Prompt 2: Sansa is a bit depressed and asks the Hound to sing for her

Sansa's fever had broken earlier in the evening, but the maester had still said she should not be left alone through the night, and so Sandor had sent her exhausted maids away and pulled up a chair by her bedside. She woke before dawn, asking groggily for water, her eyes still closed.

"Here, little bird," he said, raising her head gently with one hand as he pressed a skin of cool water to her parched lips with the other.

"Sandor?" she asked after she had drunk her fill, trying to open her eyes, squinting against the dim light of the candle at her bedside as though she were staring into the sun. "Is that you?"

He could remember each time she had called him by name, and wished suddenly for her to say it under better circumstances.

"Yes," he said, her own name catching in his throat, for in truth he was no better.

She smiled faintly. "You didn't… chastise me… for being stupid," she said softly. "Who else… would call me 'little bird'?"

"Another time, perhaps," Sandor replied feebly, looking over her pale skin, almost grey with days of sickness, the unhealthy sheen the cold sweat had brought.

"Am I so ill?" she whispered, blinking slowly at him.

"You're getting better," he replied.

She smiled again, and held out her hand to him, trembling with the effort so that he took it quickly and without argument. It forced him to move to sit on the edge of her bed, but she seemed little concerned with the lapse in propriety right now.

"I feel so weak… hot and cold all at once…"

With his free hand, Sandor reached for the cloth in the washbasin standing by the head of her bed, squeezing it out before laying it across her forehead. Her small sigh of relief pricked him somewhere deep in his chest, the aching, bleeding wound she had first made as a girl, and had never since allowed to heal.

"Thank you," she murmured, and turned her face into his touch when he allowed his fingers to trace gently down her cheek.

"Go back to sleep, little bird," he rasped softly, stroking the line of her cheekbone with the pad of his thumb, and watched as her eyelids fluttered obediently closed. "You'll feel better in the morning."

"Hmm," she sighed again, a soft smile transforming her face for a moment. "Will you sing me a song?"

Sandor snorted and withdrew his hand from her face, though she tightened her grip on the hand she held in hers. "No, little bird. I can't sing."

"A story, then," she insisted sleepily.

Sandor looked at her face, looked down at the way she had twined her fingers through his.

"Aye, all right then, a story," he said.