A/N: In this, Sandor and Sansa escape during Blackwater and Sandor's sister isn't long-lost.

Joffrey walked off—right for the girl whose brilliant blue eyes were brimming with tears. Her sharp jaw clenched, Sandor assumed under her massive sleeves she had her fists balled up, ready to slam her dainty fist into Joffrey's face. He deserved a punch. Just one.

Sandor understood the reason why Eddard Stark and his entourage were beheaded—a swift death, but he needn't show her.

The poor thing already realized being married to Joffrey wouldn't turn out like she'd dreamed of since she'd been a wee babe. Seeing her father's head on a wooden post would only destroy her before they even married. He felt for her. Watching his mother being taken in front of her three children and a knife drug across her throat had ruined him. A delicate soul like Sansa Stark would crumble right before their eyes.

Joffrey called to her but she stood frozen.

"Do as your bid, child." As soon as he'd said it, he could hear the softness in his voice. By no means were they feelings for the girl, if anyone, it extended from his care of Joffrey—a young man he'd known since he came into being.

Sansa spun on her heels, following after her betrothed and Ser Meryn, his armor clanking with each step. Together, they walked down the halls until they reached the line of beheaded enemies.

Joffrey stopped at a wooden plank, connecting the palace hall and the heads. He stood in the middle of the makeshift bridge and flourished his cape, a show for his bride-to-be.

The plan had been to present Eddard Stark's head on a stake to Sansa. A prize from her king. A prize to the people of King's Landing from their competent new ruler.

Instead, Sandor readied himself to catch the girl should she faint. The alabaster skin stretched over her lean body already made her look lifeless, the second glance she took at her father's head turned her almost blinding white.

His muscles tensed, not blinking as he watched the girl's body shake.

"Look at him!" Joffrey barked, causing Sansa to jump. Her small body tensed like she'd been struck. "Well?" He barked again.

Rosen's young face flashed before his eyes. A drunken village man stumbled across the youngest Clegane while she fetched water. The drunkard mistook the young Rosen for his whore—even before she'd had her first blood. Before Gregor had gotten to him, the man struck her, causing her small frame to jump and shake.

"How long do I have to look?" Sansa looked up to the sky—if she'd be smart, she'd look past her father's head. Block it from her direct site, but Sandor hadn't had a chance to tell her.

Why couldn't the girl understand the boy king's attitude?

"As long as it pleases me." Joffrey broke his stare from her and flashed his eyes to Sandor. "Do you want to see the rest?"

"If it please Your Grace."

Ser Meryn clutched her by her shoulders, forcing her to stay looking forward. Her voice went dead, the voice wasn't hers, a god's voice pulling through her.

"That's your septa, there. I'll tell you what. I'm going to give you a present. After I raise my armies, and kill your traitor brother, I'm going to give you his head, as well."

In the short amount of time that Sandor watched over Joffrey, he'd grown accustom to the king's dramatic speeches.

The young man stared at Sansa, waiting for a reply. The three men would never have guessed her response, or that she'd look him in the eyes. Sandor stifled a chuckle. Not many dared to speak out of turn with Joffrey.

For half of a moment, Joffrey stood shocked, unsure of what to do or say; Sandor knew whatever brewed in his brain would end in pain and tears for the girl.

"My mother tells me a king should never strike his lady. Ser Meryn?"

Meryn spun her around.

In his head, Sandor pulled Meryn off of the little bird and beat him until his heart stopped then took his turn with Joffrey. In reality, Sandor could only watch as Meryn lifted his hand to the porcelain face and struck her twice, leaving her breathless and wounded. She turned back round to face her future husband. By just looking at her stance, Sandor thought surely she'd fling herself over the wall.

Her eyes locked on the bottom of the wall, far below them.

Men had been tossed from the wall and lived. In extreme pain, but lived. A young thing like Sansa would break by the fall.

Joffrey sighed in peace, unable to bring his own hand to her face. Sometimes, Sandor wondered if the young man received more pleasure having someone else do his dirty work.

Sansa moved to stand by her king when Sandor stopped her to wipe the blood from her pouty lip.

"Here, girl," his hand clutched her shoulder a moment before she went to push him.

Every synapse in his brain told him to slaughter the boy king and Meryn before retreating with Sansa to safety where no harm could ever befall her again. But, he knew there would be no chance for that in his lifetime.

Sandor Clegane felt a drip of water on his face. He wiped it away, but it seemed thicker than rain. Another drip and then a huff of hot air. Blindly reaching his hand out, he swatted Stranger away from him, how the bloody beast could manage so much spit made him dizzy with anger. The horse snorted and stomped away.

"Wait, Stranger, come back here!"

The usually stern and entirely too serious, yet musical, voice snapped; followed by stomping of feet. The feet grew closer and Sandor could hear a huffy breath—this time not from the massive animal. He kept his eyes closed, not wanting to wake up from the dream.

"Sandor!" She screeched. "I had just finally gotten him to like me," she gave him a sharp jab in the side with her foot.

She went to stomp off, but he caught her smooth and supple foot in his massive palm sending the lady Sansa toppling over and landing with a soft thud on Sandor's chest. He took in a sharp breath of air and groaned which only caused Sansa to sing with laughter.

"You'll be careful around him, he won't hesitate to bite your hand off." Sandor rolled into a sitting position.

"That's why he ate three apples out of my hand."

"Three apples? Seven Hells, girl, you'll cause him to go lame. Then how will we travel?"

Sansa, sitting with her legs crossed and facing him, shrugged her shoulders. "I should have fed you three apples."

For a second, his brown eyes bore into her, a deadpan look on his scarred face. Inside he fought down the urges to rip her new dress from her lithe body and take her right up against the tree. His hand wrapped around some of the grass that still stood and tossed it into her lap.

Had it been two months ago, she would have screeched. Cried, maybe.

But that had been a long time ago. A different world. A different life. Before Blackwater. Before he'd swept Sansa Stark from her cage in King's Landing. They fled through the city as fast as they could and sped up their travels as soon as they'd escaped the burning capital. Sandor hadn't needed to push Stranger as fast and hard as he did. The sight of Wildfire being flung toward the enemy scared him more than seeing Sansa suffer under Joffrey and Cersei's thumb.

The farther Stranger took them, the more each of them relaxed.

The little bird went from being a diligent travel partner, clinging to him from behind as they rode to sleeping in his arms as they made their way. As soon as they'd stop for a rest, she'd set to making a fire and he'd find the most nutritious meat he could. It would cook. They would talk of fictional stories, and real ones. They'd eat and drink, something that the girl grew to love more and more. Sansa would braid her hair over and over while he slept. Sometimes she'd find a small woodland creature—just like the fictional princess she thought she'd grow to be—and would grow angry when he'd try to cook it once he awoke.

They'd grown accustom to each other.

Almost caring, but each of them scared that the world would catch up to them as they went farther from the place and people they hated.

"You're thinking too much." She stood, letting the lush green grass fall onto his breeches.

"One can never think too much, little bird."

She snapped him a leering look.

His little bird had turned into anything but, his nickname now a reminder of their time at the palace. After the fifth time she'd "accidentally" elbowed his groin, he used it only to make a solid point.

"And now," her face melted back to her delicate features, "we speak freely."

"As freely as we can," he reminded.

Though they'd taken the backstory of being husband and wife, the pair knew there were Lannister eyes everywhere. Hiding and reporting what they could—even if it proved fruitless. Sandor knew they had to keep their wits about them.

"Shall we continue?"

Sansa pulled a twig from Stranger's, recently groomed, mane.

"He'll have to run off those apples you gave him some time." Sandor saddled up the monster. Where he could toss the saddle over him with ease, Sansa couldn't. Hells, she couldn't get on Stranger without his help.

She stretched her arms, causing her breasts to rise with the dress. The sun caused her skin to glow and the twinkle in her eye to sparkle brightly.

Sandor wanted nothing more to take her in his arms and kiss her enticing plump lips until she begged him for air. He shook the sweet thought from his head.

"Are we riding far today?"

His hands gripped her just under her rib cage. The wine she drank caused her hips to grow ever so slightly, but he noticed and rejoiced in it. Her figure filled out to more womanly than living in King's Landing would have ever got her. One morning he'd mentioned that and she'd thrown everything her hands could reach at his head. A good shot, but he dodged each attempt.

"No," he huffed. His muscular leg swung over Stranger's back and nestled behind Sansa's, who'd given up riding side-saddle days into their trip.

They molded together as Stranger began to walk down the path they'd rested near.

Gone were the days when Sansa's posture would match that of a board of wood. Gone were the days of her intricate hair styles that now flowed freely and grew longer than she'd ever had it.

The Battle of Blackwater had changed them. Had rewritten them into entirely different people. She never dared to call him 'ser' or 'lord' to his face. Only a few times had she caught her speaking in her sleep. Lord and Lady Clegane, she'd talked about. He didn't mention it when she'd woke.

Resting on his thigh, Sandor tested his luck and moved his hand to rest on her leg—something he'd only done when she'd fallen asleep. She rested back against him, letting her head loll against his shoulder.

The sun was slow to set when they were on such high hills. As the path curved its way down the other side to the valley, they would follow the sun until it fell to the other side of the Seven Kingdoms. He knew this path in his blood, but didn't dare speak of the direction they went toward.

Soon, they'd come upon a small village and be able to stay for more than a quick rest.

Sansa pulled him from his thoughts when she moved his scared hand to rest in her lap. Examining each finger, she let the pads of her fingers trace over each digit and over the back of his hand. Battle scars crisscrossed his hand and wrist, thankfully she couldn't pull his sleeve up to see the worse scars. They both knew it was the hand he held his sword in during battle. The scars shouldn't have bothered him, but once Sansa began to trace the gashes that had grown closed, the massive man that could behead a worthless man in one swoop felt shy.

He didn't know what to say, if there was anything to say, but instead he tried to pull his hand from her.

"Stop. Let me see." She brought the palm of his hand to rest on her abdomen until he relaxed. "I wish to see all of you, scars and all."

He thanked the gods she faced away from him. Every nerve in him burned with one thousand suns. The very veins in his body boiled in the best way possible. There'd be no way he could kick Stranger into a trot without her noticing. He didn't want her to think he wanted her, but Sansa knew better. A beautiful, smart girl, she'd probably known since before they'd left the battle.

"You shouldn't want to study the scars of a man."

She kept silent, but still traced the markings on his flesh as they rode on.

It wasn't long before she brought his hand to her abdomen again. This time, she rested her head and breathed slowly. Her soft snores and the sound of Stranger walking a calming lullaby.

They crested another hill and he saw first sign of the village. Trees grew thicker than they did anywhere else, causing the village to be practically hidden. White smoke that billowed from houses would be a giveaway to those looking close enough.

"Sansa," he whispered into her ear. She blinked her eyes open, stretching against him.

"Where are we?" She pulled her fiery hair off to the side, exposing her bare neck and shoulder to him.

"My home."