated behind, both arms tight around the Hound’s chest.
She was afraid of Sandor Clegane … and yet, some part of her wished that Ser Dontos had a little of the Hound’s ferocity.
He is no true knight but he saved me all the same, she told the Mother. Save him if you can, and gentle the rage inside him.
I would be gladder if it were the Hound, Sansa thought. Harsh as he was, she did not believe Sandor Clegane would let any harm come to her.
Of late Ser Osmund had taken Sandor Clegane’s place by Joffrey’s side, and Sansa had heard the women at the washing well saying he was as strong as the Hound, only younger and faster. If that was so, she wondered why she had never once heard of these Kettleblacks before Ser Osmund was named to the Kingsguard.
“I could keep you safe,” he rasped. “They’re all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again, or I’d kill them.”
Some instinct made her lift her hand and cup his cheek with her fingers. The room was too dark for her to see him, but she could feel the stickiness of the blood, and a wetness that was not blood. "Little bird,“ he said once more, his voice raw and harsh as steel on stone.
She shook out the torn cloak and huddled beneath it on the floor, shivering.
I wish the Hound were here.
She had his stained white cloak hidden in a cedar chest beneath her summer silks. She could not say why she’d kept it.
Sansa wondered what Megga would think about kissing the Hound, as she had. He’d come to her the night of the battle stinking of wine and blood. He kissed me and threatened to kill me, and made me sing him a song.
The Hound answered. "Seven hells. The little sister.”
“And she sang for me. You didn’t know that, did you? Your sister sang me a sweet little song.”
“You ought to thank me. You ought to sing me a pretty little song, the way your sister did.“
"I thought your sister was the one with a head full of songs,” the Hound growled.
She wondered what had become of Sandor Clegane.
It was Lothor Brune’s voice, she realized. Not the Hound’s, no, how could it be? Of course it had to be Lothor…
And she dreamed of her wedding night too, of Tyrion’s eyes devouring her as she undressed. Only then he was bigger than Tyrion had any right to be, and when he climbed into the bed his face was scarred only on one side. “I’ll have a song from you,” he rasped, and Sansa woke and found the old blind dog beside her once again.
The Hound poured a cup of wine for Arya and another for himself, and drank it down while staring at the hearthfire. “The little bird flew away, did she? Well, bloody good for her. She shit on the Imp’s head and flew off.”
“And courteous,” the Hound agreed. “A proper little lady. Not like her bloody sister.”
He made a queer sound, and it took her a moment to realize he was sobbing. “And the little bird, your pretty sister, I stood there in my white cloak and let them beat her. I took the bloody song, she never gave it. I meant to take her too. I should have. I should have fucked her bloody and ripped her heart out before leaving her for that dwarf.” A spasm of pain twisted his face.
The Lord of Runestone stood as tall as the Hound.
As the boy’s lips touched her own she found herself thinking of another kiss. She could still remember how it felt, when his cruel mouth pressed down on her own. He had come to Sansa in the darkness as green fire filled the sky. He took a song and a kiss, and left me nothing but a bloody cloak.
“You do know what goes on in a marriage bed, I hope?“ She thought of Tyrion, and of the Hound and how he’d kissed her, and gave a nod.
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