Sansa sat nervously on a high back wooden chair and watched as Sandor went through a black leather bag.

When she crashed into Sandor, she had been at a loss of words when he asked where she was going. Instead, she cried out when he had roughly pulled her up from the floor, but let her go when he saw that she was cradling her hand. It had really hurt and she felt tears pooling in her eyes. Without another word said, Sandor had taken her by her good arm and escorted her up the stairs as she stumbled every now and then, and into the suite across from hers.

His room was a simple one, she noticed, and despite the richly printed wall paper and heavy, red, velvet curtains, it was in no way as large or as elaborately furnished as the flat she and Petyr were sharing. The kitchen was a sit-in, softly lit by a double-rodded Jolin Arc lamp that hung above the simple kitchen table, and in the adjoining sitting room sat but a single black chaise.

I can't believe I am in here with him! He must've heard that his brother was to be hanged... of course... and came to see… but... how long has he been here?

A shadow fell over her as Sandor walked towards her, a small jar in his hand.

"Give me your hand," he muttered, reaching towards her.

Sansa looked up at him. Though she noticed he looked leaner and his a hair looked thinner, Sandor was just as she remembered. His face was terrible and the same twitch still moved his lips. He had been wearing a wide-brimmed hat that had been tossed on the table in front of her and his hair, lank as ever, still covered his burns. As she looked him over, she realized she was staring, and his hand was still held open towards her.

"Are you going to stare all night? No, my face hasn't gotten any prettier," he rasped, his voice had a slight clip of annoyance to it. "Take your time, I've nothing to do. But the sooner you get this camphor liniment on your wrist, the sooner it'll feel better."

Sansa straightened up, "Sorry, sir, I...you surprised me," she answered, a bit lost for words.

He snorted loudly and pulled up a chair, turned it around, and sat down right in front of her. He took her arm and rested it against the top of his chair, slipping his fingers under her hand and softly pressing his thumb against the inside of her wrist, across it and up to the middle of her palm. Sansa winced at that and he stopped promptly.

Sansa sat primly, so close he was to her that she didn't really know where to look, so she looked at his hand supporting hers. She noticed how her hand stood out against his, small and pale compared to his large and tanned. His thumb rested in her palm, went straight across and covered her thumb and the nail was black. He must have hit it with a hammer. His hand is so warm. She sniffed and smelt the whiskey on his breath. Is he drunk? She then noticed the empty bottle of whisky laying on its side beside his hat.

She heard him clear his throat and she looked up at him quickly.

"It's not broke, just a sprain most like," he said curtly, breaking the silence. "This ointment should take the sting out of it. Smells bad, though."

He let go of her hand and grabbed the small jar. He opened it and Sansa wrinkled her nose slightly at the strong smell of camphor. Once again, he took her hand in his, almost too gently. The silence stretched as he rubbed the ointment on her wrist. Suddenly she remembered what she was wearing and combined with feeling of him touching her wrist, a layer of goosebumps broke out over her. Sandor stopped and looked down at her.

"Cold, little bird?"

Sansa looked down and noticed her dressing gown had opened slightly, exposing the flimsy lace of her nightgown. She clutched the dressing gown closed, a blush heating up her cheeks.

"No, I suppose you're not. You look pretty warm to me," he said as he ogled at her.

A shiver ran through her as she met his eyes. He looks almost ravenous.

"What are you doing here?" Sansa asked timidly trying to distract herself from his intense stare. His eyes are bloodshot...he is drunk!

"Just came to town on business," he said as he quickly stood to grab a small glass from the cupboard, and set it on the table beside Sansa. He then pulled a bottle of Canadian Club out from under his jacket and cracked it open. "It was a nice treat to see my brother hang. I was celebrating and I ran out of whiskey, so I went and got more." Sitting down in the chair again, his legs spread wide open, Sandor took a long swig from the bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He then leaned on his elbows against the back of his chair and pushed himself towards her. "Here girl, let me fill your glass. Help me celebrate the death of my brother."

Sansa's hand shook slightly as she took the glass and held it in front of her, and when he filled it, a splash of whiskey landed on her dressing gown.

"Sorry, little bird. You can take it off if you want."

She furrowed her brow at him and he laughed loudly.

"Ah, still a proper lady. Nevermind." He held the bottle up to her and clinked her glass. "Here's to my brother. May he burn in hell." He threw his head back and took another swallow.

I don't want to be rude. He is clearly upset. Sansa nervously took a tiny sip and cringed at the taste.

"Not a drinker, little bird?" He asked, clearly amused.

Sansa grimaced and took another sip, this time nearly choking from the burn. Sandor started to laugh at her and she almost dropped the glass.

"Do I still frighten you, girl?" Sandor leaned in closer, causing Sansa to shrink back. "I could ask you what you're doing here in Dawson City. I think I already know the answer," he said, a sneer on his face. "Didn't want to go with me long ago. But I see that sad excuse for a human got you wrapped around his little finger. Do you sing prettily for him?" He looked her up and down and took another drink. "I bet you sing real pretty. You've grown up, girl. A right little lady you are. Though I don't like the look of your hair."

Sansa could feel her face start to burn, it was not from the whiskey she was choking down. How dare he! She thought angrily. "I don't know what you are getting at, but I think it's time for me to leave." She stood up quickly, placing the half empty glass on the table. "No matter what you think, I am a lady and I can clearly see that you are not yourself at the moment."

Sandor stood up fast and towered over her. "Not myself? And how do you know that I'm not myself? It's been a long time, little bird. You didn't know me back then, don't assume to know me now," he said through gritted teeth.

Sansa raised her chin up in defiance. "You are still awful, that's plain to see." She yelped when he suddenly grabbed her waist and pulled her tight against him, his arms like a vice.

"Awful? Did you hear what my darling brother did to those girls? There's awful for you, little bird." He growled as he pulled her tightly against him, forcing her to tilt her head way back to peer up at him. "I never got to kill him, that's awful too."

He looked down at her, his eyes had a glaze over them. His mouth hung open as his eyes raked over her face and down the front of dressing gown that was slightly open. She gasped as he brought his other hand to her throat and traced a line down to the middle of her chest, then up, and wrapped it around her neck, his thumb roughly tracing her lips. Sansa felt a strange shiver go through her. She parted her lips slightly against his touch as she inhaled deeply. It was a feeling she never experienced before with any man. It was a need, not a want, a need to have him against her. It shocked her to the core, as he was a man who she never imagined could stir these kinds of feelings within.

"Fuck, little bird. You're beautiful," Sandor rasped.

Sansa suddenly felt that he might kiss her. Her eyes widened at the thought. What would it be like? What is happening?

With eyes heavy-lidded, he stared down at her, looking like a half-starved dog gone rabid. He shifted his eyes down her again as he gently caressed her cheek. "I'd take you right now if you were willing," he murmured, his whiskey breath snapping Sansa to reality.

Sansa pushed against him, crying out as her wrist reminded her of her injury. He slackened his grip, but never let her go. "Sandor, let me go," she demanded breathlessly. "You are drunk, please let me go."

Suddenly his head snapped up and quickly released her. Wordlessly, he sank back down in his chair and buried his face in his hands.

Sansa's breath shuddered and her heart beat wildly. What just happened?

"I should go," she said as she clutched her dressing gown tightly around herself, and went to leave the room. She nearly reached the doorway, but some feeling made her stop. I don't understand... She stood there staring at the dark oak for a moment, contemplating on what she should do. She sighed heavily and reached for the handle again, but she froze when she heard a strange sound.

She turned towards him and swallowed hard. Wringing her hands, she took tentative steps till she was standing in front of him, the back of the chair between them. How can a large man suddenly seem so small. Her hand trembled slightly as she placed it on his shoulder. They were shaking and the sight of it was suddenly heartbreaking.

He is crying...

Sansa stood there, one hand on his shoulder, while she brought her other hand up and gently smoothed his hair, the unease she felt earlier suddenly gone. He won't hurt me.

Sandor wrapped his arms around Sansa's waist and buried his face in her chest, his shoulders heaving. As she looked down at him, a sadness filled her and she could not stop the tears from falling for him. Sansa lay her head on his shoulder and let him hold her while they both cried silently. She knew his story, how his brother had shoved his face into the burning coals when he was just a boy. She felt such empathy for him. He wanted to kill him for what he did. Now he is gone. What is he do with that?

She continued gently stroking his lank hair, and soon Sandor's shoulders stopped shaking and he loosened his embrace and rested his hands upon her waist, avoiding her eyes. Sansa rubbed his arms slowly before giving his hands a squeeze, and gently guided them off as she stepped away slightly, wiping her eyes quickly.

"Sandor," she whispered. "Sandor you need to go to bed, let me help you," she said reassuringly.

He nodded with a grunt, and stood up swaying slightly as he looked at her. "Made the little bird cry. Fucking fool I am," he stated, as he wiped his face with the back of his arm. "What a man I am, crying on your shoulder. Might as well swaddle me up and shove my thumb in my mouth," he muttered, looking away.

"Come, Sandor, it's alright. Lie down, everything will be fine, " Sansa said, trying to be cheerful as she motioned to the chaise.

She grabbed his arm and almost fell trying to support him as they staggered to the chaise where Sandor stumbled once more, falling hard into it face first, cursing.

"I have to go before Petyr gets back," she whispered gently. "I'll see you in the morning, Sandor." All she heard was a loud snore. She looked around and saw a horsehair blanket on the arm of the chaise, and used it to cover him. His face turned towards her, his scars fully exposed, and for some reasoning she could not explain, Sansa bent down and softly kissed them before dimming the lamp and walking out the door.