Hah, I hate waiting for updates on stories that I like to read, so I figure that I shouldn't keep those of you that read my story waiting either. Thanks for the support, and your reviews make me smile like a kid on Christmas morning :D

Disclaimer: It's getting tedious typing that I don't own any of GRRM's work. But I don't!

Sandor

In Sandor Clegane's dream, they were naked. The dreaming Sandor had no time to notice his own bareness, as he was captivated by the young woman in front of him.

Sansa stood in front of him, milky arms at her sides. Her gentle face was upturned to his gruesome one expectantly, a soft smile on her lips.

She was gorgeous. Sandor had seen many naked women in his life; from whores, to peasants in little more than rags, to exotic fire dancers that sometimes entertained at court.

None of them prepared him for Sansa Stark.

Her neck was long and thin, arcing temptingly. Her breasts were small but perfectly shaped. He had not forgotten the feeling of having her slender waist wrapped in his arms, and he wondered what it would feel like without their annoying clothes in the way.

Her legs stretched down to the floor, proportioned exactly with the rest of her body. Sandor couldn't see a flaw in them. And between them …

He could not restrain himself. He ran to her, scooping her up in his arms and putting his mouth on hers possessively. Sansa returned his kiss, a soft sound escaping her throat that made Sandor grab her harder.

Their tongues tangled in each others' mouths, and warm hands explored bodies feverishly. Sandor had never felt like this.

And suddenly, his little bird broke their kiss, lurching away from him with an expression of horror on her glistening mouth and in her eyes.

A black arrowhead was sticking through her belly grotesquely, and then his bird was falling away from him. The walls of the room turned to blood and cascaded down around them. Sandor dove down through the lake of blood, trying to grab his little bird's corpse as it sank.

The bitter, metallic taste of blood filled his mouth, and Sandor found that he was drowning.

Even so, he swam down forever, limbs burning, chest contracting, and could not reach Sansa. He began to lose consciousness, feeling the blackness of nothing slip over his eyes. He saw Gregor's face behind his eyelids. What a horrible last sight he thought as he died.

Then Sandor was hot, so excruciatingly hot.

He was burning. Sandor Clegane was tied to a stake with his arms behind him, melting as a darker Sansa threw wood onto his pyre. Sandor Clegane screamed into the rope that gagged him, as he lost feeling in his feet and smelled the acrid burning of flesh.

And Sansa Stark laughed.

Sandor awoke from his nightmare, arms squeezing tight and legs thrashing. He was coated in sweat, teeth gritted.

Sandor Clegane realized that the flesh version of Sansa rested between his arms, not the devilish incarnation of his nightmare.

"Seven bloody hells!" he rasped loudly, still quaking in horror.

Sandor noticed that he must have been gripping her painfully tight. Sure enough when he loosened his grip some, red welts showed on her pale arms.

He groaned. They would become bruises, stay for days, and remind him of his nightmare.

Sansa didn't seem to notice. She had a hand wrapped in his hair, he realized. Sandor was even more shocked when she moved it down to gently cup the scarred side of his face.

He jerked back from her touch even though it had felt so good. "What in the hells are you doing?" he demanded.

Sansa's blue eyes met his boldly, and he thought about how he must look to her. Eyes as wide as dinner plates, beads of sweat, and I'm frightened like a maiden, he thought.

"Are you alright?" she asked timidly. Her hand had moved down and was resting on his chest, in between his arms that were still holding her.

"'M goddamn fine." He said gruffly. Sandor fought to master the longing he felt, and failed as he had many times on their journey.

Sansa ignored his tone and stretched her back luxuriously, yawning. The action pressed her stomach hard against his and gave him a splendid view of the tops of her breasts.

Sandor remembered the beginning of his dream, how she had been naked, and was sickened with himself. Not sickened that she had been naked, sickened that he wanted her that way now.

It must have showed in his eyes, because Sansa rolled onto her back away from him.

"You don't look fine." She said simply, breathing deep. "You look like shit."

Sandor felt his mouth drop open in shock. He had never heard her utter so much as a harsh word before.

Sansa lay to his right on her back, still adjusting to the morning. He rolled over and placed his elbows on either side of her head, resting his body weight on top of her.

He put his face so close to hers that their noses nearly touched. "What has gotten into you little bird? Have you lost your courteous voice?" he growled at her.

"Not lost."

"Then what? You touched my face." Sandor lowered his voice menacingly, and was rewarded when she shrunk back a tiny bit. "You even said shit! Are you not afraid of me?"

Sansa raised her arms and took his face in both of her hands. "It's not so bad." She said stubbornly, "Your face."

"Say it again."

Sansa looked puzzled. "It's not so bad?"

Sandor felt himself smile against her palm. 'What is getting into me?' he thought. 'I should be pushing her away, not rolling over her.'

"No, shit. Say it again." Sandor made his voice extra gruff, trying frantically to ignore Sansa's lips, inches away from his own.

She made it even more difficult, leaning forward so that he could feel her breath on his face.

"Shit." Sansa whispered pointedly at him.

Sandor fought an inner battle of his own. Dream still fresh in his mind, he could practically taste her kiss on his lips. He restrained himself, because he knew that once he tempted himself with Sansa, he would not be able to stop himself. He would take all of her. And as much as he wanted her, Sandor did not want to become like the ass that he had punched out at the bar. She was dangerous for him.

Sansa looked immensely proud of herself. He rolled off her and occupied his mouth by shaking their bed with rumbling laughter, instead of pressing it to hers like he wanted to.

His little bird sat up, and donned her cloak over the blue silk dress that was now rumpled from sleep.

'Control yourself,' he thought as he got up. Sandor raised his arms above his head, and his hands nearly touched the ceiling. The Hound stretched, popping every joint in his back.

He heard Sansa's muffled giggle behind him and turned.

Sandor realized he wore no shirt, only the cotton shorts that served as his smallclothes. He searched around for his clothing, sword, and leather armor, wondering if Sansa liked what she saw. She had certainly not objected to the position they had found themselves in this morning. He could not find them until he realized that Sansa stood at his side, clothes in hand.

"They were under the bed." Sansa said simply, trying not to giggle again.

"What the fuck were they doing there?" he asked angrily.

Sansa looked at him innocently. "You must have put them there last night. You were drunk as I've seen you."

Sandor was struck with the possibilities that he could not remember. "Stranger damn me," he intoned flatly. "Did I…."

"Sleep like a log?" Sansa interrupted. "Yes. You snored too. It was awful."

Sandor whacked her with his shirt before pulling it over his head. "I'm not sure what to do with this bold little bird," he said, strapping on his sword belt. "What's changed your mind about me?"

Sansa faced him stoically. "Nothing you're likely to remember."

She sashayed out the door of their room, and Sandor noticed that the backside of her was nearly as striking as the front.

Sandor Clegane put his head against the wall of the room and slammed his forehead against it hard. He hoped that reason would come back to him as the slight bump on his forehead rose.

Sandor was going to have to work with his feelings for Sansa Stark, before he did something that he would regret.

But oh, how he enjoyed pricking her, needling at her. Sandor wondered how much it would take to make her feel awkward.

It would be nearly as rewarding as watching her wriggle under his gaze like she used to. He was struck suddenly with the thought that there were many other ways to make her squirm.

He caught himself smiling in the small bronze mirror of their room.

"Damn me to hell!" Sandor roared, frustrated with himself.

A/N Mmh. This chapter was harder to write. I'm not sure if I stayed in character as well as I have before. Thoughts please?