I wish the Hound were here. The night of the battle, Sandor Clegane had come to her chambers to take her from the city, but Sansa had refused. Sometimes she lay awake at night, wondering if she’d been wise. She had his stained white cloak hidden in a cedar chest beneath her summer silks. She could not say why she’d kept it. The Hound had turned craven, she heard it said; at the height of the battle, he got so drunk the Imp had to take his men. But Sansa understood. She knew the secret of his burned face. It was only the fire he feared. That night, the wildfire had set the river itself ablaze, and filled the very air with green flame. Even in the castle, Sansa had been afraid. Outside… she could scarcely imagine it.
Sighing, she got out quill and ink, and wrote Margaery Tyrell a gracious note of acceptance.
When the appointed night arrived, another of the Kingsguard came for her, a man as different from Sandor Clegane as… well, as a flower from a dog.
(Source: angelic37, via calonari)