DISCLAIMER: Characters etc. belong to George RR Martin; I'm just having some fun and expect nothing out of this other than my own amusement at placing my favorite ship exactly where I want them.

SANDOR

His body tensed when he felt Sansa's tears on his chest. She was more of a fool than he'd first thought, speaking of honor and love. Of course she didn't actually love him - she thought he'd saved her like the knights in those songs she loved. She'd said it herself - she thought he would keep her safe. Showed how much she knew - they hadn't even been together for one day and he'd basically raped her, and taken her maidenhead to boot.

No, he thought. Not rape. She'd been willing enough, and he assumed it was because she was used to it. The truth was even worse - she'd been willing because she thought there was something between them.

Sandor lay as still as he possibly could until he was sure that Sansa had cried herself to sleep. He then eased out from under her and took stock of the situation - but not before raking his eyes over his little bird. She had grown much more womanly since he'd last seen her; whereas before he'd looked at her and wondered what if, now he could look at her and see soft curves that he'd caressed, thick curls that he had run his hands through. She was his, his in ways he'd never dreamed, only suddenly he had no idea what to do with her.

He finally pulled a blanket over Sansa's sleeping body and dressed himself, determined to be ready for anything. He lay his sword next to his bedroll and fell asleep with his back to the girl, as far from her as he could possibly get.

***

It was nearly dark when Sandor jerked awake many hours later. He wasn't sure exactly what had woken him so suddenly - as if a rooster had crowed the coming of dawn - but it was about time for them to move on, anyway. He realized that at some point during his sleep he had rolled onto his back, and Sansa was once again nestled in the crook of his arm. He squeezed his eyes shut in annoyance - at her or himself, what did it matter? - and tried to ease out from under her again. But as soon as he moved, so did she, draping an arm across his chest and curling a leg over him. He could feel the warmth of her cunt pressing into his hip; one of her teats was against him as well and the nipple was hard in the chill evening air. She was trembling slightly - shivering, he realized - and he felt himself grow hard inside his breeches.

The gods only knew when he would have this chance again, so he rolled Sansa onto her back and unlaced his pants. She woke then, blinking the sleep from her eyes and smiling sweetly up at him as he lowered himself on top of her.

"Is this a dream?" she asked.

"If you want it to be, little bird," he whispered, his voice hoarse. Before she could respond he wrapped his hand around the back of her head and kissed her, entering her without any sort of fumbling, as if they fit, as if they belonged together. She sighed into his mouth and he lost all sense of himself, forgot that maybe he should be gentle with this little bird of his as he took her for the third time, now. Sansa clutched at his back, clung to him like a burr, and when her cunt contracted around his manhood there was only a brief moment when he realized I should not spill my seed in her before he did, grunting like a rutting boar as she thrashed for a moment, digging her nails into his back and breathing, "Sandor, Sandor, oh, Sandor..."

Why is she saying my name? he couldn't help but think as he placed a gentle kiss on the corner of her lips and forced himself away from her. "You should dress," he said gruffly as he turned his back on Sansa. He pulled some peasant clothing from his pack, but wouldn't allow himself to look at her as she stood and took it from him. He could hear the disappointment in her voice when she asked, "In this?"

"How would it look if a finely-dressed lady was seen with the likes of me?" he snapped, still refusing to face her. He could see her standing in his peripheral vision though, pale and shivering. "Now get dressed before you get sick."

Ever the obedient little bird, Sansa did as she was told. Soon they were mounted and on their way, picking carefully through the burned forest. Thankfully the moon was full and bright tonight with too little foliage left to block its light, or the going would have been much more dangerous. At times he could hear Sansa singing softly in his wake, but for most of the night she was silent and the one time he looked back to check on her she was staring into the distance, her face white and pinched, crying silently. He cursed to himself and spurred Stranger on, wondering how it had come to this and whether he could ever fix it.

Sandor had never stopped thinking of Sansa. While she was apparently dreaming of him kissing her, he had been dreaming of her frightened face that night of the Battle of Blackwater Bay. When he'd had her sister Arya it had been even worse; the two couldn't have been more different from each other and he certainly didn't see Arya the way he saw Sansa, but there was still something there. In feverish pain he had cried in front of Arya as he had cried in front of her elder sister, but with Sansa he had cried because of fear. With Arya he had cried because of remorse. True, he had said things he shouldn't have said about fucking Sansa bloody and killing her, but he'd thought he was dying and he had needed Arya to either off him herself or leave him to it. She'd left, of course, and he'd died neither by her hand nor from his wounds, and ever since he'd known that he needed to find Sansa Stark if it was the last thing he did.

Only now he had taken her from a perfectly safe - if not perfectly perfect - life, he was dragging her through dangerous country, and he couldn't keep his hands off her. But starting now, he would keep his hands off her, he decided. He had to.

When they made camp in the morning, and the morning after that and the one after that, Sandor set the bedrolls a few feet apart and placed his sword in between them. On the first morning, Sansa looked as if she might say something, but she didn't. On the second morning, she merely looked annoyed. By the third morning she had grown cool and distant and he told himself that it was all for the best.

Unfortunately, they were running out of food and it was getting colder and colder during the day - at night the chill was nearly impossible to bear. They had been on the road for a sennight when they chanced upon a riverside inn that seemed far enough from the Vale and the Kingsroad to be safe. Dawn was just breaking and Sandor hoped that if they broke their fast and slept the day away in the inn, dined there in the evening, then paid for the night whilst slipping away while others were sleeping, it would throw anyone who came calling off their trail for at least a day.

"We're stopping here," he announced. "For today at least, you're my wife. Keep your mouth shut, they'll know you're high born if you talk and no high-born lady would wed a man like me. I'll take care of things." Sansa was cowed by his harshness, but he could see relief wash over her - probably at the thought of sleeping in a bed. Unfortunately, the only way this would work was if they truly played at man and wife.

Which meant only one room and only one bed.

When they entered the main room the fire in the hearth was mere embers, having not been stoked since the night before. A bell tinkled when Sandor opened the door, though, and within moments a large woman with a wary look on her face sauntered in from a back room. "Odd time to be arriving at an inn," she said by way of greeting.

"My wife and I are returning south - my father died suddenly. We are tired and hungry and would like to break our fast and have a room. With a bath in it, if possible." Sandor was brusque, but it didn't stop the innkeep from peering around him at Sansa. The look on the woman's face plainly said that she didn't think Sansa was his wife at all. Though it was only obvious why she would think this, he tensed in anger when she stated - in a disbelieving tone - "Your wife."

Sandor placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, but before he could respond the little bird stepped up beside him and laid her hand on his arm. "For sure, m'lady, this is my lord husband of two years. He is a smith, one of the best in fact, but some years ago he had a terrible accident..." Sansa's soft hand reached up and cupped his scarred cheek, and when he looked down at her he saw that she was gazing at him with sad, loving eyes. He stared back at her for a long moment, until the innkeep finally cleared her throat and said "Very well. Give me the coin and the room at the top of the stairs is yours. But first, your meal."

He started, drawing his eyes away from Sansa's. "Right," he said as he pulled some monies from his bag. He was flustered and this annoyed him. Who was this girl - no, this woman? So different from his frightened little bird, staring at him and touching him and calling him her lord husband with no hesitation. To be sure, her cheeks were flushed red and she had been trembling when she lied to the woman, but such a convincing act it was...

Had she learned a bit too much from Littlefinger, he wondered?

The food was fresh hot bread served with honey-sweetened porridge and water. "We have ale, strongwine and water," the woman had allowed - but Sandor saw Sansa cringe at the mention of the ale and strongwine. As much as he wanted - no, needed - a drink, he couldn't bring himself to order one. They ate in silence and when they were done, gathered their things and made for their room. When they entered there was a hot fire burning in the hearth, and next to it a large steaming tub of water. The inn must have been empty, or nearly so, because his small amount of coin had apparently bought them the finest room in the place - there was a real bed, not just a straw pallet on the floor, and even a large looking glass leaning against a far wall.

Sandor busied himself with his things as Sansa stood in front of the looking glass and sighed. It was a sad, resigned sound, and when he turned to her she was fumbling with the laces on the back of her dress and he couldn't stop himself. In two long strides he was across the room, his hands on the strings. "Here," he said gruffly as he helped her untie them. His eyes landed on the soft dip between her neck and her shoulder blade and he caressed it gently, feeling Sansa suck in her breath. And in that moment the self control he had built up throughout the past few days withered to nothing, and he gently pushed the dress off her shoulders. It crumpled in a heap on the floor, dragging her smallclothes with it, and she was standing naked in front of him, watching him stare at her reflection in the mirror, a small smile playing across her lips.

He spun her around to face him, angry with himself, angry with her, but still unable to stop himself from drawing her into him and kissing her.