This is a Sandor/Sansa Oneshot of a scene in A Clash Of Kings but I decided to write it from The Hound's POV. Centered text and all dialogue is extracted from the original.

It has not been beta tested and I may edit it. SOME SPOILERS FOR THOSE WHO HAVEN'T READ IT OR SEEN SERIES 2.

No one had spotted him in the halls in the panic, and if they had, no one had dared question why he had been heading towards Lady Stark's rooms. Kicking the door closed, the Hound drank deep from the bottle of Dornish red he had acquired on the way, taking comfort in the safe and familiar warmth it gave him.

The little bird's room glowed from dancing lights and shadows, awash with reds and greens of the wild and common fires that battled against the city walls and beyond. The Hound beheld the scenes from the window no longer than was necessary before yanking the drapes across the scene, sending the whole room into calm darkness.

Staggering blindly, he came into contact with her bed, and collapsed amongst the pillows and silk covers, grateful that for all the blood and sweat and wine that covered him, he could still catch the fragrant feminine scent of her amongst the sheets.

Heart still pounding in his ears from the ongoing battle, he let his head fall back against the cushions, waiting like the loyal dog he was, waiting for his little bird.

Only once alone in the dark, listening to the customary sounds of war and fire drawing nearer, did the Hound begin to contemplate why he had come.

He was afraid, he had admitted honestly, not just to himself but to the damned Imp. The wildfire had rained down from the sky, consuming men and ships alike, as if from his own personal hell, and had driven him to abandon the lost cause and seek comfort in two things he could no longer deny himself.

His drink and his little bird.

At least the wine was easier to explain, he'd always sought comfort and escape from the red velvet liquid or with whores, but Sansa Stark was new.

As he took a messy swig from the bottle before pouring it into a flagon, the Hound pondered as best he could on why. He had come for her, yes that was clear, but why? Did he expect her to come with him, to a nameless destination for an unmentionable purpose? He wanted to steal his little bird from her burning cage, perhaps take her back to his lands or even across the Narrow Sea… anywhere but to the Lannisters or her own family; the Hound knew a lost cause when he saw one. Her brother, The King in the North, would be next, regardless of who won the battle today, and any kin of his were targets or prizes.

Either way, he planned to rob the Lannisters of her, before Joffrey could marry her. His hand tightened around the flagon as his mouth twitched, a reflex of fury as he recalled only days ago, Cersei informing her rat of a King-son of Sansa's flowering. The way Joffrey had spoken of his little bird like a deserving tavern wench had stirred an unexpected rage inside him akin to the moments of treasonous thoughts he possessed whenever Joffrey had her beaten. His little bird was a woman now, perhaps not in every sense, but enough of one for the Lannisters to plan forcing Joffrey upon her.

The thought formed a scene in his mind that made him want to scream until his was sick. The little bird was embodiment of innocence, well trained and tame, but he had seen for himself the wolf within her. The heat and loathing in her eyes, after Joffrey had had her beaten, days after her Lord father's execution; he had been so sure that she would push him off that ledge, and had intervened only for her sake, to see the she-wolf Stark once more. Her obedience was akin to his own, except she served lies and false pleasantries to save her head from being next on the walls of King's Landing.

Wiping blood from his eyes, Sandor Clegane knew he was done. He could no longer serve his master and House Lannister, not while he wished every one of them to hell, and he could no longer deny being enamoured by his pretty little bird.

The Hound considered, as best as the Dornish red would allow, his pathetic longing for the unattainable. Some days he wished to steal her away to marry and take her as his, or to just take her, others he wished to shake her until she saw sense. But above all, he wanted her to stop avoiding his eyes, to look at him, not the scars, and not in fear. Sansa's terrified looks angered him, making him feel more twisted and deformed than he actually was, and that in turn only fuelled her fear of him.

He started as the door suddenly opened, revealing his little bird, dressed as prim and as proper as ever, before she shut and barred her door in pitch black. She gave a shaky sigh, and he watched her shadowy form as she groped through the darkness towards the drapes to open them.

The Hound was eager then. Let her see the honest nature of war. Let her see what knights fighting and dying in battle really look and sound like. Let her know the truth of it. She pulled back the cloth, revealing all.

His little bird's mouth hung open in awe and horror. The anguished cries and shouts for aid she hadn't noticed moments before seemed deafeningly loud now. The light of the wildfire illuminated her face then, and the Hound thought himself gone mad. She was all fire now, dancing shadows across her cheeks and reflected emerald flames in her typically blue eyes. He had hated fire nearly all his life, ran from it moments ago, but now he would go willingly to the flames. Somewhere in his senses he felt sick with the unjustness that she could look so beauteous wearing the loathsome flames, and he so twisted bearing its scars.

To touch would be to burn, he knew as much, but cared not, rising from her bed as quietly as a drunk in armor could, the wine forgotten.

She began to back away from the window and he heard her whimper something. The Hound knew he had to move to her before she discovered him, or worse, they were discovered. He reached out, his bloodied hands closing around a delicate wrist, and the other over her open mouth. He swore he had felt her tongue against his hand for an instant; the sensation muddied his thoughts more so than the wine.

"Little bird. I knew you'd come."

As expected, he found fear in her eyes although it seemed to ebb as jade light illuminated his features, making him more recognisable than his drunken slur had been. Just to be sure, he warned her.

"If you scream I'll kill you. Believe that." He then removed his hand from her mouth but not her wrist, and reached for the flagon on the bedside table, some liquid courage. He regarded her again, she was silent but for her quick breaths, the rise and fall of her chest drew his eye but for a moment before he broke his gaze and downed most of the flagon in his hands.

"Don't you want to ask who's winning the battle, little bird?" Her silence was unsettling and for a moment he thought she might faint before she replied obediently.

"Who?" He knew that she could tell as much from the scene outside, but she was a dutiful little bird and had to ask. The Hound laughed then.

"I only know who's lost. Me." His eyes followed hers, down the length of him and to her bed. He could see her unspoken question in her eyes. What was he doing and what did he want? Even sober, he was sure he could not give a clear answer. He swayed a little suddenly.

"What have you lost?" Her voice was small but he heard her still. Many things, little bird. That was why he could no longer stay.

"All." He replied looking away as her eyes took in the bleeding gashes above the burned half of his face, a blood mask. "Bloody dwarf. Should have killed him. Years ago." The Imp had witnessed him leave the battle, by all standards a deserter. But his willingness to die like a dog for his King was long gone.

Hesitantly, she spoke. "He's dead, they say." Perhaps that was meant to cheer him.

"Dead? No. Bugger that. I don't want him dead." In frustration, the Hound threw the now empty flagon away. "I want him burned. If the gods are good, they'll burn him, but I won't be here to see. I'm going."

There was fear then, and he was not sure if she was afraid he was leaving or afraid of his words.

"Going?" She squirmed against him, testing his grip. His presence here was clearly setting her on edge. Perhaps she thought him here to rape her. Half heartedly, he wondered he had nothing else to lose.

"The little bird repeats whatever she hears. Going, yes." Her blue eyes widened, but she did not look at him.

"Where will you go?" If she was interested, perhaps she would come with him.

"Away from here. Away from the fires. Go out the Iron Gate, I suppose. North somewhere, anywhere."

"You won't get out," she spoke up then. "The queen's closed up Maegor's, and the city gates are shut as well." Perhaps she needed some convincing. He gave her smirk.

"Not to me. I have the white cloak. And I have this." He touched at the sword at his waist. "The man who tries to stop me is a dead man. Unless he's on fire." He laughed then, half laughing at himself.

Unexpectedly, Sansa Stark confronted him. "Why did you come here?"

The Hound was silent for a short moment. Gods be damned, I don't even know, to steal you away or take you for myself… But direwolves do not lie with hounds.

"You promised me a song, little bird. Have you forgotten?"

She looked at him then as if he'd gone mad. The world was burning all around them, the last time he might ever see her and didn't even have the courage to take her, in a locked room on a blood and wine stained bed.

"I can't." Her refusal was something unexpected. "Let me go, you're scaring me." Perhaps she did think he was here for her maidenhead. He decided then that it wasn't the case.

"Everything scares you. Look at me. Look at me." She looked, and he was thankful that the blood covered the worst of his scars, although he was well aware that he reeked of death, wine and blood.

"I could keep you safe, they're all afraid of me." The Hound promised, and he knew she remembered the day the mob tried pulling her off her horse, and how he'd cut them down, saving her. He'd ridden through the city, with her arms wrapped around him fiercely. Why couldn't the girl see that this was a close to Florian and Jonquil as she would ever get? There were no true knights when there were no true kings. He tried not to anger as he recalled the night he'd spied her in the godswood with the fool Dontos, how he'd promised to protect her, with his wooden horse and flowery words. 'My Jonquil', the fool had called his little bird, but he pushed the thought from his clouded mind.

"No one would hurt you again, or I'd kill them." The wine compelled him to pull her closer, and he complied, enjoying the feel of her soft body against his. Looking down at her, he saw her eyes close and his resolve faltered. She doesn't want this. She won't come. He wouldn't steal her trust, nor her maidenhood, but something, at least, to remember his little bird by; for she would be his little bird no longer if he left her here.

"Still can't bear to look, can you?" He cared not how disappointed he sounded, his pride was hurt, and the wine was driving him. The Hound pulled her closer, pushing her down onto the stained bed, pulling a dagger from a hidden place.

"I'll have that song, Florian and Jonquil, you said." He held the dagger near her pale throat. "Sing little bird, sing for your life."

She was terrified, he could see it, and no amount of promises from his mouth seemed to change that. He turned the dagger at her neck, almost wanting to trace the elegant lines with the blade.

When she sang, it was not a tale of knights, but a trembling Song of the Mother, one he remembered from his childhood, before the fire.

Gentle Mother, font of mercy,

Save our sons from war, we pray,

Stay the swords and stay the arrows,

Let them know a better day.

Gentle Mother, strength of women,

Help our daughters through this fray,

Soothe the wrath and tame the fury,

Teach us all a kinder way.

Drunk, the Hound could not easily hide his emotions, and wondered if she could see at all through the shadows, for she seemed to calm, and he removed the blade from her throat without word, feeling regret and shame. The song was his little bird through and through, 'tame the fury'; it seemed she had. The Wolf had tamed the Hound.

He could not understand why, but for her naïve, forgiving nature, she reached out then and cupped the bloodied, scarred side of his face. She could not see him it seemed, but she could feel the wetness of blood and tears on his face as easily as he felt the softness of her hands on his skin, willingly, not stolen, and all the sweeter for it.

"Little bird," he spoke with raw voice, unable to say more. He had all he was going to get and rose from her bed to leave, but before walking away, he decided to leave her something also, if she ever wished to remember him.

Sansa heard cloth ripping, followed by the sound of retreating footsteps.

When she crawled out of bed, long moments later, she was alone. She found his cloak on the floor, twisted up tight, the white wool stained by blood and fire.

Hope you enjoyed it.