Author's Notes: A deviation from the norm... Sorry! But it's my attempt to give credence to my story, such as it is. I hope it is somewhat believable and/or enjoyed.

WARNINGS: Sexual abuse and graphic scenes.

Sandor

She miscarries.

The babe had been her reason for staying with him, arguing with her sister that her child deserved to know it's father, and that he, the Hound, would be a worthy one. At the time, he said nothing against this, knowing it was a major deciding factor, if not the only one, for her staying with him. If not for that, he would have spoken about how it would have been better for it to not know its father, for many other men to not know their kin, besides.

But he is weak for her, does not want her to leave yet, and so he says nothing then. He says nothing now, knowing what he'd say would not be welcome by her. He figures it's for the best; he doubts of the life he could give it and it's mother.

Perhaps later in life, perhaps when he has answers to his questions of what he sees in their future together. But for now, he hugs her to him, her back facing him, shoulders wracking with sobs, and he wonders when the last time he had tolerated a crying woman was. The last one had been shoved out of his tent...

He strokes her stomach, and her sobs subside to occasional hiccups, and he wonders what might have been... inhaling her scent through her hair, he imagines it to have her hair, her eyes, her... everything. If he were to have a babe, he'd want none of himself in it. Knowing that to be impossible, he swears to himself that moon tea will be her constant drink again, no matter what she will say. It's a miracle she hadn't died with the miscarriage, what with all the moon tea she had been drinking before he claimed her. He curses their stupidity.

He has told her about his family, his past, and his desire to end it all; who does she think she is? To ask for something more than he is willing to give? Perhaps he should give her up for a man who would willingly give her a family... That though angers him more than the thought of a bastard.

She is a camp follower; that ideal life is virtually impossible for her. She has told him very little of her past, and he still does not know how she became an army's whore.

He asks now, she becomes completely silent. Grabbing one of her hands, he comments that they are too dainty, even if dirty and smelly now, to be of a working class family. He strokes her thighs, those silky limbs he loves so much, raising her skirt to her hips, commenting that they barely have blemishes, and neither does the rest of her skin, despite the muscles that have blossomed since becoming a camp follower. She must have been a merchant's daughter, or higher.

She tries to get him to stop, but he just moves her leg back over his, fumbling with his other hand at his breeches, and he whispers his ideas that she might be a lord's bastard, or steward's daughter, or a lady's servant.

His arms go around her shoulders and thigh to prevent her from moving away, and he lines himself up to enter her. She pleads with him, begs him, the first she had ever railed against him, and it makes him mad, sad at the same time. She's injured, sore, drained, and needs to regain her strength, this could wait for another better moment, and it was only the first time he thought to ask, what was the urgency to know? But still he persists in almost raping her, wanting to finally glean information from her, and unable to listen to his conscious.

House Stark, he learns from her screams. Minor house in the north, House Umber its liege. Relaxing his hold, he kisses her neck, removing himself from her, shushing her sobs and cried answers into silence. He knows the rest, how her family answered the call of its liege to fight a hopeless, defensive war against the combined might of the south, Lannisters and Baratheons and Tyrells (amongst others), almost three years ago.

Sansa must have been barely a woman then, losing her family, he thinks as he smooths down her skirts. It all lost to her when the army, his army, sacked her home and broke the might of the north. Lady Stark is now grinning the red smile, courtesy of Ser Raymund Frey after he raped her, Sandor had heard, while her husband and his heir were slain upon the battlefield.

The result was a unified, though bloody and angry, Westeros; unified as it was before the lions stormed the castle and claimed themselves kings after decimating the dragons; though they were not much better at leadership in the long run. The North had found reason to abstain from the rebellion, as none had friendly ties with the South, and became its own kingdom once again, only to suffer for their perceived insult years later.

Sandor is only glad that he had been fighting at Umber's seat at the time, and had nothing directly to do with her losses. He knows little and less about the rest of the family; till now, not even aware Stark had daughters, such was knowledge of minor households, and here he had a lord's high born get all along. The guilt comes full force.

She cries anew, now over family instead of a lost babe, and he knows his presence would not be as comforting as it was before. Disentangling himself from her, he leaves his own tent to give her privacy.

Sansa

She wonders what he will do with this information.

At times, lying under unworthy men, she wonders if death would have been preferable. But the urge to live, that had been strong. The dreams, they inspired her, too, to fight for another day. And when she met him, her Hound, it had been easier then thought possible to sing with the possibilities of life again.

In the confusion of the attack of Winterfell, Arya had grabbed her, had saved their lives by disguising herself as a serving boy and Sansa as a maid, and led the way out of their home. Otherwise, they, as lord's daughters, would have been put to the blade, if not brutally raped first.

This night was the first in a long while that the despair came again. The cries of the slain and dying feeding her own sobs anew, the smells of blood and sounds of thunder crashing down her walls of strength, wretched memories piercing her mind while fears slice at her already tattered heart. Her hiding place has been discovered: she'll be dragged from the bed not by her sister, but by the bloodhounds seeking to destroy the last vestiges of House Stark...

In the end, he does nothing with the information of her past; he just seems content to have the truth of who she really is.