DISCLAIMER: Characters etc. belong to George RR Martin. No copyright infringement intended.

SANSA

She knew that he was telling the truth. She also knew that she was being difficult. When he had touched her last night, touched her with a gentleness that surprised her, she had felt his fingertips tremble and she'd almost taken his hand in hers. But then he'd whispered "Little bird" and his voice had such a pained tenderness to it that she felt like an intruder, though she was the one he was touching and speaking of. No one had seemed to care for her so much in the months since her family had died, yet still this man frightened her. But when she looked at him now, focusing on the side of his face that was untouched by flames, she realized that he should have been quite normal-looking. Not homely, not handsome, but he had good strong features, and when he wasn't angry his gray eyes weren't so different from those of her father and her sister Arya...only a bit darker, mayhaps.

Sansa tried to speak, but she was afraid her voice would betray her fear - so she merely nodded. The Hound continued to stare at her for a long moment before releasing her chin with a grunt and standing up. "I've had enough sun for today," he said. "I think you should come below with me." Glancing around her, Sansa knew he was right. The Captain was nearby but not paying any attention to them; his sailors were a different story. Though they kept their distance and a few shot nasty looks at the Hound, most seemed very interested in her. Too interested. She nodded again and followed the Hound to their cabin, where he stretched out on his bed and she sat at the window and continued to watch the horizon.

***

Many days passed, a sennight stretching into a fortnight; days upon days. Too many of them were calm ones without wind and more than once Dougan made complaints about taking "the long way 'round". More oft than not the Hound was drunk, and sometimes he would sit beside her on her bed on those nights while she feigned sleep and wondered if he would touch her again. But he never did, and Sansa was left wondering whether she waited for his touch because she feared it...or desired it. Other than the times he snuck off to drink, the Hound was always there beside her - when she sometimes shared meals with the kind and humorous Captain Dougan, when she took some sun on the deck, even when she sat quietly by the window in their cabin and tried to guess where they were going.

One morning she awoke and the sky was a heavy leaden gray. The ship rocked more than usual and Captain Dougan knocked on the door and told them they best stay inside. "A storm is brewing and I don't like the looks of it," he warned, his nose and forehead wrinkled with worry. Sansa knew she must look frightened, because the Captain then forced a smile and said, "Don't worry, child - we'll sail through it. We always do. But it will be rough going, best prepare yourself for that." He gave the Hound a careful look and left them alone again.

Sansa turned back to the window and watched the whitecaps for some time, until she suddenly realized that the Hound was standing quite close. She turned to see him watching her, a pinched look about his face. "Are we going to be okay? You look funny," she said. He grimaced at her.

"Everything is fine, child."

She couldn't help but pout her lips petulantly. "I'm no child, ser," she replied coldly, simply because she knew it would anger him. He glared at her for a moment, his eyes smoldering with barely contained rage, but then he stepped closer and leaned over her, brushing the tips of his fingers along her jaw line. She was scared and enraptured at the same time, and her lips parted of their own accord when he said, "That's the truth of it, little bird. You're certainly no child." The way he was looking at her sent a shiver down her spine, though she didn't think it was a shiver of fear. Is he going to kiss me? she wondered. Would he dare? Would I let him? At the mere prospect of another kiss from the Hound, her eyes began to drift shut...

"What are you doing?" he suddenly growled, and when she opened her eyes again his face was twisted in disgust, the burnt corner of his lip twitching madly.

"I...I thought..."

"You thought what? I'm no Joffrey, girl, you don't have to pretend to care for me. And I'm not sure what that Imp did to you, but you best not expect the same from me."

Sansa was confused. She'd been nothing short of polite with him for most of the voyage...did he still think of himself as a Lannister dog? At the same time, it angered her that he would be so disgusted at being compared to Joffrey and the Imp when he himself had forced a kiss on her and then made her sing for her life, only to leave her alone in Maegor's Holdfast with just a cloak to keep her safe. "I'm sorry," she finally snapped. "I suppose I just assumed that if you would take a kiss from me once, you'd have no qualms about doing so again."

The Hound stepped back, and for once there was no anger in his eyes - just sheer bewilderment. "What do you mean by this?"

She stood and glared up at him, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. "Were you so drunk that you've forgotten? The Battle of the Blackwater, the wildfire? You kissed me, you waited in my room and you grabbed hold of me and kissed me. Then you held a dagger to my throat and made me sing, and - and -"

But she couldn't bring up the tears. Somehow she knew that she would get nothing from him, no apology or explanation at all, if she accused him of crying. He was still staring at her like she was some sort of warg, but after a long moment his mouth twisted into a mean little grin. "Are you deranged, girl?" he laughed darkly. "I was drunk that night, yes, but I had my wits about me. Enough to escape King's Landing, which you didn't have the courage to do. I won't say that what I did was right. I shouldn't have been in your bedchamber, I shouldn't have grabbed you or threatened you. Seven bloody hells, if I'd approached you as one of your 'honorable knights' would, maybe you would have actually come with me that night. But I did not kiss you" - and then one of his hands was cupping the base of her head, the other pressing against the small of her back, and he pulled her into him, bending until the tips of their noses were nearly touching - "though if you want me to, I will."

She thought about struggling against his strong grip, but her body had gone limp as a sack of potatoes. Had she really misremembered that night? And if so, had she truly done it because she wished he had kissed her? Sansa opened her mouth to protest, to call him a liar, something, anything, but when she tried to speak nothing came out. He's right, she suddenly realized. I was quaking with fear that night. He was drunk but he escaped...he wouldn't have been able to do so if he was so in his cups that he wouldn't remember kissing me. And then something else came back to her, the Hound's own words, words from another lifetime - "A hound will die for you, but never lie to you," he'd said. He was telling the truth. She'd been wrong.

"N...no. Thank you," she finally whispered.

SANDOR

He'd known better than to believe that she wanted to kiss him, yet it still took every ounce of self control that he had to let her go.

He could only hope that she hadn't felt him go hard inside his breeches when he'd pulled her close.

"Always the polite little bird," he said mockingly as he dropped his arms and backed away from her. She opened her mouth as if to respond, but shut it again just as quickly. He snorted in derision and turned to leave the cabin - at which point she did speak.

"Where are you going? The captain told us to stay inside!" she squeaked. Sandor paused long enough to eye her over his shoulder.

"You are going to stay here," he replied. "I am going to get some fresh air." It was only half a lie; he really needed some wine, but the fresh air would hopefully chill him and take care of the uncomfortable stiffness in his pants.

Sailors were scurrying around the deck, readying the ship for the inevitable storm, as Sandor searched for the captain. He found Dougan standing at the bow, a worried look on his usually placid face. When Sandor approached, the captain turned. "Wine?" he asked, presenting the wineskin that he held in his hand. Sandor took it and drank deeply.

"I'll need more of that to weather this day," he laughed darkly as he handed the skin back to Dougan. The captain nodded and walked away, returning some time later with two jugs. Sandor handed him some coin in return and hoped the man would know to leave him alone.

"You best go below," Dougan hinted. Sandor turned away to face the sea.

"I will. Soon." He heard the captain sigh and shuffle off, but Sandor kept his eyes on the dark sky and churning water. He sipped from one of the jugs and considered Sansa's incorrect memory from the night of the battle. He certainly couldn't deny that he'd ended up in her bedchamber with something more than a song in mind, but did he really seem so much of a monster to her that she thought he would kiss her against her will?

Unfortunately he knew the answer to that question.

Sandor wasn't sure how long he stayed at the bow of the ship, but soon enough fat raindrops started to pelt his head and the wind was cutting through his roughspun tunic with strong icy fingers. He knew that he needed to return to the cabin, but it was with much hesitation that he picked up the wine jugs and made his way down into the ship. When he entered the cabin Sansa glanced at him for but a moment, then quickly went back to reading the prayer book she'd brought with her. Sandor sat on the bed and gulped down the last of the wine from the first jug, then popped open the second jug as well. Seeing the prayer book brought to mind another item that she'd brought from King's Landing - a large old piece of cloth, once white but now torn and stained - and suddenly he realized that it wasn't just cloth, wasn't a blanket. He hadn't paid much mind to it at the time, and she'd hidden it away once they boarded the ship, but the realization hit him about the same time the wine did.

It was his Kingsguard cloak. The one he'd torn off and left in her room the night of the battle. Whatever had possessed her to keep that troublesome thing, he didn't know, but it suddenly seemed to him that the little bird harbored...what? She certainly didn't care for him; he frightened her half to death every time he looked at her, he could tell. Sandor sat on his bed and stared at nothing, drinking his wine and replaying her song, the feel of her hand on his cheek, the press of her body against his when he had pulled her into him earlier. From the corner of his eye he saw that she looked up from her prayer book quite often, and always at him, but he was too wary to really look her in the eye and attempt to discern her thoughts. It was still afternoon when everything went black outside and the low rumbles of thunder began. Sansa set her book aside and tucked her knees to her chest, staring out the window at nothing but blackness.

Far too soon the second wine jug was empty as well, and at some point Sandor must have drifted off to sleep because he was suddenly startled awake as the ship lurched to its starboard side and the jugs rolled across the floor to shatter against the wall. Sansa squealed in fright, but the sound was quickly drowned out by the boom of thunder. It was but a moment before lightning cracked and washed the cabin in its bright light, and Sandor saw the girl's face, pinched and white with terror. She was fumbling with a lantern, but he leaped up and snatched it from her hand. "No fire," he snarled. "It's not safe. Come here." He took her hand and pulled her from her bed. "You should stay way from the window," he instructed. He let go of her and sank back onto his own bed, but she just stood in the center of the room, pale and shaking in her nightshift. For a moment Sandor was at a loss, but finally he beckoned her toward him. "Sit with me, if you want," he offered. When she continued to stand there he grunted in annoyance, but his sound was muffled by another clap of thunder and then suddenly she was rushing toward him and the only thing he knew to do was take her in his arms and pull her onto his lap. She was trembling as she laid the side of her head against his chest and he had no idea what to do or say.

The ship rolled to port side next, a hard roll that almost toppled Sandor over on the bed. He clutched tight to his little bird and when he felt dampness through his tunic realized that she was weeping - so he asked for the only thing he could think of.

"Why don't you sing us a song, little bird."

"A...a song?" she whimpered.

"I'll not force you this time, but it may make you feel better."

Sansa continued to cry softly into his chest for some moments, and he tensed with frustration before reminding himself that she was, after all, a very young girl. No, some buried, angry part of him insisted, she's a maid flowered, and bedded by the Imp. And maybe by Joffrey too, knowing the damned Lannisters. His thoughts were only quieted when he realized that she'd finally begun to sing.

The Mother's song.

"Not that one," Sandor hissed through clenched teeth. Sansa immediately stopped singing, and he forced himself to take a deep breath before saying, in a far kinder tone, "Something sweet. Florian and Jonquil, maybe, or The Bear and the Maiden Fair."

She squeaked. "The Bear and the Maiden Fair? But...but that's a bawdy song..."

He grimaced. "Florian and Jonquil, then."

She finally began to sing again, her voice high and tremulous. Sandor closed his eyes and willed himself to listen, to not think about the feel of her in his lap or the sweet smell of her hair so close to his nose. Sitting the way she was, there would be no hiding it from her if he became stiff as he had in the morning. When her voice finally trailed off, he pushed her from his lap as gently as he could. "I'm going to lay down now," he told her as he removed his tunic, still damp from her tears. "You really shouldn't sleep so close to the window. If you stay here, you have nothing to fear. You understand, right?"

Another bolt of lightning lit the cabin and he saw that though her face had relaxed, her eyes were still wide with fear. The burnt corner of his mouth twitched, but it was the only part of him that showed his frustration and annoyance as he curled his legs up onto the too-small bed and lay on his left side, facing her back. He waited, and waited, and was just about to drift off to sleep when he felt the bed shift beneath him and opened his eyes to see that she had finally laid down with her back to him, so far away that she was almost falling off the edge of the mattress. Sandor grimaced and considered just letting her lay there and probably fall to the floor the next time the boat hit a sizable wave, but then he thought She's slept against a man before, or a halfman at least. She can sleep against me, as well. He reached out and placed his right hand on the curve of her waist, felt her freeze at his touch, but he just chuckled darkly and wrapped his arm about her, pulling her into him. She didn't resist, so he relaxed his hold on her and closed his eyes.

As Sandor drifted off to sleep, his last thought was that he'd never before slept like this with a woman.