Sansa's fingers drummed the wooden surface of the bar. Beccah was busy serving some man in the corner of the room, and she willed her to come back to her. I hate sitting here by myself. It seemed men confused protection with animal urge, for seeing a pretty young woman on her lonesome seemed to draw every man towards her with straining breeches and crude half-promises, every character becoming more dubious than the last as the night wore on into early morning.

Come back, Beccah. And quickly. The room was crowded, warm and muggy. The heady scent of wine and laughter infused the air, and she took a deep breath, letting the heavy atmosphere pool in her chest. It had been a long day, and she was hoping that she could crawl up to her bedchamber in a few hours.

She kept her gaze on the grainy surface of the bar, puzzling out every strand of dark honey that ran through the golden wood. She felt a heavy gaze on her, and looked up briefly to see a pair of watery-blue eyes staring at her from under a heavy thatch of orange hair. His grin was full of broken teeth, and desperately Sansa threw a glance into the corner of the room. Come on, Beccah.

Like a swallow returning to nest at dusk, Beccah flew up to Sansa's side, her wide face a mask of sweat, her buttermilk hair sticking to her neck. She was agitated, Sansa could see that from the way the other girl's hands shook.

"What ever is the matter?"

"Him," she choked, jerking a thumb towards the shadow in the corner.

"What was the matter with him?"

"He's bloody terrifying, that's what's the matter. I'm not bringing him his wine. He'll cut me from collar to cunt. After raping me within an inch of my life."

"Careful," Sansa hissed as she looked over her shoulder towards the table in the corner.

"I'm not doing it. The way he looked at me..." She shuddered. "His face... it's all fucked up on one side." She gesticulated wildly. "He's like a bloody dog , a vicious bloody dog. He looks like he'd want to rip me in two."

"And all this you experienced within a few seconds?" Sansa asked flatly, her thin arms crossing over her chest.

"You bloody do it then, and tell me whether you feel the same after!"

Ignoring her, Sansa peered into the gloom of the dark inn towards the big man. He totally dwarfed the pine table, his large forearms resting on its surface as he scowled into its wooden depths. He was vast, almost too big to be allowed. His size was simply muscle, hard lean rippling muscle that strained against his grey shirt; the sleeves looked far too tight around his bulging biceps. A curtain of black hair fell over his face, shielding his profile from her gaze. But she knew the secret he attempted to hide. She had seen him before, seen him and nursed a quiet terror for the ruin that was his face. She had seen him before, Seven help her. Her stomach leapt. Seven help me. He was here, here after so long.

Wear your mask, as you were taught. Show what you want them to see. You are Alayne, and Alayne never knew the Hound. Masking the frantic pounding of her heart with a smooth face, Sansa turned back to Beccah. "He's very big, isn't he?" She glanced back at him again. "But size doesn't guarantee that he wants to kill us all..." But a burned face does.

Beccah's lips had thinned into a hard line. She was immovable on the matter and Sansa knew if she forced her to speak to the man again she would suffer Beccah's silence for the remainder of the night.

She sighed, smoothing her auburn hair from her forehead. It has been so long. And I look so different to how I used to. I will never be Alayne if I fear Sansa's memories. "Fine. I'll bring him his drink." She turned towards the rack of drinks behind the bar. "What is it he wanted?"

"Wine. Just bung him sour red." An angry drink. Sansa nodded, bending to fetch a goblet and flagon.

She made her way to the table in the corner of the room, twitching her hips neatly away from groping hands. She tripped up to him with light steps, goblet and flagon clutched tightly in her sweating palms. His back was hunched over the table, but he lifted his head in her direction as she approached.

And the world fell away between them, until all that remained was the terrifying lurch of her stomach and those storm-grey eyes, as dark and brooding as she remembered, eyes that widened as she walked towards him as if entranced, unbidden and as unquestioning as a puppet on a string -

A thud came from behind her, and suddenly her ear was warm with hot, drunken breath on the back of her neck. A moist hand danced up the back of her leg and onto her buttocks, tracing circles on her quivering flesh before starting to squeeze -

She gasped, wrenching herself away from the drunkard's hold with a wild gasp, and goblet and flagon came crashing down onto the stone floor. She spun around, the hard teeth of the wooden table biting into the small of her back.

"What do you think you're doing?"

She cringed as his hands strayed towards her again, this time towards her breasts. His nails were black with dirt and filth. One thin, fragile arm crossed her chest protectively as she warded off his advance with the other.

His mouth was wide and slack and glistening with saliva and beer. She could smell his breath as he bore down on her, hot putrid breath that made her skin crawl. Oh gods, get me out of here. He was relentless, batting away her arms as if they were midges, a liquored leer plastered on his pasty face. "Come on, love," he slurred as he advanced. "You're a wench, and all wenches are whores... I know you'd like a bit o' man, I can see it... come on, love -" She saw nothing but his pink fleshy lips, and the fat pale tongue lolling behind black teeth. Gods, save me.

And they heard her. A growl came out the shadows, deep and dark and deadly.

"Get your filthy fucking hands off her."

As one, both girl and drunkard turned and looked at the hulking mass in the corner of room, one and the same with the shadows that embraced him. Yet his teeth flashed in the darkness, and the glow of his grey eyes were as stark as the moon in a cloudless sky, as inexorable as blood on snow.

The drunkard's face never flickered, and he peered into the shadows with slitted eyes and drool on his chin. "I don't fight shadows," he slurred, reeling. "Come out and fight me like a man. The girl is a prize for the man who wins," he jeered, mad with ale. "That man is me!"

A snap of teeth came from the corner. And then quicker than she could have ever imagined, a hand flicked out of the shadows and she felt the air whistle as a flash of silver sliced the muggy gloom before her. The knife quivered in the beam behind her head, centimetres away from the man who had leapt away from her with a yell of fright.

The Hound stood, letting his chair fall backward with a deafening crash. He was six and a half feet of solid muscle and foul temper, his terrible face contorted with fury as he loomed above them all, a demon in a man's skin. Black fire danced in his dark eyes, and Sansa caught a fleeting shadow whip across his face - the shadow of madness.

The inn had fallen silent with the clatter of the chair falling to the flagged stone. All eyes had turned to the bristling, scarred hellion whose black heart sang of blood and murder. Sansa had frozen in front of him, utterly insignificant in his indomitable immensity.

"Kill me then, little man. Rip my head from my shoulders with those feeble cunt hands of yours. Just make sure I don't wrench yours off first."

His voice was inhuman, a guttural snarl that raised the fine down on the nape of her neck. Flames from the hearth frisked across his face as he bore down on them all - he was an angel from some hellish pit, hot and wild and fierce and so masculine; bizarrely, her eyes trailed down from his massive chest to the flat expanse of his stomach to his slim hips. His anger stirred her; knowing that his fury stemmed from his desire to protect her had woken something strange in her and she found herself gazing at the complex network of muscles in his thickset arms. He's so big. He's all man. And so dangerous.

He shoved tables and chairs aside as effortlessly as if they were winter ferns as he crashed towards them with his fists clenched and a face like thunder. The man who had groped her had seemingly petrified into stone, for he had moved not an inch and still wore the stricken expression etched into his face when he had watched six inches of blade fly towards him. Resigned to his fate, his mouth hung open as the predator closed in on him with soulless eyes and a hard, twisted mouth.

Sansa felt the ghost of the man's fingers cup her buttock, her backside tingling as she recalled the moist dampness of his palms through her thin dress. She shuddered. He's done that, and mayhaps worse to others. And so she stood impassively, watching the Hound bear down on the lecher with cold mirthless violence in his eyes without a single regret. Let him knock out every single tooth he has.

The end came swiftly. No sooner as the man had squeaked "I didn't - " did a rock-hard fist come swinging through the air and into his face like a hundred galloping bulls, swift and sure and deadly. The man's nose exploded on impact, blood and snot showering the stone tiles like summer rain as a sickening crunch marked it as the Hound's quarry. The man staggered, and slid down the beam behind him, the dagger still sunk deep into the wood three feet above his head. He was red, all red, his clothes speckled with his life blood. From his shattered nostrils came feeble bubbles of blood, popping and running into his mouth in a steady scarlet stream.

The Hound wiped his hand on his shirt; his thick fingers wore a streak of red where the man's nose had broken on the hard curve of his knuckles. Weak as a babe, the man held shaking hands to his face, the dry sob of tears tearing through his throat as his blood flowed down his face and dripped sadly onto the hard stone.

The Hound's contempt shone through the deadly dark fire of his eyes. "I broke your nose, you bloody wailing wench, not your fucking neck," he snarled, his ragged mouth spitting out the words with pure venom, black unbridled venom that rose a shiver down Sansa's spine. "Give me another reason to snap another bone and I'll do it gladly. Mayhaps it'll be your spine next time." He aimed a savage kick at the man's stomach, and a sharp cry pierced the air. The drunkard doubled over wordless with pain as the Hound stood and laughed his dry bark into the heavy silence that bound every tongue in the room. Wrenching the knife out of the wood above the drunkard's head, his ruined mouth twisted as he looked down, knife in hand, at the shell of a man trembling below him. His voice cut like steel through flesh. "I'd run you through with this, but I'd rather soil my blade with the blood of men, not worthless cunts like you. But I'll rip your fucking limbs off one by one and beat you bloody with them if you touch the girl again." He grinned, and the firelight glinted off his teeth. "Believe that." He flipped the knife once, the blade slashing the heavy air, before catching it in his palm and sheathing is at his hip.

And he turned to her suddenly. The dark, unfathomable hollows of his eyes fell on her bloodless face, and his lips twisted into a hideous smile. "The girl is mine. A prize is a prize."

Her heart flew into her mouth. Oh gods, no no no -

"No!" Her voice was as high and thin as a newborn kitten's. You fool, you must sound strong. Speak to him like a child and he'll pick you up as easily as picking up a loaf of bread before carrying you off to do what he will. And what he would do she had no doubt. Panic seized her heart, squeezing her chest and throat so she couldn't speak, couldn't save herself -

"Come on, girl." His hand was suddenly wrapped around her tiny wrist, like a steel manacle. No escape. She was helpless, a bird in a cage. I didn't even see him come towards me. I didn't even see his hand reaching for my wrist. How can I escape if I can't see?

His hand was like her own, holding her wrist so tight their bones seemed fused together. Gods, he's strong. And he's dragging me outside with him. Oh, gods -

Not one voice rose to relieve her. Just another wench to be bedded, and it mattered not to them who by. Where was Beccah? She cast a desperate look over to the bar, but there was no familiar shape standing there, no comforting presence to lend some gravity to her plight. And so she was dragged out the door by the Hound, whose eyes spat fury as he pulled her along in his iron grip, rounding the corner of the inn to the stables nearby. He bore down on her as soon as they were out of earshot.

"What the fuck were you doing in there?"

Her heart pounded painfully against her chest. Could he...? No. It was impossible. It had been too long, and besides, she was a woman grown. And her hair hung in a heavy chestnut rope, not the flaming copper he was familiar with.

"I don't understand you, ser."

"Fuck your ser," he snarled as he flung open a stable door to reveal a huge, fierce-looking destrier within. She shrank back as the horse screamed at her, throwing a huge hoof in her direction. Sandor Clegane threw the saddle onto its back, his face twisted with anger. "I won't talk about it now, but I'll have it out of you soon enough. I know who you are, little bird." He fed the bit between the horse's teeth, and the destrier threw up his head in ill-temper. "Easy, Stranger."

Her heart stilled. Little bird. The pet name he'd given her, so long ago in King's Landing. He had remembered that fragmented little treasure, he had remembered her. He knows who I am. And her momentary pleasure burst into wild panic as horrific visions of King's Landing flashed before her, of treason and of trials and an executioner's axe swinging to meet her flesh and bone -

He had led the horse out towards her, gesturing to her to mount. "Get on. Quickly."

She stood agape. No. I am not riding that. She shook her head, stepping back as he rounded on her, rage etched in every hard line of his face. "I will not let you take me to King's Landing -"

He ignored her, looming over her as she backtracked. I forgot how insistent he is.

"Get the fuck on before I truss you up like a pig to slaughter."

She got on.

He picked her up effortlessly and swung her onto the pommel of the saddle. He mounted swiftly, settling behind her with his chest, stomach and - she blushed to think of it - his manhood pressed up against her slender back.

"Don't tense like that, the horse is a bugger to ride as it is."

He clapped his legs to the destrier's sides, and it started forward smoothly, a different animal from the horse that had aimed a hoof at her head.

They rode for what seemed like hours, the evening gradually darkening into night.

"Where are we going? Where are you taking me?"

"Keep that bloody mouth of yours shut." He stared ahead, his eyes never leaving the road in front of them. "What you will know is that I'm taking you somewhere safe. Not a bloody inn full of king's men." He snorted. "So I'm not taking you to King's Landing, you bloody fool. I deserted, don't you remember?" Of course she remembered the night he had stolen a kiss from her; her lips still tingled at the memory. But she had never felt the length of his body against hers, never felt his chest brush against her back, never felt his manhood against her backside. A rush of warmth spread through her cheeks, and she chastised herself as she found herself willingly trusting his word. He had protected her then; and he would protect her now. She knew it, knew it in her bones, even if she was at a loss to explain why.

Still they rode, until they reached a small clearing off the road which he pronounced to be their camp for the night. ("I'm tired of you bouncing around in the saddle like a fucking stone"). No sooner as he had pulled Stranger to a halt did he swing himself from the saddle, landing on the ground with a thump before swinging around to glare at her with blazing eyes.

"What the fuck were you thinking, girl?"

His hands reached out and grabbed her by the waist, dragging her off the horse's back and dumping her on her feet. Staggering, she gazed at him in feigned innocence as her thoughts flew there under his furious stare.

"Thinking what, ser?"

He was upon her within a pace, his great broad body centimetres from hers as he glared down at her wildly, his hands gripping her thin little wrists.

"You know what I'm talking about, Lady Stark, do you mean to make a fool out of me? More fool you."

"I don't understand you, ser." Pretend, keep pretending.

"You stupid fucking little bird, it's clear as day who you are," he snarled, his scarred face twisting grotesquely. "You think colouring that red hair of yours gives you a new face? Think again, wolf girl. I knew you as soon as I saw you."

"No-one in the inn knew me before I became Alayne Stone."

"Alayne Stone? You think a bloody name will throw Cercei's lot off you?" His eyes were black fury, twisting before he in that old familiar dance she knew so well. "You think they'd spare you as soon as you'd scream your name the moment they drag you off the King's Landing?"

She quailed. "I - "

"No," he cut her off, his voice like the winter wind. "No. I won't lose you again, little bird. Not again. I looked after you then, I'll do it now." His voice was harsh and broken in the night air. He's so intense. I forgot. He's like fire, and he burns me, marks me for his own. But the hands around her wrists sent sweet little shudders down her spine, as they had in King's Landing, just as his lips had done in her dark bedchamber years ago.

Her hands were turning numb from the pressure at his wrists. His face was a dark mask, still with a rising storm. "You don't understand, girl. Listen to me, damn you. I offered to take you away, when your empty fucking head was still full of songs. I won't let you do it again." His eyes were grey steel, boring into hers. Time had etched deeper lines into his ruined face, and a few silver threads hung in his black curtain of hair, and he now walked with a limp; but his hard, intense eyes had never changed. He's still him. And his broad, strapping body hadn't suffered over the years either... he was as muscular as ever. "You left me, you wouldn't come away with me. I won't let you do it again," he growled. "If you can't keep yourself safe, what do you expect me to do? Leave you in that inn to get raped? Or before some of Cersei's cunts find you." His mouth twitched, and his hands were like stone. "And then you won't have any teeth to smile your graces with, or a cunt to bear your sons with. They'll rip you apart, girl. And you wonder why I'm hateful when I find you as the same old stupid little bird you've always been."

She pulled against him. "It's been years. I'm hundreds and hundred of leagues from King's Landing, ser. Don't tell me that I'm -"

He snapped under the harsh moonlight, shaking her hard until her head lolled on her shoulders. She cried out, her red mouth agape as she struggled against him. "Listen to me," he spat, his face a demon's mask. "They will find you, they will rape you, they will shove your pretty head on a pole, just like your dear lord father. You are not safe, girl, don't make me say it again - and I won't let you run around like some fucking lunatic waiting to be killed. Now, it's either that, or me. Choose."

What? What does he want me to say? She flailed there in his grip, flailed under his dark gaze. "I - "

"Choose," he snarled like a wounded dog, and he shook her again.

She wrenched herself out of his iron grip, spitting chestnut hair out of her mouth. "Don't - don't shake me like that!" Her voice was shrill and he laughed his harsh cracked laugh, batting away her blows and snaking his large hands around her waist.

"Does it unsettle you, girl?" His face was so close to hers. "Does it frighten you?"

"Stop it!"

His face twisted. "Don't tell me what to do like I'm your fucking dog, girl," he snarled, his ruined lips peeled back grotesquely to reveal glistening pointed teeth; the fire in his eyes capered madly, uncontrollably. "I saved you from that shithole, saved you from having your teats mauled around by some bloody fool. I can take you back just as easily, and let slip your name while I'm at it. I could rip that fucking dress off you right now and leave you at the side of the road. Make it easier for the bastard I dealt with back there. Now choose what you want."

His face was bloodless in the moonlight, the devastation of his face thrown into stark white light; every cragged pit looked bottomless, and the slash of jawbone peering through his split skin glimmered. And his eyes... she had never seen such eyes; deep dark caverns that followed the long, twisted descent into Hell itself, narrowed in fury as he stared down at her from his great height. She was falling into them, falling into Hell, falling with him into that bottomless chasm, black and cold - and yet, the tiny silver light glimmering beyond her reach was the warmest thing in the world. For the moonlight shone on his face, his terrible ruined face, and picked the silver-grey apart from the black of his hollowed eyes; and as the beast snarled down at her, his eyes were full of light, full of strange silver light.

Two men live inside his skin. She stared at him unwaveringly, his threats washing over her as harmlessly as a warm tide skimming her toes. Show him fear and he bites harder. She was learned in the tongue of people; Petyr had taught her that, at least. Sandor Clegane was an open book to her, clear to read as day; and it was what he needed. Some tiny fragment of his charred, tormented soul cried out for someone to understand him; and yet he mauled the only songbird who dared befriend the hound. He was contradiction himself, twisted and broken, by his brother and later by his own hand, by his own self-hatred.

"I won't listen to your threats, Sandor Clegane."

Her voice was so strong; and yet her insides lurched as surely as if she had signed her own death sentence in her own blood. His name, his name, she had used it as if they were equals, as if he was her dog. Gods, gods save me, he's going to kill me.

And he stared down at her with white rings circling his grey orbs, his twisted mouth hanging slackly as he struggled to choke out a response.

"My name... You said my name." His voice was rough, low and intense. His voice is darkness itself. And in that second she knew he was hers, that the same strange deep fire that burned in her loins also burned in his. He wanted me, and he still wants me, after all this time. And I, him.

"You are not my dog, Sandor. You are your own." Her voice rang clearly between them. She sounded far braver than she felt, but gods, there was something delicious in that fear, something delicious in pushing him so far and then pulling him back to her. He scared her with his hard words and hard hands, but the light of his eyes and the ill-conveyed care that guided those rough hands was her harbour, driftwood in stormy seas. That fear stirred her, woke a fire in her that she couldn't quench even years after she had last seen him. The embers of her desire still glowed, and he knew it. He had to.

His face was unreadable, his eyes searching her face, his hot hands gripping her waist painfully as he stared down at her with torment tightening each gaunt line of his face.

"But I am, girl." He spat out a laugh, half mirth, half snarl. "Can't you see? I hankered after you in King's Landing. And now I've done the same again, like a bloody fool. Should've let that peasant fuck you bloody, might be you'd enjoy it." He laughed again, but his eyes were dead. "More so than if I did."

Blood thundered through her brain. "You... want - "

"Seven Hells, yes. Are you blind, girl? But who fucks a dog unless he's got money in his purse? Only whores. And you're no whore, girl." His grip on her tightened, his fingers splayed centimetres from her breasts. "But that doesn't stop me from wanting to hear you scream my name when I'm all the way inside you. Doesn't that sound good to you, girl? Doesn't that make you wet?" His voice dripped bitterness, and yet his breathing was ragged, his broad chest heaving as he fixed her with those unnerving eyes of his, the pant of the beast rising.

She stared at him wordlessly. His intensity is enough for us both. A blush crept up her cheeks and his breath caught as he gazed at her, hungry fire blazing in his grey eyes.

"Gods, girl. I'd take you right this minute if I could. Damn you. Damn you."

Her brain seemed to be separate from her mouth. "I don't know what is stopping you, ser."

His mouth hardened as he drew her towards him roughly, his hands melting into her skin like molten gold, and he was gold, unmined and untouched in her hands -

And he brought his mouth down on hers in one fell swoop, his thick fingers dancing across her spine and up to her face, cupping her, pinching her jawline. He was everything in that moment, that sweet terrifying moment as she kissed him back with her heart in her throat and blood roaring in her ears. Her nostrils were full of his scent, wine and sweat and rain, and she melted as the tip of his tongue snaked across her bruised lips, sending a thousand thrills down her spine and she gasped wildly, her fingers knotted in his coarse black hair -

And suddenly she was on her back, and his frame pressed into her, his thick, hard manhood pressing into her hip as she writhed against him. He was so lean, so hard, and his weight on her was delicious as his lips trailed embers down the arch of her throat. He was heavy on top of her, even though most of his weight was borne by the thick, muscled forearms resting alongside her body. His dark hair pooled over his broad shoulder and onto her own in a long black waterfall as he kissed her desperately, urgently, his hard lips smouldering on hers. Her teeth sank briefly into the pillowed flesh of his lips, and he moaned into her mouth like a man in Hell, in some sweet Hell that drew his tortured pleasure from deep within him and made him buck against her hips wildly. He was the sun, he was the sky, he was the fire that blazed between her legs. He was Sandor, sweet ruined Sandor, and he was intoxicating in all his masculine asperity. Don't stop.

Her hands raked his back, pulling his shirt up to expose his broad back to the humid night air. He was feverish, half-wild with desire and her hands against his damp flesh maddened him. He sat back on his haunches and pulled off his shirt, casting it away into the darkness before descending onto her again, his mouth moving in the hollow under her ear, his scarred cheek brushing her flaming hair.

"Do you like this, little bird?" His voice was hot liquor, deep and disturbed and utterly captivating. She shivered as he brushed a hank of hair from her moist neck and kissed her there, his pointed teeth grazing her soft flesh. "Do you like having a dog kiss you as if you are his?" His tongue traced a burning tail from collarbone to jawline, and her entire world now shrank to the warm glide of his mouth against her flesh, of the hard jut of his manhood against her thighs.

I shouldn't want this. I should not have let this happen. He kissed her mouth again, and her lips opened for him as naturally as breathing.

I am a lady. He is no lord. His hands wound in her hair, pulling her even closer to him until their flesh seemed as one. She felt his heart pound against hers, strong and relentless and powerful.

I am highborn, I will married to and bedded by a lord, as befits my station. She gazed at him with parted lips and heaving breasts as he leant back and rolled up her skirts, and suddenly his hot heavy hand snaked up her thighs and further. His dark eyes devoured her, a stormy intensity that both unnerved her and thrilled her. A wild gasp burst from her lips as his fingers brushed her desire, her burning wet desire.

I am not a wanton woman. Oh gods, I am no wanton woman. And dimly, her voice cried out though her mist of longing.

"I can't."

He stiffened there on top of her, and his eyes were flinty as he turned his hot hard stare onto her damp, flushed face, her autumnal hair sticking to her forehead.

"Sandor, I - I can't, it isn't proper..." her voice trailed away lamely, and the fire in her loins threaded up her spine, into her lips and breast and legs, willing him to draw her to his bare chest roughly and take her, take her like some uneducated, unlearned peasant in a country song. He's all man, all the man I am likely to get. A lord I will marry one day, but I will never experience this intensity again. Take it while you can. But she couldn't, no, her lady mother had taught her differently. She was no man's until she was wed, until a cloak with anything but a direwolf hung about her shoulders.

"I want this, I want... you." And still he stared down at her, the ghost of a snarl curling his ruined lips. He misunderstands. "But it's not... right," she finished limply, still painfully aware of how his thick, muscled legs parted over her body, one on each side. Even the way he looks at me now, with that hateful stare, makes me want to die a hundred deaths in his embrace.

His voice was flat, yet his flat black eyes danced with rising fury. He had guessed he thoughts, word for word.

"It's not right... because you're a lady. And I'm a fucking dog." His harsh, cracked laughter echoed into the night as his dark tide of bitterness rose swiftly to match his painful, maddening desire for her. "Where did Alayne Stone go, little bird? Did she fly away as I kissed you, as you moaned in my ear?" His face darkened, the black pits of his eyes glinting dangerously as he leant forward, his burning lips against her ear and his hand gripping her waist painfully hard. "Alayne Stone didn't give a shit about who she kissed. Even if it was a hound. Might be that little Alayne enjoyed kissing that mad old dog like a whore, enjoyed him touching her here." And he stroked her again, the embers in her stomach roaring to life at his touch.

He leant back again, a strange fire flickering in his eyes and twitching his mouth. Both his hands now gripped her waist, and she was pinned under him as he straddled her. He was so big, so strong... he was power, raw and undisputed. No hope in hell would save her if he snapped.

His burned cheek creased as his mouth twisted into a hideous smile. "But it's not Alayne I want, girl. I want you, the little bird who once couldn't look me in the eye. It's her I want, and it's her who wants me to take her hard on the ground. Right here, right now." His eyes flashed and his lips devoured her once more, and she drowned in his hot, flaming embrace, in the roughness of his burned skin against hers, in the hard rut of his manhood against her hips. Gods, this man drove her wild with fear and desire - what little bird ever felt such intensity? Only wolves experienced such wild passions, and it was the she-wolf in her that clung to his broad, muscular chest and his hard roaming lips with a fierceness that made him growl and hold her even tighter.

"Don't tell me what I can't have," he rasped against her lips, low and intense, as his fingers brushed her bodice, grazing the pert nipples that strained against the fabric. He pinched them, pulled at them until she gasped, and she burning, burning. She gasped as he dragged her desire out of her unwilling self, kicking and screaming and totally intoxicated by each rough pull his fingers sent through her core, every log thrown onto the fire of her longing.

He broke from her, his breathing harsh and heavy as he glared at her wildly. "Seven Hells, girl, you drive me half-mad. You kiss me wantonly and then kick me aside. Damn you. Damn you." His fingers dug into her flesh, and she trembled in his grasp. So angry all the time. "Say what you want, damn you. Say it, girl, don't keep me waiting. I told you I'd look after you. I want you, gods know I do, but it's not that. I could keep you safe... I could make you happy. You don't need a ser, or a lord. Fuck that," he rasped, and as his voice broke she realised he was pleading, begging her while wearing that cruel mask he wore when he was broken and bleeding inside. "You need a man, little bird. A man. Me."

She unwound herself from his blazing touch, and folded her legs under her body. The moonlight was hard upon his scarred face, and the silver in his eyes said fragility.

Her little hand on his arm burned him, and blue eyes looked into grey.

"Then be that man, ser."

[SANDOR]

They had ridden all morning, under half-naked trees that shed their orange leaves all around as Stranger walked through their golden groves with light hooves. Sansa's flaming hair was a perfect match to the autumnal burst of colour that surrounded them. She had washed the brown dye from it that morning, thank the gods, and her copper hair hung thick and heavy down her back. Her head bobbed in front of him as they rode, and he longed more than anything to face her and grip her and kiss her until he died there in his own sweet Hell. She was his hell, his delicious hell, where even fire couldn't reach him. Sometimes, on the good days. Nothing eluded fire forever, but she was as close as it would get. And he could live with that.

They had woken facing each other across the fire, one on each side. He ached for her sweet timid touch again, he ached for that wetness he'd touched so briefly that night. The Hound defied by a girl. The only thing I ever wanted, taken from me by a bloody girl. It was so tragic he snorted, and she started from the reverie she'd drifted into, encouraged by the lolling rhythm of Stranger's loping walk.

"Where are we going?" She asked, her sweet clear voice ringing through the trees.

Isn't it bloody obvious? "Home."

Her voice rose an octave. "Winterfell?"

"No, little bird. My home." She turned to him, her blue eyes wide. And a smile graced her face, all teeth and flushed cheeks. Such a pretty little bird.

"It makes sense," she declared, her eyes shining. "A bird needs room to spread her wings."

He nodded behind her, and he knew she could feel the steady, powerful beat of his heart against her back.

"Aye, a wolf needs a range to call her own."

She met his eyes, and smiled. She smiled for him alone.