I have written this for the comment fic meme on the Sansa_Sandor community on LJ. This is not betaed and not polished as I would normally like but has been written in good fun and therefore, I decided to share it anyway. I hope you'll all like it notwithstanding it flaws. Two more chapters should come shortly.

Sansa

It was well passed midnight when Sansa was awakened by Tom, the head of her guards.

"Lady Sansa," he exclaimed through her door. "I'm very sorry to disturb you at this hour but an incident that has just taken place necessitates your attention immediately."

"I'm coming," she answered drowsily, stretching in her bed.

Although sleep still called her, Sansa was definitely curious to learn which matter might be so urgent that she'd be called from her bed in the middle of the night and besides, as she had been enthroned Lady of Winterfell only recently, anytime her authority was required she got as excited as a child. Tying the rope of her dressing gown tightly around her waist, Sansa tried to compose her face to look somewhat dignified before pushing the door open.

"What is it, Tom?" she asked, smiling at him.

"The Hound has been captured by some of my men."

Her eyes widening, Sansa felt both of her hands going up to cover her mouth before she even had a chance to stop them. "He's alive?!" she barely managed not to cry out.

Taking her emotion for something else, Tom tried to reassure her. "Yes, my lady, but don't you worry he's been chained and locked in a cell. He gave us quite a fight to begin with though. You wouldn't believe the nerves he has; the man pretended we were mistaking, that he-"

"Is he hurt?" Sansa cut him without thinking. Reprimanding herself for such an unladylike reaction, she took a deep breath and hoped Tom didn't take notice of how nervous she was at waiting for his answer.

A suspicious spark passed through the guard's eyes but it was hastily concealed by his usual mask of deference. "No… well, not really at least. He's been cut a few times but has nothing broken it seems."

"Lead me to his cell," Sansa ordered a little too promptly, she realised once the words had left her mouth.

The walk to the cells seemed to last for ever. Sansa didn't know how to feel about meeting Sandor Clegane again. She hadn't seen him since the night of the Black Water Battle but he had been an important part of her many lonely nights while she stayed at the Eyries. The very idea of how she had daydreamed about him so many times and especially, of what her reveries had implied made her blush in shame as she recalled them. She had never thought they'd meet again; he was supposed to be dead after all! His status had made it less embarrassing to imagine anything she willed involving him, but now…

Nevertheless, the prospect of coming face to face with the object of her fantasies made flesh was certainly exciting to Sansa. Would he make her heart beat as strongly as she had always pictured he would? Or perhaps would he scare her as he had when she were that frightened little girl in King's Landing so many years ago. No, I won't cower for him anymore, Sansa decided, raising her chin high. After all, she was the Lady of Winterfell, had been twice married and twice widowed and had lived through more ordeals than most woman thrice her age. A simple outlaw shouldn't intimidate her, especially one that had been chained-up in a cell of her own castle.

The cell the Hound had been locked in was small and dim but it was far from the worst the castle had to offer. As he was the only prisoner in Winterfell at the present, the guards had been thoughtful enough to install him in an area that was usually meant for noble captives. The thought was surprising but Sansa quickly concluded that its proximity from their barrack had probably more to do with what motivated their decision than the will of a nice gesture.

The place was very cold and so dark that Sansa couldn't even discern anything at first.

"Go find a maid and bring a brazier in here Tom. It's freezing," Sansa demanded her guardsman while hugging herself.

At hearing her talk, the Hound – which Sansa hadn't even noticed yet – stirred from his place on the floor. By the grunts he made, Sansa surmised he had probably been asleep. The rough sound of his voice – even in growls - was exactly as she remembered and the realisation made Sansa bit her lip in anticipation. She couldn't wait to see him properly.

"I can't leave you alone in here with him, Lady Stark. Let me call for one of my man instead," Tom proposed insistently.

"Don't waste your time, Tom," Sansa responded, trying to hide the mix of nervousness and excitement that assailed her by using the authoritative but kind tone her mother had always employed with retainers. "You told me yourself the Hound has been chained-up and furthermore, I've known him while I stayed in King's Landing. He wouldn't hurt me."

"But, Lady Stark, I can't-"

"You heard the lady, didn't you? I'm no bloody threat," the rasping voice of the Hound intervened.

A shiver went through Sansa at hearing him talk. It was indeed truly him; there was no doubting it. How and why he had gotten near Winterfell was a mystery for now but she briefly thanked the gods for the present they had granted her anyway.

Tom was gazing at her queerly when Sansa raised her eyes at him again. "Ask Gretta for a brazier. I won't bear for any of our guests, prisoner or not, to freeze to death in my father's castle," Sansa ordered him in a voice that meant she wouldn't abide any more discussion.

The guard seemed hesitant at first but he shortly left the cell anyhow. After watching him get out the door, Sansa immediately returned her attention to Sandor Clegane's dark shape on the floor. There was a small window nearby and the moonlight caught in the man's eyes for an instant. Their intensity was even more striking than she recalled.

"You've known quite an advancement since we've last seen," the man rasped lowly. "Lady of Winterfell. The time where you were at the Lannister's mercy is now naught but a faraway memory. I congratulate you, little bird."

The emotion Sansa felt at hearing him call her by the nickname he had given her all those long years ago was stronger than she could have predicted. For a couple of heartbeats, she was at a lost as what to reply. "I thank you. You… you-"

"Have known the buggering opposite?" he hissed, baring his teeth in a mean half-grin.

"No! That's not what I intended to say!" Sansa quickly replied, offended that he could even believe she would say something like that.

"But that's what you thought. Don't lie to me," the Hound retorted sharply.

However Sansa would have preferred for it to be untrue, the man had indeed known quite a descent since he had left the Lannister's service. It would have been dishonest to pretend otherwise and as Sandor Clegane had always hated liars, Sansa decided she would give him naught but the truth. "Well, the word is that you massacred a whole village. Anyone who manages to catch you is to send you to the capital so that you can be judged before a trial. That's even the reason my guards arrested you…"

At that, Sandor Clegane snorted and his gaze was lost in the gloom for a moment. "So the bird truly didn't come yet?"

"What bird?"

"I've been absolved from the damned crime. Ravens have been sent to every buggering corner of the realm with the news," the man replied wearily. Stretching his arms in a jingle of chains, he sighed deeply and resumed his explanation. "I was certain they'd fly faster than I could ride. Seems like I've been wrong…"

He's innocent, Sansa mused, elated. She had always believed Sandor Clegane couldn't possibly have committed all the atrocities the rumours accused him of having perpetrated but to hear it from his own lips and to know that he had been cleared by the Queen herself was certainly exalting. Notwithstanding the certitude she had he was telling the truth, Sansa was well aware though that until the raven came, she couldn't liberate him.

"Oh… I… I can't act before I get the message. I hope you understand."

The Hound snorted at her evident unease. "Seems bloody logic to me."

Footsteps resounded from the corridor at that moment and instants later, Tom and Gretta – Sansa's maid - entered in the cell with the brazier Sansa as demanded.

"Here you are, m'lady" Gretta announced with her usual joyful voice while Tom installed the brazier into the small fireplace.

Its light, plus the one emanating from the lantern Gretta held, gave Sansa her first good view of the Hound.

The man was ragged. His hair was greasy and every bit of him looked terribly dirty from the long journey he had accomplished but apart from that, he was in every way how Sansa remembered him. Her heart fluttering as fast as the wings of a flying bird, the young woman admired the broadness of his shoulders and the masculine lines of his face, utterly fascinated by the manly vision he was. Even the leathery flesh of his scars had gained an attractive quality to her eyes, Sansa realised while recollecting how it had felt under her fingers all these years ago.

Suddenly aware of how she had been staring at him in front of her servants, Sansa averted her eyes from the Hound's body and began questioning him, if only to draw their attention elsewhere. "Are you… comfortable? Do you need anything?"

Sweeping his gaze around the cell, Sandor Clegane snorted and eyed Sansa with a slightly mocking expression. "Pretending that I'm comfortable would mayhap be an overstatement but I've known worse," he replied in that husky voice of him. Its sound was terribly sensual to Sansa's ear.

Just as she was about to get absorbed into the sight of him again, the man shifted in his place and the rattle his chains made as their links clashed against each others reminded Sansa of the predicament he was in. Both of his wrists had been clapped in irons and two long chains of about two yards each were attached from him to the wall. They were long enough for him to rise and walk around a little but he couldn't even get near the door or take more than two steps each side. Propped on one arm, the Hound was sitting directly on the stone ground, both of his legs stretched lazily before him. He has been sleeping directly over the floor! Sansa realised with concern.

"Gretta, ask a stable boy to bring some fresh straw and a couple of blankets. And food too. I'm sure Sandor Clegane is starving," Sansa demanded her maid, barely managing to mask the urgency in her tone.

"Yes, m'lady. Would you like to keep the lantern in here? It's so dark; we can barely see anything," the woman asked while handling the lamp to Sansa.

"Yes, thank you," she answered, accepting the lantern.

With the light in hand, Sansa approached the Hound and noticed - eyes wide - that his tunic had been torn in a few places. Tom had told her earlier that there had been a struggle between his men and Sandor Clegane but the view of his blood shocked her nonetheless.

"Oh, you've been wounded!" she exclaimed, raising a hand to her heart. "We need to wake the maester !"

Barking a short, dry laugh, the Hound waved her worries away with the back of his hand. "No need for that, little bird. I've only been scratched. There's nothing deeper than a half inch,"

Pretending not to note Tom stiffening at hearing the Hound's pet name for her, Sansa took a few steps toward her prisoner until less than a yard separated them. "If that is so, then I'll take care of your wounds myself. Gretta!" she called, gazing at her maid. "Bring me some boiling wine, a bucket of water and some clean towels, please."

"Yes, m'lady," the maid answered promptly before leaving the cell. She was very obedient and Sansa couldn't help herself at that moment from wishing that her head guard was a little more like her.

Turning toward him, she gave the man a tight smile. "Tom, you may leave. I'm certain you must be extremely tired," she said, praying the gods that he wouldn't insist otherwise.

It had been too much hoping for, evidently. "But, Lady Stark!" he began. "I can't leave you by-"

"Don't worry, Tom," Sansa cut him. She had better show him immediately that she'd be inflexible on the matter or else, he'd never abdicate. "That's very thoughtful of you but all is fine. You may go."

The man seemed to hesitate at first. For a few long and awkward seconds, he even glared in the Hound's direction, but then he bowed at Sansa and left.

"Eager to protect you, this one," Sandor Clegane rasped with contempt once the guard was gone. "He gave me quite a warning look before he left. I better not touch you the wrong way or else, he'll cut my throat in the morning," he added, evidently as much amused as annoyed by Tom's attitude.

"His intentions are good. Don't blame him," Sansa excused her guard while nervously clutching at the lantern with both hands.

"I don't. I'd do the same," the Hound retorted in a murmur while keeping his intent grey stare fixed on her.

At that instant, Sansa became very aware of the thinness of the simple dressing gown she was wearing. She could feel Sandor Clegane's eyes roving all over her curves and the sensation made her blush in something that didn't have much to do with shame. A long silence stretched between them and Sansa was just starting to get uncomfortable when she thought of a question to ask him.

"You said you rode here as soon as you've been absolved," she began. "Why?"

A small, wry smile stretched the man's lips. "There are not many places where my presence is welcome anymore. Cleared or not, my name is still cursed most anywhere, especially in the Riverlands. I could have stayed in the capital but I had enough of the damned place. When I heard you were the new Warden of the North, I figured I could offer you my sword. You have every reason for not wanting me anywhere near you though, so if you're not interested in having me, I'll leave as soon as the raven comes."

"No, don't!" Sansa objected even before she could think it through. It didn't matter though. There was no way in all of Westeros that she could refuse his proposition. The whole situation was like a dream come true. "I'll gladly accept your allegiance. We're always in need of skilled warriors at Winterfell," she continued, trying to sound more poised than she previously had.

The sound of people approaching prevented Sansa from adding anything else and she instinctively took a step back. Although there was nothing inappropriate about their conversation, she was uneasy at the notion that outsiders witnessed her reunion with the Hound.

"Here, m'lady" Gretta said while settling a tray of food on the ground.

Two other maids followed her with the boiling wine, the water and the towels, and three boys shortly arrived with a load of straw and the blankets Sansa had asked for. Politely, Gretta demanded Sandor Clegane to rise so that the straw could be laid. The man didn't object and stood in a clatter of iron. To give the boys some space as they settled his bed, the man took a step toward Sansa and the young woman was instantly impressed by his height. She hadn't forgotten how tall he was but seeing it in truth was not the same as remembering it in her daydreams. In their proximity, Sansa swiftly began smelling the odour that oozed from him. The Hound had evidently not cleaned up for a long time, however, even as she realised she should be repelled, Sansa couldn't restrain herself from inhaling more deeply. For some reason, the sent of his sweat didn't repulse her as it normally should have. Quite the contrary in fact. If she hadn't controlled herself at that moment, Sansa might have actually buried her face unto his chest until she drowned in his sent. The idea both shocked and stirred her.

"All is ready, m'lady," Gretta informed Sansa, taking her from her reverie.

Blushing at the thought that she had let herself get into such a state in public, Sansa bit her lip and thanked her servants. "You can all leave and go back to sleep," she told them, trying to sound calmer than she felt. "I won't be needing any of you before morning."

Bowing, the maids walked out of the cell, quickly followed by the stable boys. Sansa watched them as they went and took a deep breath. She had no clue of what to expect but the prospect of spending some time alone with Sandor Clegane was certainly nerve-racking… in a queerly pleasant manner, she realised, a small smile curving her lips.

For an unknown number of seconds Sansa stood in place, staring at the ajar door of the cell. A panic akin to the one she had so often lived while she were hostage in King's Landing was quickly shrouding her newborn assurance and shivers were uncontrollably gaining her limbs. How by the gods should she behave – alone! - with Sandor Clegane? I need to calm down, she decided taking a deep breath. After all, I am the one in control here and the Hound is nothing but my prisoner until he is proven innocent. With that in mind, she turned around and gazed up at the man.

"Where are you hurt?" she asked as matter-of-factly as she could muster although most of his wounds were visible.

"Hurt's not the word I would use but your bloody guards scratched me over there," he answered, pointing at his chest and arms in a jingle of chains.

With her eyes, Sansa followed his hands as they showed her his cuts and she was instantly transfixed by their largeness and apparent strength. Some improper part of her couldn't help but wonder how they would feel trailing down her body and imagine the firm hold they would have on her hips as she straddled him. Biting her lips, Sansa tried to chase the licentious images from her mind as soon as they formed, only, that same part of her seemingly didn't want to yield so easily.

Notwithstanding the internal combat that was hastily building in her, Sansa managed to shake herself and nodded at the makeshift bed on the ground. "Sit down, please. It will be far easier for me to work this way," she told the Hound a little more stiffly than she had intended. While she regretted the tone she had used as soon as the command left her mouth, Sansa had to admit to herself that appearing more confident than she actually felt was perhaps her best chance of hiding the truth of her agitation.

Despite what she had feared, her authoritative attitude didn't seem to bother the Hound at all. Without uttering so much as a single of his usual scornful or mocking comments, the man complied and did exactly as she asked. His unexpected obedience roused something in Sansa and although she didn't quite understand what it might be, she nevertheless revelled in what the unknown feeling triggered in her and realised - unsettled – that she yearned for more of its taste.

The boiling wine filled cauldron and clean towels Sansa had asked for were all near Sandor Clegane enough and therefore, the young woman immediately got on her knees next to him and began inspecting his injured chest and arms. While their proximity was exalting, Sansa kept repeating to herself that her enthusiasm was not something the Hound should take notice of and so, she kept her eyes on his chest and tried to focus solely on his physical condition. There was no denying however, that focusing on his physical condition could be interpreted in a different way - of that Sansa was well conscious – nevertheless such thoughts required to be chased from her mind even before they formed completely if she truly wished to keep her composure. The task would prove harder than it appeared, Sansa had to admit to herself.

Sandor Clegane was still garbed in the same clothing he had been wearing when Tom and his men had arrested him and the many layers of wool and roughspun were preventing Sansa from getting a good idea of the severity of his state. Approaching even closer, she laid a hand over the dirty fabric and was taken aback when she saw how the man tensed under her touch. Could her contact possibly make him… nervous?

"I'll need to tear your clothes," she announce, struggling not to sound as aghast at her own words as she felt. Her face was burning with shame but somehow, the prospect of having such a perfect opportunity of laying her eyes over the Hound's brawny torso was enough to give her all the resolve she needed. Once she gathered enough courage to raise her gaze at him, Sansa wasn't truly surprised by the unreadable expression he wore, however, something in his eyes told her that he hadn't been expecting her boldness.

"Do it if you have to. They're really no more than rags anyhow," he rasped, staring sideway as he told her so. If she had not known better, Sansa might have actually started believing the situation was indeed making him uneasy but he was the Hound after all and so, she instantly discarded the notion as foolish.

Delicately, Sansa began to feel the fabric that covered Sandor Clegane's broad chest. It was a pity she hadn't asked Gretta for a dagger or some scissors but at least the cloth was worn out enough that she'd most likely manage to rend it with her bare hands where it had been cut open. There was only one way of finding out though and thus, an instant later, she was grasping the levels of wool and roughspun one after the other and tearing them open, the loud creaking sound the fabrics made almost shocking in the previously so silent cell.

Jolting under Sansa's attack at first, the Hound nevertheless quickly relaxed and let her proceed once his surprise had faded. "So you've got claws after all," he muttered in a voice that sounded as much amused as astounded when she was finished.

Sansa almost giggled at his comment but she quickly swallowed back her laughter when she realised she had opened the front of the Hound's upper garbs almost completely. The sight of his bare chest and of those thick arms was mesmerizing enough that Sansa felt as if time had stopped for a moment. His muscles were sculpted with even more definition than she had envisioned in her wildest dreams and she now longed for naught more than to trace their shape with her palms and dig her fingers in the coarse, dark hair that covered his skin.

The awareness that she was staring at his torso hitting her at last, Sansa averted her eyes - a deep blush covering her cheeks - while hoping Sandor Clegane had not noticed the attention she had inadvertently been giving his body. She needed to gain control over the situation at once before he did himself, and thus Sansa reached for the towels Gretta had left for her use and hurried to fill the silent that hung between them.

"You were right," she began, willing her tone to sound poised. "None of your wounds are truly deep. I don't believe you'll need any stitches but some wine on those cuts won't harm either."

The Hound snorted at that. "Some wine in my belly wouldn't hurt too."

"Well, perhaps if you behave, I'll ask Getta to bring you some later," Sansa replied even before she had a chance to realise how awful the words sounded. Instantly ashamed of her crude proposition, she gazed - eyes wide and certain he would rebuff her - at Sandor Clegane and was immediately relieved by the amused smirk he was giving her.

"Don't worry, little bird," he murmured in that hoarse voice of his. "I don't plan on giving you much trouble."

Taking a deep breath, Sansa dipped a towel into the wine cauldron and turned her attention on the Hound's wounds again. The man had been cut three times on his chest and another across his upper arm. Many older scars – undoubtedly engendered by far more vicious injuries - were visible all over his torso and Sansa couldn't help but wonder how he had gotten them all.

"There's no questioning you are a warrior looking at you. Are your scars mostly from practice or actual battles?" she asked, immediately blushing at her own indiscretion while brushing the towel over a cut on his chest.

At the contact of the burning wine, Sandor Clegane tensed slightly but he shortly relaxed and leaned lazily on his hands again. "Well, I'd lie to pretend that I recall each of them but I'd say both are pretty equal." At that, he snorted a short laugh. "Some I've got while I was drunk and didn't even remember what happened when I awoke the next day," he then added with a smirk.

"That's terrible! You shouldn't be proud of such a thing!" Sansa exclaimed, halting in her cleaning to gaze at the Hound with wide eyes.

Her reaction seemed to amuse him. "I wouldn't go as far as to say that I'm proud, but I'm certainly not ashamed," he retorted, a wicked grin stretching his lips. "Being a drunkard is naught special among sellsword and most of them buggers got far worse than I did at a point or another of their career. I'm sure I've been the cause of a few harsh hangovers myself now that I come to think about it."

Not the least convinced by his explanation, Sansa lowered her eyes over her work. "Nevertheless, this is horrible," she whispered, her lips set in a thin line.

The Hound barked a rough laugh at that and Sansa was immediately absorbed by the way the action made his massive chest move under her fingers. If only I could touch him more directly, Sansa regretted, cursing the towel that separated her skin from his. There was no denying however, that as the position she was in - on her knees, facing his side – wasn't extremely comfortable, it would only be natural if she needed to lean her free hand over him to get some balance. Sandor Clegane won't think anything of it, she decided, laying her palm lightly over his shoulder. Albeit she was certain he didn't mind, Sansa didn't dare gaze at him afterward for fear that he read her real motive and uttered one of his crude remarks just as soon. And furthermore, it was far easier keeping her lady-selflessly-doing-her-duty façade while keeping her eyes lowered. Her feigned seriousness didn't stop her though from revelling in the feel on his warm skin under her palm. She longed to stroke his strong arms in all their width but resolved on acting more subtly, shifting her hold on him from time to time so slightly that she was certain he didn't even notice. If only she could trail her fingers all over him, from the breadth of his shoulders to the line of dark hair that disappeared so appealingly under his breeches, as freely as she wished! His body was so solid, large and manly that it would have made any man appear boyish in comparison, starting with Sansa's late second husband - the only man she had known intimately. Never before had she been so drawn to touch a male as she was at that moment and it was truly a miracle she contrived to resist rubbing his rippling torso at all.

Once the wounds were all cleaned a few minutes later, Sansa tossed her used towel aside and raised her gaze for the first time in several minutes. She opened her mouth to speak and was about to inform the Hound that all was done when she realised how brazenly he was staring at her breasts. Immediately, she looked down and was abashed to see the extend to which the loose fabric of her dressing gown had opened. Bowed as she was, her cleavage was more than evident; in fact from his place, Sandor Clegane could almost see everything! By reflex, Sansa braced her back and folded her arms before her. In a heartbeat, her whole body was covered with a deep blush and all she could do was stare at the Hound with eyes as round as saucers, her lips opened in shock.

"Oh, you… you…" she trailed off, totally clueless as whether she should be outraged or flattered.

Obviously embarrassed to have been caught, the Hound turned his head to gaze away from Sansa and scowled. "Well, you can't really blame a man for looking, can you? Your teats were right in my bloody face after all," he justified in a tone that made it seem as if Sansa was the one to be reproved.

Biting her lips, Sansa unfolded her arms and adjusted her dressing gown more tightly around her. She had reacted out of surprise and was now coming to the conclusion that Sandor Clegane's attention didn't truly offend her. On the contrary, her body was now starting to react at the knowledge that he had been scrutinising such an intimate part of her with undeniable interest. As if they had a mind of their own, her nipples grew hard in an instant, peaking through the thin fabric of her dressing gown in an apparent wish to keep the Hound's attention on themselves. In the same breath, her core filled with butterflies and their fluttering was getting increasingly intense with each of her heartbeats. An uncontrollable curiosity was quickly taking over her and as Sansa had no real will to oppose it, she lowered her stare down the Hound's torso to his groin and realised, gasping, that the man was undeniably… aroused.

When he noticed where Sansa's eyes had landed and saw her stunned expression, Sandor Clegane grunted with irritation and his expression darkened. "Oh, by the Seven Hells, little bird! Don't you fucking pretend to be surprised about that too. You'll never make me believe that you don't know what nice teats you have."

Sansa barely managed not to smile at his response. For some reason, she yearned to sooth his building rage by offering him an even better look but another even stronger impulse had already gained control of her. Even before she could think it over, Sansa raised her hand, brought it between the Hound's legs and seized his hard manhood through the rough wool of his breeches.

"What the fuck," he breathed more than he exclaimed, evidently astounded by the unexpected gesture.

Laying her free hand over his shoulder, Sansa buried her face into the crook of the Hound's neck and inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with his scent. Although he stayed silent, she could sense his incomprehension but there was no explaining her irrational conduct and thus, Sansa didn't bother uttering a single word. Her fingers were feeling the shape of Sandor Clegane's member almost frantically and with each detail they took in, she was more and more fascinated by the apparent size of him. Keeping her face nuzzled into the man's neck, Sansa began to unlace his breeches as fast as she could. The wanton part of her was in a race against her genteel side and she was well aware that if she didn't act swiftly, reason might win the battle and very soon, compel her to halt her lewd actions. There was not an instant to spare and therefore, the Hound's stiff manhood was freed in a question of seconds. A moan escaped Sansa's lips at the feel of the heavy and warm member against her palm, the softness of its skin so rousingly contrasting in comparison to the hardness it covered. The sensation was enough to send Sansa's loins throb with desire. Without even realising it, she began squirming against him - as if she didn't know what to do with herself - while moving her hand up and down his length and admiring the crude perfection of his shaft.

"Little bird…" she heard the Hound whisper so very hoarsely. By his tone, he seemed more confused than she had ever seen him before, but as there was naught reproachful in his voice, she gathered the courage she needed to raise her head and look at him.

The man was staring at her with wide, bewildered eyes, his mouth slightly opened, and he was groaning with each of the comings-and-goings of her slender hand on him. His obvious pleasure inciting her to continue, Sansa increased the force and speed of her movements while letting her eyes fall over his manhood again. Although she wasn't extremely experienced in the matter - having known only her late husband - there was no doubting that Sandor Clegane was far larger than the vast majority of men. An incontrollable desire to learn how such a big member would feel sheathed between her thighs was quickly overwhelming her. Her lady's parts were already seeping with moisture and aching to be invaded. As Sansa was well aware that she had to act quickly before she came to her senses and risked becoming petrified by shame, she resolved once more to act as hastily as she could.

Staring at the Hound's dark, lustful eyes, the young woman removed her hand from his shaft and stood. The man let out a deep, surprised breath and stirred in a crackle of chains, craning his neck to see what she was up to.

In one fast movement, Sansa raised her skirt, kicked her underclothes away and straddled him, seizing his member as she installed herself over his lap. Sandor Clegane's expression was even more lost than previously; Sansa had never seen him look even a fraction as disconcerted as he did now. There was something very empowering about their unlikely situation and the notion that she was the one in control while he was totally at her mercy heated Sansa's insides with unprecedented strength, her lower belly burning as hot as the most unappeasable fire there was.

"What the fuck are you doing, you crazy bird?!" the Hound growled in a mystified tone as Sansa began to push his shaft into her slick folds. At the feeling, he threw his head back, shut his eyes and moaned. "Oh gods, you feel good, little bird! If I'd known this was how you bloody northern women treat your prisoners, I'd have gotten myself caught a long time ago."

Smirking at his response, Sansa finished sliding Sandor Clegane's member into her, seeing stars as she felt herself stretch around him. The sensation was simply amazing and she couldn't restrain a very unladylike groan from escaping her lips as she adjusted her position on him. Never beforehad she felt so filled– literally - and she couldn't believe that something so basic might possibly be the source of so much pleasure. She thirsted for more of him though, and therefore she began rocking her pelvis against the Hound, rejoicing at the bolts of lightning each shove birthed in her. In the midst of it all, Sansa's dressing gown had once more loosened around her cleavage but she couldn't have cared less at that moment and didn't hesitated an instant before pushing the fabric apart, until her breasts were completely uncovered and bouncing freely right under the Hound's nose. The man grunted hungrily at the view and raised a hand in a jingle of chains to grab one and suck its taut nipple with his mouth. With his other hand, he clasped Sansa's hip, guiding her movements while moulding the shape of her curve and backside. The contrast between the warm contact of his lips, tongue and hands, and the biting coldness of the steel of his chains as they kept brushing against her was shocking but somehow, didn't bother Sansa the least.

"Gods, little bird! You're so fucking tight. Are you sure your husbands didn't both leave you maiden after all?" Sandor Clegane rasped, burying his face into Sansa's neck and hair.

At the mention of her late husbands, Sansa felt a twinge of annoyance. Why should he bring them up now? shewondered, losing her focus for a brief instant. In something akin to a revengeful gesture, she pressed both her hands over the Hound's shoulders and pushed him down with all the might she had until he was laying on his back over the makeshift bed.

The man growled and let out a short, hoarse laugh in reaction. "Fuck! That's not the little bird I knew in King's Landing," he muttered, astonished. "Can't say I mind the change though."

Both her hands resting over his heavily muscled chest, Sansa resumed grinding her hips against the Hound's, but this time she began pushing against her nub and squeezing it under her weight as he thrust himself between her thighs. The pressure it induced was so utterly delicious that Sansa could already feel her climax building in her. Stroking Sandor Clegane's torso with lust, she bit her lip and began to whimper, the intensity of her cries increasing in the same cadence than the exhilarating contractions of her lady's parts around his manhood. Silenced at last, the Hound was watching her with undeniable fascination, his hands urgently travelling all along her sides and thighs in a continuous clatter of steel.

"Oh… Ooh, yes!" Sansa moaned when she finally came to completion.

In an explosion of bliss, her peak flowed over her and she cried out with no restraint whatsoever, throwing her head back while never halting in the frantic thrusting of the Hound's shaft in her. Never before had she experienced such a powerful climax and in a will to make it last for ever, she kept pushing her nub against the man's groin, over and over again, adamant about extracting every single last drop of ecstasy she might from her tender folds.

"Little bird… careful…I'm coming," Sandor Clegane warned her suddenly, out of breath and trying to push her from his lap.

Unwilling to let go of her own pleasure while she still rode its last waves, Sansa locked her legs tightly around him. "I don't care. I'll take moon tea," she managed to breath out as she stubbornly kept rocking her hips against his.

Not hard to convince, the Hound seized both her hips and began sheathing himself between her thighs with regained strength, until he was shacking, panting and groaning, his fingers digging into Sansa's skin with so much force that it almost hurt. Almost.

They rested against each other for a couple of minutes afterward, both silent and exhausted but their peace was short lived as reality shortly hit on Sansa. Oh gods, what did I just do? she cried out inwardly, appalled that she could have acted so despicably. A lady's duty was to look after her people and treat her enemies with respect but what she had just done - with a prisoner! – was simply inappropriate and scandalous!

At the realisation, she immediately rose from Sandor Clegane, grasped her underclothes and took a step back, eyes wide, while smoothing her skirt and adjusting the cleavage of her dressing gown until her neckline was as modest as possible.

After about a minute of horrified stillness, she finally regained her voice and spoke. "Your… wounds are all cleaned up now. I better go back to sleep," she stated nervously before turning around and striding out of the cell.

"Come back anytime you like," she heard the Hound yell as she shut the door behind her.