Author's note: I am fully aware that Sandor Clegane is not wearing his armour during the feast in the great hall. But I wrote that scene before I went back to check and the leather coat, though looking damn hot on him, just did not do it in that case.

-3-

Apruptly Sansa turns and strides to a sideboard where a caraffe and goblets along with some cold meats, cheese and bread have been put. „More wine?" she asks with her back to him. He cannot see her face but he detects a faint tremor in her voice. Though tempted he declines the offered drink.

He does not want anything to dull his senses, not now, when he has made up his mind. He is not going to miss a thing, nor forget.

Without any task to perform she turns to face him, hands folded in front of her in an attempt to keep them from shaking. The ever perceptive Hound still sees it and he likes it. It means that he can still make her nervous.

He takes another step into the room and that is as far as he is prepared to accommodate her. He does not see the need for extra pleasantries, she knows exactly why he is there and it was her bloody idea after all.

Sansa smiles at his defiance. „You are not going to make this easy, are you?"

Her openness catches him off guard and he raises his hands a little, admitting that he is not sure what's expected of him. „I am good at fucking whores, not courting ladies."

It dawns on Sansa that he is also entering into somewhat unfamiliar territory and she feels a little more at ease.

„I don't wish to be courted and I don't want to be treated like a Lady. I prefer you to be you." She closes the distance between them, searching for a hint as to how to proceed, in the end relying on common sense. „We could start by getting you out of this armour."

His first impuls is to deny her. His armour is...well, just that, his armour, in more than one way, but he sees the foolishness of refusing to undress like a maiden and lets her get on with it.

With the practiced fingers of one who has done so countless times before, she undoes the numerous clasps and strings that hold the various parts together and in place. He thinks that this must be how she assisted her father and brothers before her whole world fell apart.

Sansa seems to read his mind. „Ramsay made me do this", she informs him coolly as she stores away one metal piece after the other. „Always making sure I knew exactly who's blood I got on my hands and how he took it." She gestures for him to lift his arms and begins to untie the padded vest he wears under the armour. „He was extremely creative when killing somebody he thought I liked." The thick fabric is pulled off his shoulders and suddenly he feels exposed, standing there in his coarse tunic. Even more so when the young woman starts circling him as if inspecting a horse for purchase. He ponders whether to be offended but she is only gathering her courage for the next crucial move. Stopping behind him she puts a tentative hand on each side of his waist, untucks his shirt and slips her fingers underneath it.

The sudden contact makes him hiss in surprise but he remains stock still. Sansa takes a few moments to get used to the sensation of actually touching him, then, without taking her hands of him, she ducks under his right arm and snakes around to look up into his disfigured face. She remembers being so afraid of that face in the beginning, before she learned to look beyond the scars and the hateful words. She had known nothing of the world then, being only a caged little bird.

Sansa Stark is not fool enough to believe that she is free now. She is but in a different cage, trapped by her name and title, by custom and tradition, the expectations of her peers and people. But she will have this. She will have him. People and expectations be damned.

The Hound watches in awe as she shrugs out of her robe and lets it fall to the floor. Immediately her hands are back on his middle, now pushing upwards, trying to push the shirt over his head but he has to help her, he is too tall. The shirt is thrown carelessly on top of the ever growing pile of discarded clothing at their feet.

His torso is hers now to explore. Hands stroking broad shoulders, fingers toying with the thick but surprisingly soft hair that covers his chest and trails low on his belly before diving underneath the waistband of his breeches.

Sandor can only stare into those gray eyes. The feeling of her small hands, so warm and soft on his skin has shaken him to the core. He cannot recall anyone ever touching him like this and he fights the urge to grab her, take her to the nearby bed and give her what she asked him here for. He is not even sure why he fights because her caresses are torture but it is the sweetest torture he can imagine and he is inclined to endure it just a little longer.

Again she slowly walks around him, fingertips tracing the the many scars, old and new, making him tingle all over. Making him hard, too.

When she finishes her round he tries to read her. He only gets one of her mysterious little smiles for his trouble but her eyes are ablaze as she mirrors his earlier movement, raising her hands above her head.

The battle hardened warrior inhales sharply. „There is no turning back after this, little bird."

Sansa wordlessly nods her understanding. She has not expected him to be so patient but she is grateful for it, for allowing her to marvel at his strength, his powerful build and the tell tale signs of a fighterr's body; he is absolutely glorious.

Of course she sees that he is hard pressed not to rush into action and she prepares herself but once again he surprises her when instead of tearing her gown away he goes down on one knee. Now she is the one staring in wonder into dark brown eyes that shine warmer than she'd ever thought they could. He breaks free from her gaze and concentrates on the task at hand, which is to slowly lift the hem of the thin white gown she is still wearing. Revelling in every inch of skin he reveals, he halters only as he reaches her thighs, where he admires the patch of flaming red hair cushioning her sex but soon moves higher until he comes face to face with her breasts, which he grazes with the tips of his thumbs. „So soft," he murmers and scans her face for signs of regret or revulsion but finds only acceptance. With a growl he stands. The fine silken shift joins the heap of garments on the floor and she stands naked. She is more beautiful than he thought was possible and part of him wishes he could tell her but that sort of talk is not for him. And right now he does not really want to talk at all.

Sansa knows the moment has come, knows he has reached his limits and she does not enjoy standing naked in the middle of the room very much either. It's time to speed things up, but how?

„What do you want?" she asks in a rather small voice, betraying her inexperience in those matters.

His fists open and clench a couple of times, his face is grim now.

„I want to fuck you so long and hard that you won't be able to walk straight for a week." There is no time to blanche at that threat, or was it a promise? In one swift effortless move he has her in his arms and carries her to the fur coverd bed. He still has just enough sense not to throw her down like a serving wench, kicks off his boots and crawls on top of her.