AUTHOR'S NOTE: This starts a bit after the attack where Sansa is almost raped. I'd like so say somewhere between Episode 6 and 9 of Season 2. In my story I am aging Sansa to 18. I just cant write for them with her being 13. I am HUGE fan of the books/show. I don't know if I necessarily "ship" SanSan but I am intrigued by them. I think they have potential if written well. Anyways, here is my meager contribution. This is only a four parter and I'm half way done already. Hope you enjoy. God bless!

EDITED TO ADD: Just realized a smidgen of the end was missing. I edited this like hundred times but of course there is always stuff missing or wrong. My apologies.

Chambered Freedoms

~Part 1~

The more people you love, the weaker you are. You'll do things for them that you know you shouldn't do. You'll act the fool- Cersei Lannister

Act the fool….

Act the fool…

Wasn't that her?

Sansa stilled her stitching.

The words echoed over and over inside her head like a dull haunting repetition. Swallowing the words, rolling them over in her brain, her heart. She couldn't make sense of how love was only meant to weaken when her lord father and mother had taught her love was an imperative foundation in any setting.

Yet here she was. Her father was executed and branded a traitor, her mother was aiding her brother in declared open war to the king, her betrothed, and meanwhile the Lannisters, who had no love for anyone save their own precious hides, were succeeding in every conquest or obstacle that obstructed their goal.

" Sansa, dear…?" Septa Nonchal demurely prompted, " you've stopped your work?"

Looking down, Sansa saw her stitching through a clouded haze of confusion. What was the point of all this? Would her stitch work win her love? Would it soften Joffrey's black heart or make Ser Meryn stop beating her on demand? Would it bring her father back or maybe force someone in this gods forsaken kingdom to look at her, actually look at her, and see that she was drowning.

Maybe Ser Ilyn Payne wouldn't come one day to lop her head off like Joffrey threatened every chance he got, but this slow death of words and sadistic torture was just as painful.

She was suffocating.

Licking her lips, she eyed her work as if she was looking at some foreign object that had just leaped into her lap.

" Sansa?" Septa Nonchal stood and now the rest of the ladies of court were staring.

She was done.

Automatically she sat up and a rush of heat flooded her senses, overwhelming. All her emotions were flooding her and she would have to leave now or cause a scene that would eventually find its' way back to Joffrey.

" My apologizes …I am feeling a bit dizzy and need some air. Please excuse me," Sansa mumbled, making the lamest curtsy that would have had Septa Mordane scolding her if her head wasn't rotting on a spike somewhere, and ran off before anyone could protest.

Outside the world was still moving along.

Trades were taking place and battles somewhere far off were being fought.

But Sansa's small insignificant world consisted of not much but Joffrey's unbridled affliction.

She needed her escape.

There were two particular parts of the castle she loved.

On the west side there was a balcony staring directly in view of Blackwater Bay. Sometimes the ladies of the court would do their stitching there, but often the soldiers and Kingsguard would be practicing in the yard beneath them, cursing up a storm during practice or when at rest speaking of elicit behavior that would occasionally drift up and catch the untainted ears of the girls. Sansa was always a bit curious of some of the phrases they used although she would never admit it, but none of the other ladies seemed so interested. All they would do was giggle and whisper how beastly men could be.

On days where the rage was too much she would find watching them soothing. Especially if the Hound was practicing. He was the tallest, muscled man of all, but he was also the one with the most fight. The first to start and the last to leave, he left the yard every day bloody and bruised but he never complained or talked about his outstanding swords play; his fierceness never waned an inch.

If she were a man she would want to be like him in that particular aspect. Sometimes when she watched the Hound she pictured herself in his place and Joffrey on the other end of her sword, scared, ghost white and shaking from the fear. His pants would be soiled and his slimy wormy lips would be quivering, begging for mercy just as she would take the edge of her steel and plunge it straight into his heart.

She would watch him bleed out in front of her with a smile across her face.

But she was not the Hound. She wasn't a solider. She was nothing. Useless. And so, other days, she would stay away from the yard because the mere sight would mock at her futility.

Running now, she sought with fevered need, her second favorite place in the castle. If you could call any part of this personal prison, favorite.

Sansa had discovered the secret room accidentally when she had left dinner one evening after Joffrey had humiliated her in front of his family and told her he didn't want to have her in his sight, calling her ugly and weak. She had bit her lip and kept her back straight but the second she was out of view she crumbled, leaning against the wall and shaking from exhaustion.

There was only so many times she could hear how horrible she was before the wall she carefully constructed started to chip away.

She had needed a place to sit, a place where no one could find her for a while, where she could just breathe and gather her composure uninterrupted. And so she stumbled upon the dark abandoned prayer room, just next to the Kinsgsguard chambers, and has visited it in secret every chance she has gotten. She made sure when she went no guards were around which was mostly mid- afternoon and she left before any of them came to make their rounds for supper. Or sometimes she waited until night had fallen and they had fallen into their beds drunk and barely conscious.

Her pace now felt so desperate and fast that someone would surely catch on if she didn't slow down and pretend like her stroll was nothing out of the ordinary. Reaching the door, her hand on the wood barrier, a sigh of relief washed over her.

Of course nothing ever did go as planned even in those smallest of measures for her.

"What do you think you're doing?"

Even in the midst of an open battleground or a natural catastrophe she would forever know that voice. Steeling her insides, she turned and patted the small moisture under her eyes away. " I was lost…" She turned half-smiling.

The half- smile was as good as she was going to give at this point.

"Lost." Always the cynic, Sandor Clegane stared down at Sansa with about as much civility as a limp puppy who was in his way. " Do I look like a fool to you, girl."

He didn't say the words like a question but she knew he was expecting some sort of reply. Unfortunately she had nothing to give. She had tried with him. Tried so hard to be courteous, to care. Among all the guards she was forced to interact with, the Hound was the most decent to her. She had thought he saw her as more than just a rag doll for the king to drag around and poke when he wanted, but whenever she opened her mouth to extend any sort of pleasantries he would do nothing short of bit her head off.

" No." Her eyes pointed down. " You are no fool." She stated as plainly as possible so he could not misread her words as sarcasm.

He stepped closer. For such an alarmingly big man, his strides held such stealth and grace, Sansa found it terribly disarming. Her back was pressed against the door, the door that held a sort of sanctuary for the broken pieces of her mind and he was ruining it all.

"You're not supposed to be down here, little bird. This is off limits to your kind." He sneered, but there was a seriousness in his tone she did not appreciate.

She was vaguely aware he was trying to frighten her, but he was doing such a lukewarm job she couldn't help but stare up into his face and wonder. Maybe her boldness came from her newfound hate for her life here. Her lack of care for her own well- being…or maybe it was just because she simply had nothing to lose anymore.

Her nostrils made an imperceptible flare when she spoke. " And pray tell what is that supposed to mean?"

Sandor Clegane was not a handsome man by any standards. In fact, his very frame and nature couldn't have been more opposite to Sansa's taste, but she found him easy to look upon in this moment. His physique was broad; the muscles were there and pronounced even to the faint sighted. He had a strong jaw and under the short scruff of a beard were lips that seemed like they could bring pleasure. His eyes were gray and commonly only held hate in them that Sansa bothered not to even take notice, but tonight the dull gray seemed electric against the burning candle posted above them.

His hands were large and could both crush and bruise in one grasp, but, she wondered once and never thought on it again until now, if they could bring about another sort of feeling, could they make a woman cry in a way that had nothing to do with sadness…

Could they handle softly, could they cup a face or waist tenderly?

She reddened, her imagination veering down a dark corner she didn't even know existed in her mind.

He leaned down, almost nose to nose, his black stare lethal. His whisper was low but just as deadly, "What the fuck are you looking at?"

Her chest constricted than turned heavy. The last time she had spoken to him she had tried to thank him for rescuing her from the attackers in town. He had barked ugly words her way and since then they both had kept their distance.

"You," She finally surrendered the word without a thought. She was so tired of thinking, of watching her every move. "I was looking at you."

He huffed a disgruntled breath from his nose, mixed emotions playing across his features, but mostly annoyance won out. "Like what you see? I think not. So get back to your damn room before I-"

"Before you what? Hound."

There was a challenge somewhere in there, but mostly her question was wrapped in silky curiosity. A flicker of surprise darted across his eyes but he shoved it away so quickly she could have been conjuring the sight. She didn't wait for him to answer.

"Before you run to your dear king like the loyal dog you are and tell him what I've done?"

She was leaning closer to him now, her anger peeking with each syllable. " Or maybe you'll just extract the punishment yourself. You don't need the kings say so to beat me. He might even promote you for it."

Both their chests were heaving now. His hand was placed next to her ear against the wall, trapping them in a cocoon of emotion. She thought for a moment maybe he would hit her and she would deserve it with her unladylike outburst, but Sansa was beyond caring. He could do with her what he wanted.

Love was a poison and as long as she didn't feel she was safe.

She gulped down the numbness that took over but a traitor tear fell, sliding down the side of her nose and trapping itself in the corner of her mouth. She watched Sandor watch the tear fall and something in the way his eyes darkened made an entirely new awakening burgeon inside her.

"Punish me…" she wobbled out, " Do with me as you will. I thought you better, but you're like all the others."

"You're right." He seethed through clenched teeth.

Her head shook as if on its' own accord. "I'm not some doll you can tear apart and put back together when you feel like it. I'm not a caged bird you can free on a whim only to imprison later!"

A damn broke inside her, but she fisted her hands at her sides, let her body shake, let herself wait for his slap or hateful retort. When she was rewarded with nothing but the stark silences of their mingled labored breathing, she braved a glance up.

His jaw jotted out. She had worked him up to good and angry and now she waited for whatever punishment, but she would not apologize. Not now. "Say whatever you must. I am not as fragile or breakable as you make me out to be in your head."

"Don't presume to speak for me girl." The sooty words coiled around her.

"I presume nothing. Your actions speak more clearly than any presumption I could ever make." Her fragility had quickly disintegrated and a lofty air tinged her words. She had only hoped he could not decipher the open wound behind them.

That got his tongue wagging on beat. "My actions are just as timed and rehearsed as the rest of the sorry lot here. I only speak unless spoken too. I obey when I am asked, the rest is horse shit."

"And what about me?" She hated how child -like she sounded to her own ears."Aren't I just another command for you to follow out like all the rest?"

His mouth opened to answer but she kept going, " Am I invisible to you as well? Does anyone hear not see me for me? No. No one does. I am either the traitor stark girl or the king's betrothed. Nothing else." Her hand came up and she beat against his chest, a wall of muscle so firm she could have been hitting the granite wall behind her.

Grabbing both sides of her face, Sandor leaned closer still. His mouth a mere inch from hers. "You're going to be the fucking death of me."

The gentleness of his words had her stopping in place and gasping for air. Her swallow held in her throat. It wasn't what he said but how he said it. "See you…of course I fucking see you. I see everything when it comes to you, little bird." The raw ache in his tone would have sent her knees buckling if his body wasn't holding her in place.

" Sandor…"

He immediately shook his head. " No. Whatever you're going to say little bird. No." The warning was clear in his voice, but his body language, the building heat in his stare spoke differently, coaxed her forward, sent her nerves sparking and on edge.

Something that a mere month ago would have sent her frightened into the corner of her room now seized her being, unfurling. She wasn't numb to this. He was bringing her to life.

" Please…" She didn't even understand what she was asking for, but she was certain without hesitation that she wanted it and wanted it from him and him alone.

His gaze still seemed to be stuck on where the tear became trapped in the corner of her mouth.

He sounded ruined but harsh as he breathed out, " You don't know what you're asking. Stop," the last word hard in its' finality, bouncing between the walls of their bodies.

"But- "

He let go of her than. So fast it was as if she had burned him with hot oil. " Go back to your room before I make good on your words and beat your bottom red."

His voice shook so hard with fury she blinked against the sudden brutality. He turned quickly, his strides long and purposeful as she stood there breathless and achy, still caught on his eyes… his lips… and the warm building he had provoked inside her without even daring to try and really touch her.

Her fingers glided across her lips unconsciously, her quivering breath mounted in her mouth before furiously exhaling.

Was she holding her breath the whole time? She thought not. But she might as well have been doing so. Her vision was blurred, her limbs were melted honey, and where her heart had been now only existed a ball of fire that dropped into her lower belly.

For the first time in a very long time, Sansa wasn't thinking about Joffrey or her misery here at King's Landing. No, her chin had been turned to an entirely different view.