Disclaimer: I do not own Game of Thrones nor its characters. They belong to HBO, GRRM, and whoever else has the rights.

Note: I have no excuse for this other than I wanted band-aid fic (tv!SanSan fluff). This is what I turned out. Feedback appreciated. :)

Bless Your Heart and Your Tired Eyes

Sansa did not sleep well most nights.

At first it was the bad dreams, the nightmares; waking her up in cold sweats with her heart trying to beat its way out of her breast. The visions of her father, headless and twitching, Ser Ilyn Payne turning from her father's corpse to her. The memories and images of Joffrey calling for her father's head, of Ser Meryn hitting her when she refused to watch the execution again, the horror of toppling over the ledge but she hadn't pushed Joffrey and only she was falling, falling, falling.

'Little birds can't fly with broken wings,' a raspy but warm voice would whisper from far away.

The nightmares grew worse and worse as new hurts and humiliations were added to her collection, like the bruises that did not heal underneath her skin. Until finally Sansa could take it no longer.

During the day she wished she could sleep and forget the waking nightmare that had become her life with her king - with her golden prince and his wormy lips and cruel whims - but at night she desperately wanted to stay awake and avoid the horrible dreams that plagued her.

Joffrey told her she looked a fright at court, with her bloodshot eyes and the grey, puffy bags under them that she could not cover up or hide.

He liked her pretty.

Sansa tried to sleep the following night, but it took hours. She woke up feeling worse; weary as though she had not slept at all, and frightened because she had. And she had dreamed once more.

For several nights it continued like that. Sansa instructed her handmaids not to wake her, hoping it would help her if she did not worry about when a handmaid would come to rouse her. That did not work either. Sleep was still slow to come, with the nightmares always right behind. Sansa would wake still tired, and still frightened.

Sometimes Ser Ilyn would take her head. Sometimes Joffrey would push her off the ledge.

Sometimes The Hound wasn't there to stop her, and she and her golden prince would fall together. Joffrey would wrap his arms around her, and tell her she would never go home. She would always be there; they were to marry, and he was to put a son in her. Sometimes he told her if it was a daughter, he would cut off both their heads.

'And everyone will hate you,' he promised.

Sansa woke up sobbing after that one. She was crying so hard that she did not hear any knocking or calling of her name until Sandor Clegane was grabbing her, one hand gripping her arm and one her chin.

"Quit your crying, girl," he grunted brusquely. His eyes were stormy; angry.

It struck her that he had never looked at her that way before. The thought had almost made her cry anew, because part of her kept thinking of that day when she wanted to push Joffrey - when she wanted to topple over after him - but Sandor Clegane had stopped her and gently wiped the blood from her lip.

"It's past midday, little bird, and he wants you."

Sansa swallowed and gave a tiny, timid nod. She wanted him to stop staring at her like that; she wanted him to go away because she was in nothing but her shift and smallclothes.

Clegane let go and left abruptly, the door closing harshly - too harshly - behind him; as if he suddenly realized she was in only her shift and smallclothes, and they were alone. It was not proper.

But then it was not very proper or courteous of Joffrey to send only The Hound to rouse her.

Sansa wanted to go back to sleep, but the dreams were waiting behind her eyelids. And Joffrey was waiting at court. And Clegane was waiting outside.

So Sansa rose and rinsed her face, and put on one of Joffrey's favorites of her dresses, and made herself look pretty for the king. She left her hair down, though, only a little of it tied back in a braid so she did not make him wait longer than necessary.

The Hound was standing dutifully outside her door, waiting. His eyes were not so stormy; angry. He inclined his head towards her. "Might want to have a handmaid wake you at an earlier hour, little bird." His tone was warning, and it made her shiver.

"How angry is he?"

Clegane did not speak straight away. He started walking, and Sansa fell in line, and after a moment he said, "Sing your courtesies extra sweetly today, little bird. And don't ever change the tune."

Sansa did as she was told, as Clegane advised, as her septa had trained her to do. She still went back to her chambers with a newly bloodied lip, fingertip bruises on her shoulders, and a soreness in her ribs. She was silent when Clegane escorted her once more, silent and somewhere far away, a pleasant place in her memories to try and drown out the pain.

So lost in her own mind, she barely noticed when large, rough fingers touched her hair. But her eyes caught the movement, and she watched from the corner of them as Sandor Clegane brushed his fingertips over her hair and stared at her bleeding lip.

Sansa was certain that if she did not still have his handkerchief - tucked away in a drawer and almost forgotten - he would be using it now.

The thought made her smile through the pain. Just a little. Because she wanted something to smile about again, no matter how briefly it lasted.

He did not say a word after that, nor did he move to touch her again. When they reached her chambers, he inclined his head. "Try to rest well tonight, Lady Sansa," he told her; voice gruff and tone warning.

"Thank you," she whispered back. It was becoming easier, not ending her sentences with 'Ser' or 'My lord' when talking to The Hound. "May you rest well, also."

Clegane's mouth twitched. His eyes were stormy; but not angry. He stood there a moment longer, as though he might reply. But he did not speak again; only inclined his head. He waited until she was stepping into her room before he left her. His footsteps faded as she closed the door.

Sansa searched for the handkerchief he had given her, and kept it with her when she went to bed. In the morning, she woke with her heart calm and steadily beating in her breast; there were no memories of any dreams.