Disclaimer: Yada yada yada... it doesn't belong to me.

A/N: WARNING: UNBETAD, read at your own risk.

Chapter 1

The spring air was crisp and cool, still with a bite of winter. Sansa wrapped her cloak tighter around her as she guided her palfrey through the streets of King's Landing. The Queen had summoned her to court, not a strange occurrence, but somewhat unusual considering that Queen Daenerys had just been to the orphanage a few days earlier. Sansa was always surprised at the gentleness of her Queen, so different from the former one.

She must not dwell on the past, she must go forward, Sansa thought, her mood souring at the thought of Cersei and of Joffry. King's Landing was a different place now, the stain of corruption and ill-suited rulers slowly ebbing away. The queen had done much for its beatification in the last several years. The young queen had lived on stories of the grandeur of the capital, only to reach a malodorous city filled with hovels and starving peasants.

The hovels still remained, although not as many, and not as decrepit as they had once been. The winter had been hard, yes, but the queen had gotten them through it, with the help of the glass gardens, her small council, and friends across the sea. The peasants were no longer starving and once spring and summer came about, there would be plenty again.

A familiar sight at the Red Keep, the guards let her through readily. She left her palfrey with a stable boy, and made her way quickly to the throne room, curious as to why she had been called. Most days when the Daenerys called upon her it was in private, to share wine and lemon cakes, never in front of her small council.

There were so many bad memories at King's Landing, at the Red Keep, but Sansa had pushed everything away since she had returned, adamant of making better ones. It was no easy feat, sometimes she felt as if every stone in the castle bore the stain of her grief.

"Your Grace, my lords," Sansa greeted the queen and her small council in the throne room.

The Queen was beautiful, dressed impeccably in silks with slim circlet crowning her silver hair. The young queen sat on her throne, regal and imposing, and sad. So very sad and weary. The queen had no patience with courtesies. "Sansa, you were here, were you not, when Joffry's sworn shield, the one they called the hound, was still in service?"

"Yes, your Grace, I was." Sansa, was puzzled over the question. The hound had been dead for years.

"Tell me about him."

"He was…" How could she answer that question? She had never known the Hound, not truly, and thinking about him made her heart ache terribly. "He was very angry, full or rage, but he could be kind and gentle." She remembered the times he had helped her, the gentle touch of his hand on her back, the sly way he had protected her against Joffry when he could. "I must admit, I am at a lost at your question."

"The Hound was found and captured by Lord Manderly, near White Harbor."

Sansa swallowed hard. "The hound is dead, Brianne of Tarth confirmed it."

"She was wrong," Grand Maester Marwin said. "A muscular warrior dwarfing most men, with half his face burned off. Not many men fit that description, not many people who would forget such a face, much less the rape and pillage of their village."

"It was not him," Sansa stated. "Lady Brianne said it had been outlaws, first that outlaw Roge and then Lem. Your grace, it was not him."

The queen stared at her with deep purple eyes, looking at her as if she knew all her secrets. "Brianne was wrong once, she could be wrong in this as well."

"Arya," she said, willing her voice to stay calm, when desperation clawed at her from head to foot. "She will tell you. Arya left him dying days before the assault at Saltpans. He could not have been the one. He could not have-" But could he have? He had once told her there was no greater pleasure than killing.

"Easy, Child," Marwin said, gently, "There will be a trial, his innocent or guilt will be proven then. The Queen and the Council, we're all relatively new comers here; we only wanted reliable information from someone who had known him."

"Of course, Ser. Forgive me."

"How did he come by his burns?" The queen asked.

Sansa told them all she knew about the hound, which was little enough. Starting from how Lord Tytos Lannister had made his Grandfather a lord for saving his life, to how his brother had put his face in the fire. She told them, also, of her sister's time with him. She tried to be objective, but she knew her truths were softened by her heart.

"Thank you, Lady Sansa, you have been most helpful."

Sansa bowed, and before her courage deserted her she blurted out, "Your Grace, may I see him?"

If her queen was surprised, she did not show it. "Of course. Ser, Lucan, please escort the Lady Sansa to the dungeons."

Her heart was thumping heavily in her chest, and she could feel tears threatening to fall as she descended into the dark pits of the castle. Bad memories she thought, King's Landing was filled with them, but the Hound wasn't part of them. She had to see him again, see for herself if what the Queen said was true. If he was truly alive.

The cells were bleak and cold. Sansa shivered, knowing her father had been held here too, before his beheading. She almost turned and ran before collecting herself and forging on. He was at the end of a long line of empty cells, the only one deemed dangerous enough to warrant the black cells. The room was small, lighted with one small brazier, a chamber pot in one corner, a small cot on the other and cold broth and hard bread laying discarded in the middle of the room.

The hound sat with his back to the wall, wearing dark wool and boiled leather, his longs legs stretched before him. His face was in shadows, his hair long and unkempt falling passed his shoulders, the unburnt part of his face thick with beard and mustache. In her memory he had been much fiercer, and had taken gigantic proportions. This man was big, but just a man, a somewhat broken and weary looking man.

"I thought you dead." The tears spilled from her eyes and she wiped them angrily away. She was a woman grown, tears had never aided her.

"The queen will see to that I have no doubt. Your disappointment will not last long."

"There's to be a trial." She sounded so small, like a child. "It was not you. At Saltpans, or the other villages. It was outlaws wearing your helm."

"Is that what you believe?" The hound rose to stand before her. He towered over her still, although he looked much leaner, almost gaunt, than she remembered.

Yes, that is what she had believed. That Arya had left him to die, that he had been buried by a kindly Septon. That he would never come seeking songs from her again. He had never been cruel. Not truly. The hound had been the only one to tell her the truth. "It was not you." She proclaimed again.

"Silly little bird."

His eyes, the color of steel, stared back at her with the same intensity of her memories. Half his face was a burned ruin, the other harsh and strong. Sansa did not look away. She had seen his face in her dreams and nightmares and recollections too many times to shrink away from it now. They stood staring into each others eyes, until the hound scoffed and took his place back on the cell floor.

"You had your look at the dog, now off with you."

Tears started falling again as she left the cells. It was not suppose to happen this way. Silly little bird, he had said, he was right. He had always been right.

….

Night had fallen on the city by the time she reached the castle proper. The queen gave her escort to the Orphanage Sansa called home. After the wars, all the bloodshed, the queen had decreed that vast number of children left orphaned would become wardens of the crown. After little finger had been disposed off by the queen, Sansa had not known what her fate would be.

To her surprise the queen did not mean her any ill. Instead, Sansa was given leave to do as she pleased, to go to Riverrun with her uncle or back to Winterfell with her brother Rickon. She chose to stay in King's Landing. She was treated as a guest at court. As a highborn lady, sister of the lord of Witnerfell, she was invited to all the feasts, balls, and jousts that a younger Sansa had dreamed of. What she once had found thrilling and exciting she now found hollowed and frivolous.

The orphanage the Queen had built had been her refuge. The children, all hollowed eyed and hungry had called to her, and soon she was spending all her time with them. She read to them, taught the girls needlework, sang them songs and taught them whatever else she could. At the Queen's behest she had taken over the running of the enterprise. She supposed it was no different that running a household, like her mother had done at Winterfell.

When she arrived, the children were supping on a vegetable broth from their own glass gardens, and warm flaky bread fresh from the oven. She smiled at the lot of them, about sixty in total, many less than in the immediate years after the war. These were a new breed of orphans, different from the aftermath of the war. These were children left parent less due to poverty, disease, or simply unwanted. "Good evening, children."

They replied back with fervor. A young girl of two, too young to know any better, ran to her. Sansa caught her and lifted her up, kissing her noisily until the toddler squealed with laughter. The dire thoughts and bad memories slipped away as the child cuddled close to her. She kissed the light brown hair, loving the weight of her small body.

Emelin's mother had left her at the orphanage soon after she had been born, claiming she needed no more daughters when she already had a brood of five. Sansa had found a wet nurse for the child, and although she left most of her care on the maids the Queen provided (most of them former residents of the orphanage themselves), little by little the child had wormed herself into Sansa's heart.

The hound had wormed his way inside her heart as well. Very slowly, until one day she realized that he had been truer than any knight she had ever met. It had been too late, or so she had thought. To late to thank him for his help, even if it had been delivered brusquely and laden with hate.

...

The time passed incredibly slowly in the dungeons. He was fed the standard dungeon fare, moldy bread, wormy cheese, and a thin broth. Other than eating there was no other activity he could engage in to pass the time. It was nothing short of torture, especially since Sandor knew that the odds of him being found innocent were slim. It would be kinder to kill him now.

Was there such a thing as a kind ruler?

Not that he deserved kindness, or wanted it. He'd been going north to take the black when the Queen's men had arrested him. Sandor had not offered resistance, tired of hiding, of lying... of living. Life at the Quiet Isle had been, for lack of a better word, quiet. It had suited him fine the first year of his arrival, had soothed the broken man that he had been.

His life as a gravedigger was a short one. The elder brother soon realized his troubled spirit would not be calmed with silence and penitence. He was made a soldier of the faith, sent to guard the traveling brothers as they went from village to village. He disguised himself as a novice, hid his face when he could as he traveled through the vale and even as far as the neck.

He had left his robes behind when the Elder brother died. Lost and without purpose once again. The decision to take the black had been an easy one. There were still Wights and Others in the north and warriors needed to eradicate them. He had been taken near White Harbor when an old knight recognized his face. It had been stupid to leave his disguise behind. He had wanted to reach the wall as his true self, not some craven broken man too afraid to face his foes.

There would be no wall for him now; he was sure, only hypocritical nobles judging his soul. It would end with his head on a spike, of that he had no doubt. The hound was much reviled throughout the land; the men behind the snarling helm had all been monsters.

He should have fought; he should have made them kill him. If he had known he would have been left to rot awaiting the Queen's justice he would had made them kill him. He closed his eyes, wondering how much longer it would be until they chopped his head off. The boredom itself was driving him slowly mad.

He knew her, just by her scent. Sansa, his little bird, had descended to hell once more to grace him with her presence, smelling of soap and rosewater. She wore a simple gray dress, similar to the one she had worn before, devoid of adornment or jewels. Her long auburn hair was neatly braided down her back.

"Good day, my lord. The queen gave me leave to bring you food."

The turnkey that accompanied her opened the cell to thrust the basket unceremoniously on the floor. It smelled like heaven, making his mouth water immediately. The turnkey left, leaving him alone with Sansa in silence. He didn't reach for the food.

"Is not poisoned." she tried to smile, to sound cheerful, but failed in both attempts. "You will be set free. You will." she said after a long silence.

She was earnest in her belief. Had she learned nothing? Was she the same scared little child he had left behind? "What is it to you, if I live or die?"

Sansa neared the bars to the cell. "You were kind to me...in your way."

"You have not changed, little bird, not a whit."

He gave away to the temptation the basket of food offered. Blackberries, a slice of meat pie, skinny little sausages and flaky bread smeared with butter. He ate it all while Sansa stood watch over his cell, her eyes full of questions and her pretty mouth opening once or twice to ask them but closing when she thought better of it.

Time had only made her more beautiful. She was tall for a woman and slender, but with full breasts and rounded hips. Even in the dress she wore, more adequate for a servant than a daughter of Winterfell, her beauty was beyond compare. Beautiful, spoiled, sheltered Sansa, how he had wanted her, how he had tortured himself and tried to drown the lust he felt for her in wine, knowing he could never have her.

"I must leave. I'll come back tomorrow."

"Don't bother." He told her

But she did comeback. The day after that, and the one after, and the day after that one. She came bearing baskets filled to the brim with food. He ate it all like a man starving, which in truth he almost was, and wondered why he even did so. Such a waste, to feed a dead man.

Her smile was almost genuine when she saw him, huddled on the floor like a dog, even more so when he devoured the food she brought. Neither of them talked much and except for the first day, she had remained dried eyed throughout her visits. Sandor could tell the girl was filled with questions. She asked nothing. He had questions himself, but what purpose would it serve to ask them?

"The trial is tomorrow." she told him on the fourth day of his captivity. "The Queen will seat in judgment. It will be a fair trial."

"Like your dear husband had before me?"

Sansa pursed her lips. "It was different then."

Sandor scoffed.

She only smiled. "It was not you. Tomorrow you will be freed," she promised with her eyes.

...

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