A/N: My first trip into the world of SanSan. How could I resist?

In her dreams, it was him.

Sansa supposed she couldn't really call them dreams – they were nightmares, and in the few days since the Hound had saved her from those men in the barn, she was plagued by them constantly. She woke up bathed in a cold sweat at least twice a night. But last night, the nightmares had changed. It was him tearing at her clothes. His gruff voice, hungry with need. And in those dreams, she did not struggle.

It was best not dwell on such things.

When she had tried to thank him for what he'd done – as a lady should thank her knight – his response had not been at all what she expected. In truth, he still frightened her. But now she knew that he was on her side, always. It was a comfort to be certain that no matter what Joffrey might order, he would not hurt her.

He was her brave knight, and she promised herself that she would always think of him as such. Perhaps others believed his hate and anger, perhaps sometimes she believed it herself. But underneath, she knew there was something more.

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He wondered if she would shy away from him all the more now.

When Sansa thanked him, Sandor knew he had frightened her. She had said it herself, in so many words, and that was what he wanted. If she feared him, he found it easier to remember what he was. He was not a knight to be praised in ballads for saving a beautiful maiden. He was a dog, only doing what he had been trained to do. He would kill for almost any cause. In this case, the cause just happened to be one that others might consider noble.

Sandor spat on the sort of knights in the ballads that troubadors sang. They were simply men who enjoyed killing, and had figured out how to do it in such a way that everyone thought them heroes. He was no hero, and he would not be mistaken for one.

Sansa, at times, seemed to mistake him for one. That was when he growled at her – reminded her that getting too close to a rabid dog is dangerous. Because he couldn't stand the thought that so beautiful and remarkable a creature as her thought him, in any way, worthwhile. She was a kind and gentle woman, and he needed to ensure that those brilliant, glittering eyes never saw him for something he was not. Her innocent faith in people would be destroyed soon enough in this place, but he never wanted her to feel let down by him. If her expectations were low, he could not disappoint.

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Sansa was retreating to her room after supper when she crossed paths with her knight again. She intended to walk by silently, but found that she could not. Dreams from the night before flooded her mind, and before she could stop herself, she spoke.

"You have not frightened me away yet," she said boldly.

He stopped, turning to face her.

"What do you mean by that?" he asked quietly.

"You talk of your love of killing, you explain away your noble deeds with shameful reasons, you enjoy scaring me … but you should know that it has not worked."

He took a step closer to her, and Sansa unconsciously took a step back. He gave a short laugh at her reaction.

"Your words say one thing, my lady, but your actions say another. You know me to be hateful. You said so yourself. It is wise to fear a man such as myself."

Sansa shook her head, "If you were going to hurt me, sir, you would have done it long ago. I doubt there is a soul here who would care."

"You may be right," he growled, moving another step closer. Sansa backed up against the wall, "I could hurt you, little bird. I could do as I pleased to you, and the worst I would receive is a slap on the wrist from Joffrey for having you first."

Once again, Sansa found herself remembering her dreams. This feeling was familiar – every nerve in her body seemed to stand on end, and although the first thing that came to mind was panic, it was fleeting. He leaned closer to her, and she met his gaze as steadily as she could.

"Are you afraid of me now?" he asked.

The answer should be yes. Sansa knew that she should be frightened of the man in front of her. Her tiny frame was nothing compared to his scarred, battle-hard body. He could do anything he pleased, and how would she stop him? But the only thing that frightened her was the understanding that, if he wanted something, she was willing to give anything. There would be no fight.

"Too shocked to speak?" He asked, misinterpreting her silence, "Or did you not hear me?"

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Sandor knew he was stepping over the line. He was inches away from the King's future bride. He could tell Sansa that all he would get for touching her was a slap on the wrist, but he knew better. Joffrey was a cruel, jealous boy. Sandor was hardly afraid of him, but he also did not relish punishment. And yet, as he looked at the trembling woman in front him, he imagined that it would be worth it.

He was waiting for her to respond. To cry, or push him out of the way, or scream that yes, she was afraid of him, and tell him to leave her alone. The only reason he had not moved was because she had not asked him … and until she asked, he found that he could not tear himself away.

"I am still not afraid of you," she whispered finally, so softly he could barely hear.

"What did you say?" his voice sounded harsh even to his own ears.

She spoke again, more firmly,"I am still not afraid of you."

"Then you are a foolish girl."

"Perhaps. But you are a foolish man who does not even know himself."

Sandor stared at her in silence.

"You say I should be frightened of you, but I know you will not hurt me. What is there to fear?"

"There is much to fear from a man other than pain, my lady."

"Forgive me," Sansa replied, "But that is the only fear I have known."

Sandor hated to hear those words coming from her sweet mouth. That she knew the fear of pain, that she knew pain at the hands of a man. How could it be? Did the Gods have no sense of justice?

"It grows late," he said suddenly, stepping away from her with great effort, "I will escort you back to your rooms."

"Wait," she said, grabbing his arm as he turned away.

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Sansa knew it was inappropriate to have any sort of physical contact with this man, even if only to touch his arm. But she did not let go.

"Will you kiss me?" she asked.

The words were out of her mouth before she even realized it. Her knight looked at her as though she had just asked him to kill her.

"Do not ask such things," he said, refusing to meet her eyes.

Sansa steadied herself. She had asked, she would not feign shame."You are my knight, I will ask of you what I wish. Or am I so repulsive to you?"

He turned in an instant, pushing her back up against the wall.

"You are not repulsive," he said roughly, "You are perfect. You do not understand what you ask. You do not want that. You do not want a man like me to touch you," his gaze met hers hungrily, "I might not stop."

"I will not ask you to stop."

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Sandor wondered how he could trust her words. If he started this, she would ask him to stop. And he wondered if he could. And how could he live with himself if he hurt her? If he gave her one more reason to cower from men? But she was inviting him, and he despised the weakness within him that made him want to agree. He was a dog. He did not deserve her. But dogs do not always think about what they deserve.

"You want a kiss, little bird?" he asked dangerously.

"Yes," she whispered.

"Then on your head be it."

He pressed his lips against hers, willing himself to be gentle. To exercise control. But within seconds he knew he was failing. She was so sweet, so willing, he pressed her more tightly into the wall and buried his hands in her waving hair. This was what he wanted. Everything he wanted. Everything that Joffrey did not deserve, even though Sandor knew he deserved it even less. At least if Sansa was his, he would never hurt her. He would worship her.

A voice in the back of his head seemed to come alive, warning him as he pressed his hands against her back that he must stop. He could not keep taking, not like this. Not even if this was what she wanted – and surely by now she had come to her senses.

He pulled away, gathering his wits.

"I should not have done that," he said immediately.

"I asked you to," she replied, and at the sound of her breathless voice he wanted to feel her against him again.

"It doesn't matter."

"It should," she whispered.

Their eyes met for a moment, and he reached out to smooth a strand of her hair that had come lose. It glowed like copper in the candlelight. She looked so beautiful, so flawless. He could not believe that for a moment she had been his.

"We will never speak of this," he said, and she nodded in agreement. He felt ridiculous even saying such a thing – as though a future queen would want anyone to know that she had soiled herself with a dog.

They walked back to her quarters in silence, and Sandor turned to leave her at the door.

"Have a pleasant night, my lady," he said simply.

Sansa took a step toward him, and Sandor willed himself to maintain composure.

"I do not regret it," she whispered, "You must know that."

He watched in silence as she entered her room, shutting the door behind her.