Sansa felt herself spinning away from the court, into another dimension where she found herself torn between happiness and deep depression. The Hound. Not exactly the match she had been hoping for. She had always imagined herself betrothed to somebody as beautiful as Joffrey with his spun gold hair and his contemptous green eyes but she knew better now. Beauty didn’t always suggest a kind heart underneath. The Hound was watching her carefully, silently. She knew he could tell, the same way he could always tell what she was thinking. She blushed and smiled graciously – courtesy as her armour. It would never let her down, never abandon her. She thought about her brother Robb and wondered what he would say about the match. He would be pleased, she supposed. The Hound was vicious, with a bad reputation but in the Stark family eyes nobody was as bad as a Lannister.

“Your grace.” She dropped into a deep curtsy, letting her auburn hair obscure her face from view. If Joffrey knew she was smiling, he would change the match. Who he would propose next was a mystery; as far as Sansa was aware, the Hound had the worst reputation at court. His brother Gregor, although by far the least favourable option was always busy doing the King’s work abroad to have garnered such a fine reputation. She raised her head and was glad to find that the court was already shifting its attention to the beautiful Margaery Tyrell who was graciously smiling at the knights who had came forward to pledge fealty to house Lannister.

By the time Joffrey dismissed the court the sun was beginning to set, leaving red streaks of blood across the sky. The air was cold and damp and it was threatening to rain. Sansa lagged behind the high born ladies, feeling inadequate in her hand-me-down dress and unwilling to attract any unnecassary attention. She had decided that she would head to the Godswood and send a small prayer to her fathers gods for their kindness when a cold hand touched the bare flesh at her neck. She shivered and drew sharply away from the cruel touch. She already knew who it belonged to.

“Aren’t you going to congratulate me on my wedding?” Joffrey’s voice was whiney, demanding, like a small child left without candy. Sansa felt a giddy smile spread across her face as the tantalising thought of freedom floated before her.

“Congratulations Your Grace.” She muttered politely, dropping into a curtsy, “I’m sure you shall be very happy together.”

“We shall. I assume your match with the Hound proves satisfactory?” Joffrey’s sarcastic smile made her stomach crawl but she nodded and smiled, going through every motion he wanted from her. He wanted to see her beg but he would not have the pleasure and his face twisted into a scowl as he realised that he had given her exactly what she wanted.

“The Hound will plant a baby in your belly each year, until you are surronded by lowborn whelps, with barely a penny to rub between you. Then you shall be wishing to warm my bed.” He spat, stalking away through the crowd of high born ladies until he reached his betrothed. Sansa watched him kiss her hand and felt sorry for Margaery Tyrell. She might be with the Hound who was ugly on the outside but Joffrey was cruel and heartless and not even Tyrell’s innocent beauty would be able to change that.

“May I escort you to your room?” the Hound’s voice was gruff, unused to courtesy and politeness. Sansa nodded and linked her arm through his proffered one. They walked in silence, the Hound peering into the sunset and Sansa contemplating the mixed emotions that swirled in her body whenever the Hound touched her. At the door to her chambers she kissed him on his unblemished cheek.

“I’m glad its you.” She whispered before shutting the door on his stunned face.