A/N- The story continues…I hope you all enjoy!

Summons

Chapter Two

SANSA

Sansa cursed under her breath when she pricked her finger with her sewing needle. She sucked the wounded finger for a moment, looking down at her other hand to find that it was shaking violently. She set her sewing aside with a sigh, unable to focus, unable to do anything but listen for the sound of footsteps coming down the hall. But all was silent on their top floor of the inn. She rose to her feet, going to the mirror and examining her reflection. Her hair had never been this long before, falling in loose waves almost past her waist when it was down like this. She would have had her handmaiden put it up, but she remembered once that Sandor had complimented it when she wore it down.

"You like it?"

"Like fire, with threads of gold."

He had said it so casually, so offhandedly, that he might as well have been commenting on the weather, but she had never forgotten his words. She had always hated her bright red hair when she was younger, wishing it had at least been a dark Tully auburn like her mother's, not ugly old carrot red. She never thought any man would see it as a desirable feature. Joffrey had told her once that he had heard red-headed women made much better whores than wives. Little did he know, Sansa thought ruefully. I'm no better at being a wife than I would be a whore.

She knew she should be more grateful to Tyrion, and in a way, she was, but also couldn't help but resent him. He was not the one she had wanted to save her, but he had. So what were they to do now? She didn't love him, and he knew it. The thought of performing her wifely duties turned her stomach. And while he was always kind to her, it was the kindness an old man shows a spoiled little child, occasionally giving them trinkets and treats to shut them up but never looking upon her as an adult, an equal. Sansa was eighteen now, but she felt a hundred years old sometimes. Other times she still felt like a little girl who just wanted to bury her head in her mother's skirts and cry until there were no more tears left.

But she would never have the chance. Her mother was gone. Sansa set her jaw in a hard line, unknowingly imitating the face her mother always made before completing an unpleasant task. There was no more mother, or father, or Robb or Jon, to protect her or shield her from the world. She would most likely never see home again. It was time to begin making her own way, without constantly looking to the dead for comfort. She couldn't just sleepwalk through her life forever. It was time to wake up.

Suddenly there was a knock at her door. Sansa turned away from the mirror, surprised. After all her anxious waiting, she had disappeared so deep into her thoughts that she hadn't even heard anyone approaching. "Who is it?"

"Your beloved husband." Tyrion replied, speaking in the voice that made Sansa think he was constantly mocking her. "I've brought you a present, my dear."

"C-Come in." Sansa replied, her voice unsteady. Surely, even Tyrion wasn't crafty enough to track down a man who'd been missing for years in the five days that he'd been gone.

Tyrion opened the door, and Sansa's breath caught in her throat. Sandor stood behind him, clothed in some kind of all black religious garb she had seen the septons of the Seven wear in church. "Your Hound, sweet lady." Tyrion gave her a little bow. "I had no time to purchase a leash and a collar, but I seem to remember him being fairly adept at following close to your heels."

Don't talk about him like that! Sansa wanted to stamp her foot and scream, but she didn't. The Lannisters always talked about and to Sandor in this outrageous, derogatory way, but if it bothered him, he never showed it. He barely even seemed to be listening, staring down at his feet. Sansa studied his face, noticing new—and seemingly fresh—scars, small changes, deeper lines around his eyes, silently begging him to look at her, to still find her beautiful. He finally did look up at her, and when their eyes met, Sansa had to clutch the back of her chair to stay standing. It was still there—that strange, electric energy that had always been there between them. She couldn't explain it, but she had never been able to forget him, or that night in King's Landing, even after all these years. Even as a scared little girl, a part of her had been comforted by how powerful he was. Now, as a woman, she felt something else in his presence. Something that frightened her in an entirely different way.

Tyrion looked between his wife and the Hound in the silence that followed his words, the briefest sadness in his eyes before his expression reverted to his usual amicable indifference. "Well, I suppose we should all ready ourselves for the journey to King's Landing. Dearest wife, I'm having our things packed as we speak. Hound, I've reserved you a den downstairs. I suggest you get some rest tonight. Protecting my wife from the horrors of the Capitol and my demented family will surely prove tiresome work."

Sandor looked away from Sansa at last, giving Tyrion a curt nod and disappearing down the stairs. "Where did you find him?" Sansa asked her husband once they were alone.

"A monastery of all places." Tyrion laughed, crossing the room to pour himself a cup of wine. "The dog's found religion, apparently."

"He looked like he'd been in a fight." Sansa crossed her arms over her chest.

Tyrion turned to his wife, chuckling at her accusatory tone. "Well, it wasn't with me, dearest. I would require a sizeable ladder to inflict those wounds, and only if the Hound would stand still long enough for me to climb it. I thought you'd be happy I found your favorite pet."

"He's not my pet. Stop calling him 'dog' or 'pet!' He's a better warrior than you'll ever be!" Sansa finally snapped, years of frustration towards the snobbish, entitled Lannisters all being aimed at Tyrion.

Tyrion took a long drink from his cup, looking at her curiously. "Why are you so angry with me? I've done everything you've ever asked of me."

"That's not enough to make someone love you." Sansa said cruelly.

"No, I suppose not. Perhaps I should have someone hold my face down to burning coals. Give me some nice, tragic wounds." Tyrion took another sip of his wine, suddenly wanting very badly to be drunk. "Then maybe my wife will start sleeping with my cloak under her pillow."

He left on those words to his own bedchamber, and Sansa felt like he had just stripped her naked. She raced to her bed to see if it was gone, but no, the Hound's cloak was under her pillow just as it always was. How had Tyrion known? They never shared a bedchamber, not since their disastrous wedding night that had ended with Tyrion comforting a sobbing, terrified Sansa by telling her he would never come to her bed again unless she wanted him to, which for three years now, had meant never. Was he spying on her? Did he have her handmaiden report back to him? Sansa curled up in her bed, thinking of sneaky rotten Tyrion. She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling violated and furious, and just the tiniest bit ashamed.

ARYA

No. I must not give into this. Arya hunched over, her hand clenched on the wagon wheel, her stomach churning violently as she tried to suck in a deep enough breath to successfully keep her dinner down. In her sixteen years of life thus far, she had so rarely been ill that this recent bout of near-constant nausea was taking a much harder toll on her then she would have liked.

She heard the sounds of laughter and talking from the rest of the camp still finishing their dinner nearby. Someone would notice her absence and come looking for her soon. Arya straightened back up, tossing her long dark braid over her shoulder. She couldn't do this now.

No one can know. She reminded herself. Not now, when they were so close.

"Arya?"

She squeezed her eyes shut at the sound of Gendry's voice, cursing inwardly. She felt his hands on her arms, felt his strong, comforting presence behind her, a now-familiar warmth spreading through her when he was this close.

"What's wrong?" He asked quietly, his breath against the side of her neck.

"Nothing." Arya said defensively, turning around to face him.

"You barely touched your dinner. And after all the trouble you took to kill it."

"I'm not hungry."

Gendry's brow furrowed. "You're always hungry."

"Go back to the men. They need you."

Gendry sighed, losing patience. "Arya, if you're sick, you're sick. Just tell me so I can delegate your duties and you can get some rest. I won't see it as a weakness, I promise."

But they will, Arya thought of the troops already unhappy with her serving at the head of Gendry's army. They had been stealthily moving towards the capitol with the aim of recapturing the throne in the Baratheon name ever since they had learned the truth of Gendry's parentage from a captured Lannister soldier.

"I'm fine." Arya said stubbornly. "I'm just…ready to reach King's Landing. Ready to fight."

Gendry shook his head. He knew her too well. "We can't start keeping things from each other. Not now. Not when we're this close. I expect more from my first lieutenant." He swallowed hard, lowering his voice. "More from my wife."

Arya sighed, rubbing her forehead wearily. "Maybe we shouldn't have—"

"Don't." He stepped forward, his hands on her shoulders. "Don't say that."

"You've never regretted marrying me?" She looked up at him. "When the men call you names and laugh at you for letting your wife fight beside you? You've never wanted to take any of it back?"

"Never." He leaned forward, kissing her. "I love you. And what's done is done. We can't take any of it back."

"I know that." Arya said sharply, her hand unconsciously going to her stomach.

Gendry looked down at her stomach for a moment, his eyes widening as they met his wife's again. "Are you…"

"Yes, all right? Yes." Her eyes narrowed defiantly. "But it doesn't change anything. I'm still fighting beside you. We're still going to win the throne together."

"Arya, I'm so sorry…." Gendry ran a hand through his dark hair, looking so stricken with guilt that she had to laugh.

"What are you sorry for? It was both of us. It's not as if you forced yourself on me." Arya smiled slightly. "You might even say it was more my doing than yours. At first."

Gendry shook his head. "We should have waited. Until it was safe. Until…"

"Until what? All the fighting ends?" She reached up, her hand on his cheek, suddenly realizing something. "It was never going to be safe for us to be together. You're a king. I'm a warrior. We will always be battling for something. And our child will grow up in a better world once you're the man leading it." She guided his hand to her stomach. "This isn't a reason to surrender. This is just a reason to fight even harder."

"You won't even consider stepping back from the front lines?"

Arya shook her head. "I don't care if I give birth on that battlefield. We're doing this together."

Gendry breathed out, leaning his forehead against hers, feeling an odd combination of worry and relief. "You're mad, you know that?"

"You're the one who married me." Arya smiled.

"Will you please get some rest now?"

"Fine, yes." She sighed. "And since you know now…" She stepped away from him, bending over and retching violently behind the wagon. After a moment, Arya stood up, wiping off her mouth. "Gods, that feels so much better."

"No more secrets between us, then?" Gendry laughed.

"You asked for it." Arya shrugged with a grin, Gendry still laughing as she walked up the steps into the wagon and pulled the curtain closed behind her.

JAIME

"Leave me alone." Cersei sounded like she had been crying when she responded to Jaime's knock on her door.

"Cersei, please. Tell me what's wrong." Jaime leaned against his side of the door, his hand resting on the smoothly paneled wood, practically feeling her on the other side. He lowered his voice to a whisper. "I need to see you."

She finally unlocked and opened the door that connected their two bedchambers with such force that Jaime stumbled forward slightly into her room. Her eyes were red, her cheeks streaked with tears. "Jaime. We can't." She took his arm, her grip tight. "Father knows."

"What?" Jaime snorted with disbelief. "Father's hardly ever home. He doesn't know anything."

"You don't pay enough attention." Cersei let out a frustrated sigh. "When we came down to dinner tonight, he looked at us…and he knew. I could see it on his face."

Jaime crossed his arms, trying to think of a counterargument but knowing that, as time had gone on, they had gotten less and less cautious about hiding their relationship. Their new favorite way to pass the time in her bedchamber had almost caused them to miss dinner that night, and when they had finally slinked downstairs with their pale cheeks flushed and blonde hair disheveled, Tywin Lannister looked between them, the briefest flash of stunned fury in his green eyes. But as soon as it was there, it was gone, and Jaime had half-convinced himself he imagined it. But Cersei was certain she had seen it, and horrified at the prospect of her father's disapproval. She had been avoiding Jaime ever since dinner, and had even locked the door between their rooms for the first time in their fourteen inseparable years of life thus far.

They had always been unnaturally close, even as very small children. They slept in the same bed and bathed together far past the appropriate age for such things, but their sibling bond had truly and irrevocably crossed the line only a fortnight ago.

There was a long-abandoned entrance to the gold mines in the vast forest behind their sprawling castle, little more than a dark cave mouth that had enchanted them since they were children. It had always been the place where Jaime and Cersei knew they could be alone, the place where their father and brother couldn't bother them, where they could whisper secrets and play pretend, where Jaime could playfully torment his sister by going so far back in the cave that he disappeared into darkness, only to emerge smiling and laughing moments later with a small gold nugget for her.

As they had grown, they still went to the cave almost every night, and just after their shared fourteenth birthday, in the middle of a swelteringly hot summer night, they had been sitting in the cave on a blanket they now left there, finishing off a bottle of wine Jaime had smuggled out of the cellars. They were both a little drunk and silly by the time they reached the end of the bottle, and Jaime remembered feeling happier than he ever had before. Cersei seemed happy too, or at least more relaxed than she usually did. She had pinned her long blond hair up off her neck, and had unlaced the top of her dress and slid it off her shoulders, now wearing only a corset and thin slip over her undergarments, saying it was too hot to be wearing so many layers.

She had laid on her back across the blanket, Jaime lying on his side, propped up on his elbow beside her. He had barely been listening to a word she was saying, preferring to stare at the outline of her bare legs under her slip, noticing the way her breasts strained against her corset when she spoke, watching a small bead of sweat work its way down her long, slender neck, not paying her words the least bit of attention until—

"Everyone says father plans to marry me off soon enough."

"What?" Jaime sputtered.

"Yes, to some highborn prince who would provide our family with useful allies. All a daughter's good for, apparently." Cersei looked vastly annoyed by this fact, but Jaime looked absolutely horrified at the prospect of his sister being taken away from him, ever.

There was a long silence between them, and Cersei turned to look at Jaime curiously. "What's wrong, brother?"

"I just…I wish you could just marry me." Jaime said boldly.

"What?" Cersei laughed out loud.

"Well, why not?" Jaime went on, knowing he must sound mad but not caring. "You're my best friend."

Cersei sat up slightly so they were face to face, her long blond hair spilling over her shoulder, an odd expression on her face as she looked at him. "That's not all marriage is."

"I know that."

There was an odd, charged moment between them, Jaime reaching out to rest his hand on the side of her neck, Cersei's breathing shallow and fast as she looked up into the green eyes so similar to her own. He moved towards her first, kissing her, his thumb stroking her throat. Cersei was stiff against him for a moment, but suddenly, just as Jaime was pulling away, her hand clenched and twisted in the material of his shirt, Cersei pulling him closer. Her mouth opened against his this time, and she sighed when the kiss deepened, their tongues meeting tentatively at first and then more boldly as he climbed on top of her on the blanket. After a long, feverish moment, teenage impulse took over completely, and they started pulling at each other's clothes more insistently, Jaime unlacing her corset to kiss her breasts, Cersei writhing against him, her hands tangling in his hair, the unfamiliar pulsing of pleasure spreading through their bodies almost too much for them both. They fumbled with their clothes for a moment longer, his breeches unlaced and her undergarments cast aside, and after a moment of struggling together, hindered by overeagerness and inexperience, he entered her at last. Cersei cried out with surprise at the initial shock of pain and rush of blood, but when Jaime asked her if she wanted him to stop, she shook her head determinedly, clutching his shoulders as if for dear life while they made love for the first time.

When it was over, Jaime felt elated. Accomplished. Untouchable. But when he came back to his senses, he worried for his sister, turning to look at her as they laid side-by-side on the blanket.

"Are you all right?" He spoke softly, tenderly, smoothing a sweaty strand of hair back off her forehead before resting his hand on her cheek.

Cersei looked at him, her hand over his, turning slightly to press her lips against his palm. "I'm fine."

"You're sure?"

She nodded, a small smile spreading across her full lips, looking very pleased with what they had done, feeling as though she was finally, really a woman, and not a helpless little girl any longer that father just could just ship off like she was nothing. "Now we've made this place ours. Forever."

Jaime smiled back at her, turning away for a moment to pry off a black rock with a gold center from the cave wall. He pressed the precious metal into her palm, kissing her once more as she interlaced their fingers, their joined hands encasing the prize he had given her so she should would always have something to remember this night.

From that moment on, their lives had revolved around finding any excuse to be alone together, kissing feverishly in closets whenever he happened upon her, Jaime sneaking into her bedchamber when everyone else was asleep, Cersei's hand finding his underneath the table when they dined at night, smiling at him in that small, secret way that made Jaime want to take her right there on the table, the rest of the world be damned.

But this night, after their father's return, had been the first time she'd ever pulled away from him like this. And Jaime couldn't see any good reason why things should change now. Soon their father would return to King's Landing to fulfill his duties as the Hand. And then he and Cersei could do what they liked. Tyrion was still too young to suspect what they were doing, and if the staff dared say a word about it…well, the help was always replaceable.

Jaime wasn't worried about getting caught. He didn't care. His life of privilege had left him with the impression that he could do whatever he liked. Now he just had to convince Cersei that nothing could come between them, as long as loved each other enough.

"I don't understand what you're so worried about." Jaime sat down on the edge of her bed. "If father confronts us, we'll deny it. He can't prove anything."

"He doesn't have to prove anything." Cersei spoke miserably, sitting down beside him. "He plans to take me with him. Back to King's Landing. He told me so after dinner."

Jaime's face went very pale. "Then I'll go too."

"No. He means to separate us. He told me, very clearly, that you're to stay here. Be the lord of Casterly Rock."

"Not without you." Jaime shook his head fiercely. "No one's taking you away from me."

"Don't be such a fool!" Cersei shouted, rising to her feet, losing patience. "This was madness, Jaime! We should never have dared! Do you know what would happen to us if people found out? We'd disgrace our entire family. We'd be outcasts from society, forever. More condemned than our little brother. This. Ends. Now."

"No." Jaime got to his feet as well, towering over her, his blue eyes wild with rage and desire and conviction, terrifying her. "It only ends if we stop loving each other, and I will love you until the last breath leaves my body. I'll fight for this. Kill for us. I don't care what I must do, but I'm never leaving your side."

She was crying again when he kissed her, and Jaime could taste the salt from her tears on her mouth. He held her face in his hands when they parted. "We'll find a way to be together, even if he takes you away. I will follow you, somehow. I swear it."

"I don't want to talk anymore." Cersei started unbuttoning his shirt, pushing him back on the bed, a fire in her eyes he'd never seen before, a fire that finally seemed to match his own. He pulled her to him, kissing her like it was their last night on earth, and when he climbed on top of her and pushed her pale, white legs apart, Cersei whispered into his ear—"Yes, yes, quickly, but we must be quiet, no one can hear…" When he thrust into her, Cersei sighed his name like a plea for mercy, not from him, but from the gods, it couldn't possibly feel like this if they were ever meant to stop. She wrapped her legs around his waist, letting him further inside, Jaime's hand sliding up her arm as he breathed her name against her neck, going deeper and deeper until he could feel her fingernails digging into his shoulders, Cersei gasping for breath when he finally started to send her over the edge—

"Were you sleeping?"

The sound of Brienne's voice woke him up with a start as she closed the door to his royal bedchamber behind her, Jaime thankful he had fallen asleep underneath enough heavy blankets to hide the shameful aftereffects of his unintended journey into memories of a time long past. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, dearly wishing he could rub something else but knowing that would not be appropriate. Even he and Brienne weren't that close. "What do you want?"

His voice came out harsher than he intended, and Brienne blinked with surprise. "I just wanted to see how you were." She looked down at the floor, seeming to choose her next words carefully. "I know it couldn't have been easy…seeing her again."

Jaime looked up at her curiously, the arousal from his dream life spilling over into reality. "That's why you come to my bedchamber in the middle of the night? To talk about my sister?"

"It's not the middle of the night. You slept through dinner. I was worried." Brienne opened his curtains to show him that the sun was just newly setting.

"You sure you didn't just miss me?" Jaime grinned, wishing she would just come to him already. His body was literally aching. If he didn't have a woman soon, he felt like he might die. It really is like being fourteen again, he smiled to himself.

"You're in a good mood for a man who could be dead tomorrow." Brienne looked at him, her brow slightly furrowed as she sat down on the side of his bed.

"I should make the most of my last night, then." Jaime leaned forward, kissing her. After their first time together, Brienne had seemingly chosen to just pretend like it had never happened and Jaime had played along, mostly because he didn't know what else to do. They hadn't even kissed since then. But he'd wanted to kiss her. And whether or not it had been the dream about Cersei that had finally pushed him over the edge of sexual frustration, it wasn't as if Brienne ever needed to know his motivations.

She kissed him back for a moment, but suddenly pulled away, her dark blue eyes narrowed and accusatory. "Wait, wait."

"What?" Jaime asked impatiently.

"Why now? Why kiss me now when you've been ignoring me for weeks?"

"I haven't been ignoring you."

"You have." Brienne argued. "You play brother-in-arms with me like nothing even happened between us, and then you see your sister again, and suddenly you want to fuck me for…what? Revenge?"

"No, it's not like that…"

"Then what is it like?" Brienne demanded, her eyes locked on his in that odd way that always made Jaime feel like she could read his mind. Sure enough, after a moment, her mouth went into a thin line, her cheeks flushed with anger, looking disgusted. "I'm not going to be your stand-in for Cersei, you sick bastard." She shoved him off of her, getting to her feet.

"Please don't go." Jaime caught her arm. "I need you."

"You don't." Brienne spat, wrenching her arm away. "I shouldn't have even come." She tucked her hair behind her ears, her cheeks bright red with embarrassment. "Please tell me you know that she only said she loved you so that you'd come and save her. And once she gets what she wants, she'll just hurt you again."

"I know. You're right. I told you, I'm done with all of that with Cersei…"

Brienne shook her head sadly. "You'll never be done with her. You want to be, but it will never happen."

"It can. It will." Jaime tried to assure her (and himself), suddenly panicking when it seemed like he might lose Brienne. "You told me to make things right with my family, and I'm trying to do that. Once it's done, once all is well with them, I'm leaving with you."

Brienne swallowed hard, her expression hard to read. Her features were stony and impassive, but her eyes were shining with tears. "Get some sleep, Kingslayer." Brienne muttered at last. "You shouldn't be making any decisions when your cock's harder than a diamond."

She walked out, closing the door behind her, and Jaime sighed heavily, leaning back against the pillows and wishing she had stayed but rather thinking she may have left on a valid point.

TYRION

"Still awake?" Bronn joined Tyrion at the tavern on the bottom floor of the inn.

"I couldn't sleep." Tyrion shrugged, sitting back and putting his boots up on the table. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

"The stress of a young, silly wife?" Bronn suggested, looking rather surly as he sat down beside Tyrion. "I have to tell you, I found it rather offensive that she didn't consider me guard enough for your visit to King's Landing."

Tyrion smiled at his friend. "I'm sorry she wounded your pride, dear friend. But it may comfort you to know—I fairly certain that protection is not all she is seeking from the Hound."

"Really?" Bronn raised his eyebrows. "You think they were lovers?"

"I think they were something." Tyrion tipped back his goblet against his lips, rather spectacularly drunk at this point. "Oh, well. Let her torture him and not me, then."

"It doesn't bother you? Hand-delivering your wife's lover to her?"

Tyrion's brow furrowed thoughtfully. "It should bother me, shouldn't it? But Sansa…lovely as she is, has never truly been a wife to me."

Bronn sat forward. "Never? Never in three years?"

"Thus…the drinking." Tyrion raised his hand to signal the bar wench that he was ready for a refill. "I remember…Shae and I would fuck three times a night, and she'd still want more…"

Bronn blinked with surprise. He hadn't heard Tyrion so much as acknowledge that Shae had ever existed since that horrible night in Tywin Lannister's tent. Tyrion must be drunk if he was allowing himself to revisit her memory. "You still think of her?" Bronn prodded gently.

"All the time." Tyrion said quietly, tracing a line on the table with his thumb.

"My lord…" Bronn started to say but trailed off, looking as though he suddenly lost his nerve.

"What is it, Bronn?"

"Just—just I think a visit to the capitol will do you good."

"I hope so. At least it should be interesting. My brother and sister, despite all their faults, could never be called dull." Tyrion gave a silly little laugh at the thought of Jaime and Cersei, wondering how the Lannister dynamic would be now that the golden twins had their epic falling-out. Perhaps they had since made up. They usually did, even after truly horrific disagreements. Or perhaps they still hated each other. When it came to the strange, beautiful people with whom he seemed constantly surrounded, Tyrion had long ago given up trying to predict their actions.

SANSA

"Wake up, little bird."

Sansa jerked awake at the sound of his rough, hoarse voice, clutching her sheets to her chest as she sat up in bed. He was standing just inside her doorway, his massive frame barely illuminated by the moonlight shining through her open window.

"How did you get in here?" Sansa whispered, her heart hammering in her chest, feeling very exposed in her thin white nightgown.

"Weak locks. Strong hands." The Hound shrugged, his twisted mouth curving into a small smile. "Still afraid of me, are you?"

"I'm not afraid." Sansa said quickly, her tremulous voice betraying her. "What do you want?"

"I pose you the same question." He stepped closer to her bed. "Why am I here, child? Why send for me when you could pay for an army at your back?"

"I don't want an army." Sansa shook her head.

Sandor fell to his knees at her bedside, seizing her arms, startling her. "Then what do you want? Tell me now."

"I…" Her voice suddenly died in her throat. When he was this close to her, she couldn't think.

"Damn you, child." He shook her slightly, his voice breaking. "I had found peace."

"I'm sorry." Sansa felt tears welling up in her eyes, remembering all of it, the weight of his body on top of hers in bed, the way his scarred cheek had felt under her hand, the kiss that she had imagined so many times now that it felt more real than most of her actual memories. "I just had to know why."

"Why what?" He demanded.

She swallowed hard. "Why didn't you kiss me that night?"

His dark eyes flooded with surprise. He knew exactly what night she meant, but hadn't exactly thought it was a memory she would treasure. "I was a drunken fool that night, girl…I just needed…" He stopped, knowing he couldn't finish that sentence honestly without horrifying her. "I needed to remember there was still something beautiful in a world burning down around me."

Sansa reached out, her hand resting on his ravaged cheek again, her voice suddenly commanding and clear. "Why didn't you kiss me?"

"You were just a girl then." He brushed her pale shoulder with his rough, callused sword hand. "And a kiss wouldn't have been enough."

Sansa took a deep, shaky breath. "So you wanted a song instead?"

"I could make you sing again, little bird." He leaned in, his mouth brushing the bare skin of her shoulder before he kissed her neck. "A very different kind of song."

"Then do it." She breathed out. "I want you to."

"What of your husband?" The Hound eased the strap of her nightgown off her shoulder.

"He's never had me. Not like this." Sansa pulled his face back to hers, eager for a real first kiss so she wouldn't have to imagine it anymore.

But he stopped just short of kissing her, pulling back slightly to look into her eyes. "Never? You've never shared the marriage bed?"

"No. I waited. Waited for you." Sansa looked up at him, her big blue eyes so young and innocent that the Hound suddenly felt disgusted with himself. He disentangled himself from her, getting to his feet, that damned, unshakeable sense of loyalty to the Lannisters ruining the moment. He couldn't bed Tyrion Lannister's wife, not when she still had her maidenhood. He had sworn fealty to the Lannister name as a youth, and those were vows not to be broken. His time living in the church, with men who had chosen a life of celibacy, had taught him much about there being higher truths than the panting, heaving desires of the flesh. This was wrong. His days as The Hound, an animalistic creature operating entirely on primal instinct, were over. He had moved beyond such things. It was high time he proved it.

He let out a long breath, his heart twisting at the confused expression on her young face. "Go to your husband, little bird. Satisfy your desires with him."

"No. Never." Sansa shook her head furiously. "I want you."

He stepped further back, not trusting himself any closer to her when she was saying such things. "I shouldn't have come to you like this."

"What are you so afraid of?" Sansa glared at him, fixing her nightgown back on her shoulder, her cheeks flushed red with embarrassment.

"We can't be alone together again." He said, a resolute finality in his voice. "You understand me? Never."

"You work for me." She jutted her chin out defiantly.

"I work for your husband." He reminded her. "Goodnight, girl. Sleep well. You may be the last one of us who can still claim the sleep of the innocent."

He left without another word, and Sansa seized the goblet of water from her bedside table, hurling it at the door after him with a growl of frustration.

I don't want the sleep of the innocent! She wanted to scream. How dare he walk away from her? When did he become so ridiculously noble? Wasn't he the one always telling her he wasn't like the chivalrous, honor-obsessed knights she read about in stories?

She didn't sleep that night, tossing and turning fitfully in her bed, a hunger gnawing away at her insides that no amount of food could fill.

How long? She stared up at the ceiling, not caring who she was praying to, the old gods or new, as long as she was heard. How long must I wait for a love that I choose?

Sansa heard the queen's voice in her head, from what felt like a thousand years ago—

"Love is poison. A sweet poison, yes, but it will kill you all the same."

She hadn't understood Cersei's words as a girl, but now, she saw the wisdom in them. Sansa rolled over onto her side, having the strange sudden realization that, when it came to the pain of forbidden love, Cersei was surely the most well versed of them all.

Sansa buried her head in her pillow, thinking gloomily that perhaps she should have pressed Cersei for more advice when she'd had the chance.

A/N- Until chapter three!