Since that night, there had been no more doubt. The look in her eyes – the gods only knew how, or why this had happened – but he was sure it was there. Desire. She did want him. He didn't think she loved him, not yet. She didn't understand the notion of love, yet. But it was certainly a foundation.

He didn't quite know what to do with it. To be sure, he wanted to keep her. She was his little bird, and he was her faithful Hound; he always would be. She, though, was supposed to be married off to a lordling, or a landed knight. Her family would never accept a marriage to a Clegane, and the younger brother to boot. He would own nothing while Gregor was alive, and even if his brother should die, he would only be the master of a tiny keep deep in Lannister territory. He could not possibly be what Robb and Catelyn Stark had in mind for her.

And they would arrive at Riverrun tomorrow. What would he do? What could he do, other than stand silently and watch as his little bird was handed over to her family, and he was left to stand in the shadows, his heart breaking. This was why he didn't like emotions. They had a way of fucking you over in the worst way possible. He needed a wineskin.

Sansa sensed his unease. "What's wrong?"

He grunted. She didn't need to share his troubles, or know how deeply he really felt for her. It would only make it harder on her when the time came for her to marry someone else.

Suddenly, a noise sounded before them on the road. Sandor kicked Stranger, steering him off the road and putting a finger to his lips in warning. She nodded. They waited on the verge at the edge of the path, hidden from view.

Two horsemen appeared over the crest of the ridge. They were talking between themselves, oblivious of anyone overhearing them on this deserted stretch of road. "The Red Wedding, they're calling it," one said.

"Sounds about right," the other replied. "I heard they killed the boy's wolf and sewed its head onto his body."

The Hound grabbed Sansa's arm. He knew only Stark boys owned wolves. This could not be good news for her.

"Yeah, and they slit Catelyn Stark's throat. Wife of a traitor, mother of a betrayer."

"They should have known never to cross Walder Frey. That man's a dangerous enemy."

They passed, and their voices faded slowly into silence. Slowly, Sandor released his grip on her arm, worried that she might try to run after them. She didn't, though – she seemed to be in shock, not moving or talking. "Little bird?" he asked tentatively, and she turned her blue eyes towards him. Tears were flowing silently down her cheeks.

He gathered her in his arms, not wanting to see her cry. He didn't care about propriety, or about keeping his distance; right now she needed comfort and he would be damned if he wasn't going to give it to her. She sobbed freely now, leaning into his chest and wrapping her arms around his neck, hiding her face away. He held her, rocking back and forth slowly, not knowing what to say or do. He wasn't built to give comfort.

She cried for a long time. She wasn't just crying for her mother and brother, he supposed, but for her father, her lost sister, her lost home and her lost dreams. She had come to King's Landing a naïve young girl with a head full of songs and a heart full of joy, and she had had her fantasies cruelly crushed by Joffrey, Cersei, the pretenders in the Kingsguard – and himself. He had never encouraged her to dream, only told her the hard honest truth.

Eventually, he knew it had to stop; dusk was fast approaching and they needed a plan. It was clear they could no longer go to Riverrun – it was not safe for her to be in the public eye, now that the Freys were her enemies too. They could go across the Narrow Sea, to one of the Free Cities, or north to the Night's Watch. He seemed to recall Ned Stark's bastard had taken the black, perhaps he would provide protection for her. They could not risk Winterfell, not yet.

"Sansa," he said, gently prising her from his body, "you need to pull it together. We can't stay here forever."

"I know," she said, wiping her eyes and taking a breath. "I'll be okay. Where are we heading?"

"You can choose, little bird," he replied. "I promised to keep you safe. We'll go where you want to go."

"I want to go home," she whispered.

"That's not possible," he answered brusquely, trying not to sound too harsh. Sometimes she could be a stupid little bird.

"I know it's not. Not right now. Let's go somewhere away from Westeros, and wait," she decided. "Wait until Joffrey is dead, and the War of the Five Kings is over, and I can return to Winterfell."

"That's doable," Sandor replied. "Get on Stranger, then, little bird. We'll head to Maidenpool."

She walked up to him, and he felt the atmosphere change between them. He didn't move as she reached him and brushed her hands across his chest, and round his chin, fingering his burned and scarred cheek. "Thank you, Sandor," she said. "I knew you'd look after me."

"Always, Sansa," he responded, and was not surprised when she stood on tiptoe to kiss him. He allowed her to, leaning down to meet her and brushing her lips fervently. She wanted more, though, this time – she ran her tongue across his lower lip, and he opened his mouth in surprise, as she slipped her small and delicate tongue into the gap. He kissed her fiercely after that, trying to comfort her, trying to show her how much she meant to him; trying to tell her he loved her, without the words to say it.

It was when he felt himself hardening again that he was forced to pull away. "Come on, little bird," he said, lifting her up gently and placing her on Stranger himself. She looked extremely tired, and he resolved to let her sleep in the saddle. "Let's get back on the road."