Author's Notes: I found this story from my proverbial desk-drawer, this being something I wrote a while back in a CommFicMeme at Livejournal Sansa_Sandor following the prompt by shigureblack: "Sansa has Sandor's child, but Sandor is gone. She thinks Sandor dead and with overwhelming pressure she remarries to secure a future for the North, for her people and her child. Eleven years later Sandor returns. Where was he? Why did he leave? Why did he come back? And what will happen now that he has returned? Give me conflict, angst drama and romance. I want it all!"

So for any angst and unhappiness: blame the prompter, she made me do it! Also be warned that Sandor in this story is mostly gentler in "post-QI" style. This story has been patiently and kindly beta'ed by my amazing and talented beta Wildsky – thank you once again, dear!

Summary: Sandor's whole body was taut and his muscles hard as iron, and Sansa clung to him as if he was the only solid thing in a world that was whirling around her. His hold on her was strong and persistent, his eyes closed and his mouth set in a tight frown. He was familiar to her, but then, towering so overwhelmingly over her, also a stranger.

Sansa

Eddor's namedays were the worst.

On those days he should have been with his father. On his first, as he was taking his earliest tentative steps, it should have been his father he staggered towards. On his third, throwing a ball filled with horsehair, it should have been his father he threw it to. On his seventh, when he started to extend his rides around Winterfell, it should have been his father he rode with. On his tenth, when he started to practice with a real blade, it should have been his father who gave him lessons.

But his father wasn't there.

Over the years Sansa had learned to accept it, yet every time the day came around she looked back, wondering for the hundredth and thousandth time what had happened to him.

Sandor came to her on that terrible night of green fire and death, cloaked in blood and gore and despair. She shied away from him first, but after noticing his fear to be greater than hers, her terror disappeared. Even his dagger on her throat didn't scare her. By the time Sansa felt his tears in the palm of her hand, she had reconciled herself to the fact that this huge man, this warrior without peers, had not come to hurt her but to help her.

They rode out that night and didn't look back.

Even years afterwards Sansa couldn't have pinpointed the moment during their journey when they changed from two people with nothing in common but an unspoken pact of convenience, duty and reward, to companions on a shared mission. Did it happen before or after she had been attacked by the desperate men of the woods, stragglers from the war, whom Sandor had butchered without a second thought? Or when they had hidden under a wooden bridge in the pouring rain while Lannister troops rode single file across it and over their heads? Sandor had wrapped Sansa inside his cloak and against his body so tightly that it had felt as if their hearts beat as one, loud and thumping in their ears.

Could it have been the morning when they had woken up to sunshine and clear skies and gathered handfuls of juicy brambleberries from nearby bushes? Sansa had laughed so hard her tummy had hurt at the sight of Sandor's mouth and teeth stained with purple juice. In return he had smeared his sticky hands across Sansa's face and she had ended up rolling on her back with laughter on the ground. Or was it the evening when he had drunk cheap wine from a cheap inn, and in the quiet of the night she had touched him on his shoulder? Sandor had rested his head against her hand – and she had realised that he was seeking comfort from her and her alone.

Whenever it happened, the change was profound. Although Sandor still kept his distance and acted aloof and austere most of the time, the silence between them changed from awkward and tense to comfortable and companionable. Sansa started to trust him like she had trusted no man before except her father. They set on a course to Riverrun to her brother and mother, and she knew he would keep his promise and deliver her to her family.

And so they travelled; the maiden and the warrior.

As their journey progressed, Sansa tried to convince Sandor to stay with House Stark. He only snorted.

"You truly think the Young Wolf would accept Lannister dog into his service, a man known to be craven?"

"I will ask him that, and with your reputation as the best fighter in Westeros, he would be a fool not to!"

"Not everyone will do your bidding as neatly as I have, little bird," he muttered and turned away. Sansa didn't give up and followed him.

"But I need you!"

"What would you need me for? After I have delivered you to your kin my task is done."

"I…need you to protect me… and to help us to retake the North." Sansa's voice trailed off as if she wasn't sure that either of those reasons was good enough.

Sandor looked at her, bemused. "You will be well protected by your folk. And I am sure that the Young Wolf will get the North back just fine without my help. No, I will be my own man now. Might be I'll look for work as a sellsword."

Sansa stared at the ground despondently. "What if I need you later?" Trust between two people can take a long time to form, but once established, is one of the most precious things there is. To be deprived of such association is a terrible thing indeed.

Sandor leaned closer to her, his breath on her face. "If you need me, just send me a song."

"A song?" Sansa glared at him suspiciously.

"Aye, a song of the Little Bird and the Hound." He withdrew and the corner of his mouth was twitching, making Sansa to realise that he was japing.

It happened on the last night of their journey.

Sandor made their camp near a small stream and ordered her to make herself presentable.

"Would I take a wildling girl to Riverrun, trying to pass her off as a noble maiden? As that's what they would believe if I took you as you are now, for sure they would," he grumbled.

Only then did Sansa become aware of how dishevelled and dirty they were, their clothes splattered by mud and filth. To her surprise - and without conscious thought - she had actually enjoyed shedding the exterior of a privileged maiden. That they both smelled of sweat and grime and wore tattered clothes served as an equaliser, intensifying the bond that had grown between them.

So they stayed, taking turns washing their bodies and clothes in the stream while the other waited at the camp. While their clothes dried, they covered themselves by wrapping blankets around their bodies as best as they could. That level of informality was highly inappropriate, but they had left King's Landing in such a hurry that one set of clothes to wear was all they had.

Sansa dreamt of the welcoming embrace of her mother, of the wide grin on her brother's face and the security and joy of knowing she was finally safe. No more living in fear of what new torments the next day would bring, and no more misery of knowing that her father's murderers owned her life and body and there was nothing she could do about it.

She turned towards Sandor, whose inadequate cover had left his upper body naked. At other times she would have averted her eyes as modesty dictated, but her heart was full of gratitude towards him, so she didn't care. Gratitude… and something more.

Without thinking she moved closer to him, placed her hand on his bare shoulder and told him so. He stared at her, told her not to talk rubbish and tried to push her hand away. Some strange madness took hold of Sansa then and she laid both of her hands on his body, feeling his hard muscles tensing under her touch. She pressed her face against his shoulder, deeming her closeness and her touch to be the only way to convey what she meant, as her words were being so absolutely rebuffed.

Sansa trusted Sandor so implicitly that even after he stopped resisting and pulled her against him, his large hands caressing her body and touching her in places nobody had touched before, she felt no apprehension. When he pushed her to the ground, shoved their covers aside and shifted his powerful naked body on top of hers, she didn't feel fear. Even after she felt his knee pressing between her legs to separate them, she had faith in him. He will do me no harm.

When she felt Sandor's hard member against her thigh, she wasn't able to escape the knowledge of what was happening any longer. Yet rather than recoiling from it, she welcomed it, accepting the inevitability of it without a question. She was a young girl and a maiden, but she was also on the cusp of womanhood and curious about what lay on the other side. Things she had seen and lived through had accelerated her transformation and she felt ready. Ready for him.

Sandor's whole body was taut and his muscles hard as iron, and Sansa clung to him as if he was the only solid thing in a world that was whirling around her. His hold on her was strong and persistent, his eyes closed and his mouth set in a tight frown. He was familiar to her, but then, towering so overwhelmingly over her, also a stranger.

As he entered her, he caused her pain, but still he didn't hurt her. She yielded to it and welcomed the intrusion because along with it came so much more; strange sensations her body had not felt before and was only starting to process.

Before she realised, it was all over. A few last desperate thrusts and Sandor stilled, muffling a groan from deep within his throat. His stillness left Sansa on the brink of something elusive, something her body had slowly been building towards without her conscious participation. Whatever it was, it was snatched away from her reach when Sandor collapsed on top of her, heaving and trembling.

She had a curious awareness that despite all his strength, at that moment she was stronger than him. She stroked his back and murmured softly into his ear. Sandor's stifled words against her skin sounded like quiet curses, falling against the hollow of her throat. She refused to hear them and hummed and twirled her fingers through his hair. Eventually he tried to move away from her, his face a terrible visage of quiet anguish, but Sansa resisted and pulled him back.

For the rest of her life she would never forget the feeling of his warm body flush against hers as they lay under the blankets, skin against skin.

Sandor got up in the morning and dressed under a heavy cloud of misery. His eyes avoided Sansa's, leaving her confused. She felt even closer to him after what had transpired, but he appeared more distant than ever.

Sansa went back to the stream and washed the blood from her thighs, contemplating the fact that she was now a woman indeed. The loss of her maidenhood was a serious matter, but she refused to think about it. She didn't have regrets, and couldn't understand why he was so angry.

"If it ever becomes known, tell your kin that you were raped. For that it was, plain and simple. You trusted me and I despoiled you. That is the kind of dog I am; you should have never left with me, little bird." Sandor's face was hard as he helped her onto his horse.

"You didn't rape me, how could you have? I didn't resist…I wanted it," Sansa argued. He didn't listen and she recognised that he had escaped deep into his own world, shutting everything else out, including her.

Once we get to Riverrun and he has time to think it through, he will realise he did no such thing. He didn't let me down. Sansa had no thoughts as to what might happen once they got to their destination, but she was not worried. She would think of something.

They were close to the castle when Sandor stopped and told her to wait in a secure spot among the trees.

"Better I go first and scout the situation. If all is safe, I will get your brother's men to come and get you. Stay still and you will be with your family soon."

Sansa protested, but to no avail. "You will come back too, won't you? I will be waiting," she told him. He looked at her for a long time, his eyes cold and grey, then turned his horse and rode away.

The morning had turned into afternoon by the time Sansa heard the noise of men on horseback. As she cautiously peered beyond the trees, to her relief she saw Robb riding towards her in front of a strongly armed group of soldiers.

But Sandor wasn't among them. He didn't return to her – not then, not ever.