A/N: A thanks to furygrrl who pointed out that according to this fic, today (US time) would be Sansa's birthday. What better way to celebrate than an update?


Gods and Monsters

Chapter 7


Sansa pressed her fingers to her temples, closing her eyes and tracing small, but firm circles there. This worked, always worked, to lull her into a sleep. Over the years she found it wasn't the motion that beckoned sleep to come. No, it was the meditation; the way she let her thoughts flee from her mind before they could take root and grow into a tangled mess of uncertainties.

Now when Sansa pressed her fingers to her temples, sleep still wouldn't come for her. Instead, she had spent most of the night and the early morning hours awake in her bed. Listless and fearful of the nightmares awaiting her in the land of slumber, Sansa had gone through everything over and over again; the events themselves seeming like stark-raving, trance-induced musings of strange events that happened to someone else in some other lifetime long ago. Only they hadn't happened to someone else.

They had happened to her and she had only needed to open her eyes and look at the bruises and scratches still healing about her body to know that none of this was a trance or a dream. And it had all transpired within an unimaginably short amount of time, but it still somehow felt like a past life memory; the emotionality reverberating through a soul that forgets nothing, but a body willingly severing the ties of remembrance, through death or perhaps rebirth.

The way Sandor had come for her, the truths he had divulged to her, the way he had comforted her. It all tumbled wild about her restless mind; the pieces of information colliding together and spinning off as a whole to collide into yet another piece before everything became a cohesive mass, a supernova of truth collapsing in on the weight of itself before exploding forth its light to extinguish the darkness of misunderstanding.

However, it wasn't Sandor's truth that weighed heaviest against her heart, the heart that somehow already knew his confessions and understood his intentions before they passed his lips.

It was her own truth that startled Sansa and caused her to feel as though the ground had been ripped from right under her feet. The seeds of suggestion were planted each time he treated her gently when she expected brutality, each time he offered her half smiles and knowing looks when she had expected scowls and taunts, each time his fingers grazed her skin delicately when she had expected bumps and bruises to form in the aftermath of his touch. Suddenly, the truths of her own heart had bloomed before her when he offered to keep her safe until the time came that he could take her home and when he told her no one would ever hurt her again or he'd kill them.

He had meant it too; his eyes had searched her out and willed the sincerity of his words to come pouring through in just one earnest look. Sansa had been overwhelmed, shocked into a silence that she surmised had felt like refusal to him. She never expected any of it, least of all from him. She had expected him to be a monster, a beast. He was the Hound; brutal, fearsome, cold, and calculated according to her own father. And yet the way he looked at her, the way her held her, the way he saved her; not once, but twice now. He may be the Hound, but she was his little bird and she understood now the meaning of his lingering looks, gentle smiles, and caressing touches. But more importantly, she understood something of herself by truly seeing him. She understood her own longing for his looks, smiles, and touches and that supernova of truth was shone brightest in the expanse of her mind.

Letting out a deep sigh, Sansa turned to her side and felt her legs tangle amongst the thin cotton sheets of the bed. Reaching out, she snaked her arms around the pillow next to her and pulled it close to her chest, burying her face in its softness. Her breathing steadied as she closed her eyes and felt the pillow absorb the warmth of her skin and radiate it back towards her. She imagined it was him she was clinging to; the cotton pillowcase oddly similar to the cotton weave of his T-shirt that had absorbed her tears, the warmth of the pillow a small similarity to the warmth of his skin. She wished it were him holding her, her body pressed against his, his legs a tangle around hers, her arms snaked around his chest.

They had reluctantly left one another's company last night. The evening air on the balcony had grown chilly and both their eyes had become heavy-lidded as growing fatigue set in. Sandor had walked her to her room and wished her a good night. He had exchanged a look with her- a look heavy with need and worry- which intimated to her that he too would be tossing and turning the night away. She wanted to tell him about the Nine of Swords then, tell him that she could hardly imagine getting any sleep alone in her bed. Sansa had stopped herself short though and let the confession die on her lips; the confession that she might like to curl up in his arms tonight and drift to sleep listening to the rhythm of his breaths. The embarrassment had flushed across her cheeks; the sudden realization that that was exactly what she wanted and the worry that he may only laugh at her if she were to request such a thing.

Instead, they had retreated to their own rooms, to separate beds. Sure enough, Sansa spent the night up in her own head, desperately trying to cut through the vines of her thoughts.

At the first streaming of crimson and gold through the gossamer curtains of the bedroom, Sansa had unwound her arms from the pillow and adjusted it properly beneath her head as she watched the sun rise. She couldn't really remember the last time she had seen the sun come up. It was a simple pleasure which brought a small smile to her lips and offered a blessed distraction from her thoughts. That had been a half an hour ago and now her right foot, which was propped beneath her left knee, was besieged by the prickling of pins and needles. Wincing at the discomfort, Sansa stretched her legs and rotated her ankle in small circles to coerce the blood to flow back through her sleeping foot.

At least part of me can get some sleep.

Exhaling a small laugh, Sansa swung her legs over the side of the bed as she ran her fingers through her hair, trying her hardest to work through the tangles that were there. Perhaps Mirabelle would do my hair and make-up for me today.

The thought brought a small smile to play about Sansa's lips. She hadn't seen Mirabelle since the gas station and felt a tremendous stinging of guilt where that was concerned. Undoubtedly, Sandor had placed much of the blame on Mirabelle, even though Sansa had made a choice to go with her to Arianne's and then made a choice to leave with Nestor Royce. She hoped that Mirabelle wasn't angry with her and that her disappearance hadn't caused too much of a strife between brother and sister.

As Sansa stood, she felt the blood slowly returning to her foot and the tingling sensation beginning to disappear, one pin and needle at a time. In soft steps, she walked towards the door and slowly opened it. Sansa's heart catapulted to her throat at the thought that she might run into Sandor in the hall and dropped instantly to her stomach when she realized he had already gotten up. Across the hall she could see that his door was open, his bed neatly made and his room devoid of his hulking form.

Her disappointment was short lived as a sound sharply caught her attention. The whimpering was soft, almost indistinguishable through the sound of her heart beating loud in her ears, and it was coming from down the hall. Suddenly, Sansa felt her hands moist with a cold clamminess as she made her way down the hallway slowly and willed her breaths to be silent so that she might hear. As she neared Mirabelle's closed bedroom door, the whimpering became ever so slightly louder and was now accompanied by what sounded like pained murmurings. Sansa felt her blood run cold as Mirabelle's words ambled from her room on stifled breaths and met Sansa's ear in the hallway.

"Please. No. Please. No. Don't. Please don't. Stop!"

Freezing in place, Sansa felt an all too familiar trembling beginning to quake about her body. As Mirabelle began her pleadings again, Sansa flew to the door with sweat beading on her brow and fear gripping her chest as she imagined the horror that might be ensuing inside the room.

Flinging the door open and running head long into Mirabelle's room, Sansa's eyes widened to the size of saucers and she let out a yelping gasp at the sight before her.

Completely naked, Mirabelle was on all fours, her face contorted in pleasure with Bronn behind her, one hand clutching her hip as the other was wrapped in a fistful of Mirabelle's glossy, raven-colored hair, his hips slamming against her bottom with each driving thrust.

Lifting her head with shock filling her eyes, Mirabelle squealed out as she reached around and frantically tapped Bronn on the arm to stop. Pulling away from him, Mirabelle scrambled to cover her nakedness.

"Fuck. Oh my god, Sansa!"

Squeezing her eyes shut, Sansa swiveled on her heel as she spouted out apologies as fast as they would come, her skin burning hot as a wave of mortification hit her.

"Oh my god! Oh my god! I'm so sorry!"

In a rush to leave the room, Sansa hadn't even opened her eyes as she dashed towards the door. When she did open her eyes, it was too late. She was already slamming into the door frame, clearly misjudging where the opening was as her forehead cracked against the wooden door frame with a resounding thud.

"OWW! Dammit. I'm sorry. Oh my god. I'm sorry!"

Bringing her hand to her throbbing forehead, Sansa hurried through the door and pulled it shut behind her. From the other side of the door, she could hear Bronn roaring in laughter as Mirabelle chided him, insisting that it wasn't funny.

Absolutely mortified, Sansa ran back to her room and threw the door shut behind her. Leaning back against the shut door, Sansa sucked in deep breaths to calm herself. With adrenaline and relief pumping through her veins, she felt as though her heart might beat right out of her chest. She had expected the worst, for someone to be hurting Mirabelle. The last thing she had expected to see was Mirabelle having sex with Sandor's underboss.

Oh God! Bronn is going to tell Sandor what I saw. Somehow that thought was more embarrassing to her than actually walking in on the act. Sansa felt another wave of humiliation sweep over her as she buried her hands in her face and groaned. She winced as her fingers lightly brushed against the spot where she had run into the door frame. There was going to be a bruise, that was for damn sure.

In an effort to burn away what she had seen, Sansa took a hot shower and scrubbed her skin until it radiated pink, as if it wasn't already pink enough from embarrassment. After dressing and drying her hair, Sansa had every intention of hiding away in the room until Sandor came for her. It was safer that way. If she traveled out into the hallway, she might run into Mirabelle or Bronn for that matter. Or maybe she'd walk right into some other scandalous situation. Sansa's plans of hiding under a proverbial rock until it was time to leave were foiled as a knock came at her door and Mirabelle's sing-songy voice sounded from the other side.

"Saaaaaannnnnsa," Mirabelle cooed through the door. "I know you're in there. Open up! I want to talk to you, girl. And I want to see you!"

With a whimpering moan, Sansa paced towards the door and slowly opened it, letting her eyes instinctively fall to the ground as a flush of pink washed across her skin. Without missing a beat, Mirabelle's arms encircled Sansa and pulled her into a tight embrace. Startled, Sansa lifted her eyes as she felt Mirabelle's breaths rustling through her hair.

"I was so worried about you. God, if something would have happened to you. I'm sorry, Sansa. I'm so sorry."

Sansa's mouth hung open as she thought of something to say. Clutching Sansa by the arms, Mirabelle pulled away and settled her eyes on Sansa as if memorizing her face.

"I'm okay," Sansa whispered with a soft smile pulling on her lips as the warm flush of embarrassment seemed to fade away.

Furrowing her brow, Mirabelle brought her finger tips softly up to Sansa's forehead and gently placed them where a bump was undoubtedly beginning to form. Sansa sucked in a wincing breath at the touch and lifted her eyes up to Mirabelle's fingers still at her forehead.

"You poor thing. Let's go to the kitchen and get you an ice pack."

Agreeing with a nod, Sansa followed Mirabelle to the kitchen and plopped down in a stool situated in front of the breakfast bar. Sansa watched as Mirabelle rummaged through the freezer, pushing aside packages of frozen vegetables and care packages from the Italian 'mothers' until she found an ice pack. Wrapping the ice pack up in a hand towel, Mirabelle held it out towards Sansa and settled a timid gaze on her as Sansa gratefully held the ice pack up to the knot forming on her forehead.

"Do you want to talk about it?," Mirabelle asked gently as she leaned up against the counter opposite of Sansa, resting her arms delicately against the granite countertop and gazing hesitantly as her fingers softly interlaced.

Sansa didn't quite know what Mirabelle was referring to; the events that transpired last night or what Sansa had inadvertently walked in on this morning. Now that she thought about it, she didn't think she really wanted to talk about either. A day would come when she would be ready to talk about all that had happened last night, but that day was not today. Instead, Sansa settled for a question that was now burgeoning from somewhere in the back of her mind and forming on her lips.

"How long have you and Bronn been…been together?"

Mirabelle lifted a timid stare towards Sansa as she bit her lip which was curling into a girlish smile.

"About three months," Mirabelle replied as she looked at Sansa through her darkened lashes and wrapped her arms about her chest protectively. "Sandor doesn't know. We've been waiting for a good time to tell him. As you can imagine, now probably isn't the best time with everything that's been going on."

Dropping her head, Mirabelle rolled her eyes before letting out a small laugh. Sansa saw as a soft blush seemed to creep across Mirabelle's cheeks. The woman who was normally such an image of confidence, so put together as she carried herself with a sexy assuredness, was now the one succumbing to embarrassment.

Lowering the ice pack from her head, Sansa leaned forward towards Mirabelle, her curiosity thoroughly peaked.

"You think he'll get mad?," Sansa asked as she remembered the story of what Sandor did to Mirabelle's first boyfriend. Though from what Sansa could tell of Bronn, he didn't seem to be like Mirabelle's first boyfriend. Besides, he was Sandor's friend and if anyone was going to date Mirabelle, wouldn't he want it to be his friend? Sansa chewed her bottom lip as she furrowed her brow, now confused by her own question.

Laughing, Mirabelle gave a shrug of the shoulders as she raised her eyes towards Sansa once more.

"I don't know. He might. He always said he never wanted me to get involved with a Mafioso."

Sansa nodded her head, understanding the subtext of Sandor's wants for Mirabelle. The Mafia life was dangerous it seemed. Both Alberto and Sandor had all but confirmed that backlash was often directed towards the families of mafia members. Wives, children, and siblings were used as bargaining chips when someone needed to get what they wanted. The thought made Sansa's stomach knot nervously with a renewed sense of dread.

It's not like this truth hadn't been staring her in the face for the past few days. It had, it just didn't seem to hold the same meaning as it did now. The prospect of being involved with a mafia member hadn't been a prospect she considered. It's not as if she had spent her childhood dreaming of her father giving her away to a mob boss. Suddenly realizing the strange and abrupt leaps her mind had just made, Sansa felt the slow creeping of a blush ease across her cheeks and her heartbeat had somehow quickened in her chest.

When Sansa lifted her eyes, she found that Mirabelle was staring back at her, a mischievous smile pulling on her lips. Sansa's eyes went wide, fearful that Mirabelle had somehow read her thoughts and knew that she had been musing over what it might be like to be involved with a mafia man.

"When you came into my room this morning, what did you think was going on?," Mirabelle softly inquired.

Sansa exhaled out a tiny relieved breath. Apparently, Mirabelle was mistaking her blush as a renewed wave of embarrassment brought on by the mortifying memories of the morning.

"I thought…I don't know…I thought you were being…hurt or something." Now that Sansa thought about it, even if Mirabelle was being hurt, it's not like there was much she could do about it. The most she could have done was run to find Sandor. Sandor would have known what to do. He is strong, so strong. And brave too. Sansa felt the bubbling sensation of butterflies in her stomach beginning once more.

"Hurt?," Mirabelle pondered quizzically, almost flattered at the prospect that Sansa was dashing into her room to save her.

"You were saying 'No,' 'don't,' 'stop.' What was I supposed to think?," Sansa pleaded, eagerly trying to make her case and perhaps alleviate the sting of embarrassment. She had thought what anyone would have thought if they heard those same words.

At that, Mirabelle threw her head back and laughed heartedly, her chest bouncing as she heaved for breaths. When she finally caught her breath, Mirabelle placed her hands on her hips and cocked her head to the side.

"Sansa," Mirabelle said flatly as she gave Sansa a pointed look.

"What?," Sansa replied, confused and feeling as though she was missing something.

Giggling as she shook her head, Mirabelle removed her hands from her hips as she marked each of her words with a gesturing of her hands.

"No, don't stop," Mirabelle began, her words flowing together. Cocking an eyebrow, Mirabelle punctuated each of her words with an abrupt pause. "Not No… Don't... Stop… No, don't stop. As in, no, don't stop fucking me. No, don't stop doing what you're doing with your hands right now. No, don't stop so you can come because I'm about to come too."

Feeling her blood pulsing hot through her veins, Sansa's mouth hung open and curled into a perfect "O" at that. She hadn't considered that and now was not only embarrassed, but also felt like a complete moron. If Myranda were here, she'd be pissing her pants laughing at how naïve Sansa was. With a pout of her lips, Sansa lifted the ice pack once more to her head with one hand while the other crossed her chest dejectedly.

"You're very sweet though to try to come to my rescue," Mirabelle reassured as she reached across the counter and placed her hand on Sansa's forearm. "The only thing you 'rescued' me from was an orgasm."

"I'm sorry!," Sansa cried out, her voice cracking and giving way to a laugh, a laugh which Mirabelle eagerly joined in on.

As their laughter lulled, Sansa shifted her eyes towards Sandor's approaching form lingering in the entrance to the kitchen, his steps slowing as his eyes instantaneously narrowed at the ice pack pressed against Sansa's forehead. The tension in the room seemed to rise as Mirabelle pushed herself up from the counter and shot Sansa a pleading look, a look that seemed to say 'if he asks, lie.'

Sure enough, Sandor did ask as he approached Sansa, one hand resting on the back of the bar stool she was seated in while the other reached towards the ice pack, his eyes a storm of concern as he considered Sansa.

"What happened?" His voice was thick with worry, the seriousness filling the room and stifling the giggles that normally would have been passing between Mirabelle and Sansa in this moment. Now that she thought about it, it was a rather funny situation. However, the concern in Sandor's eyes stymied any amusement Sansa garnered from the situation.

"Nothing, I just…," Sansa whispered in return as her mind frantically tried to come up with something to tell him. She hated the idea of lying to him, but Mirabelle was staring daggers at her, clearly petrified that Sandor might find out about her morning tryst with Bronn.

"It doesn't look like nothing," Sandor grumbled as he placed his hand over Sansa's and removed the ice pack from her head, scrutinized the matching bump and bruise forming there. Suddenly, Sandor settled his narrowed gaze on his sister, his eyes seeming to turn to ice as he spoke. "Mirabelle, what happened?"

Composed as she spoke, Mirabelle lifted her eyes unflinchingly towards her brother as she held her chin up and steadied her voice.

"Sansa was upstairs and I was coming out of my ro-"

Seeing the way Sandor was boring into his sister with a penetrating glare, Sansa sat up in her seat and blurted out a disjointed slew of words, eager to dissipate the agitation she sensed was growing in Sandor.

"I…I ran into the wall…no door…ran into the door. Ran right into it."

Sansa watched as both Mirabelle and Sandor stared wide eyed at her; Sandor looking slightly amused and dumbfounded and Mirabelle looking as though she might face palm.

"You ran into the door," Sandor replied flatly, his voice bemused as he cocked an eyebrow at her. Clearly, he didn't believe her although she wasn't lying to him. She was just leaving out the detail of why she had run into a door.

Sansa eagerly nodded her head and shrugged her shoulders as her eyes fell to the floor. She knew Sandor well enough to know that he was good at reading people. One look in her eyes and he would know immediately she wasn't telling him the whole story.

Shaking his head, Sandor stared once more at Sansa's forehead as he snorted out a laugh.

"That's going to be a big bruise for running into a door."

Lifting her eyes to him, Sansa saw that his lips were pulled up into a smug half smile, a smile that suggested he knew damn well she wasn't telling him something, but he was enjoying how her tongue was tying itself in knots.

"It was…a big door…," Sansa let her voice drop off before squeezing her eyes shut at the realization of how profoundly stupid that statement was. Opening her eyes again, Sansa could see Mirabelle covering her mouth with the palm of her hand as she struggled to hide a smile and stifle a laugh.

Shifting his eyes between Mirabelle and Sansa, Sandor finally settled a perplexed stare on Sansa before finally crossing his arms about his chest, his voice lowered and his face hardening once more into a mask of seriousness.

"I've got a few things to take care of. I was thinking of leaving in an hour. Will you be ready by then?"

Sansa nodded her head as Sandor turned to Mirabelle, steadying his stoic stare at her.

"Mirabelle, I need to talk to you. I'll be in my office when you're done here."

Without another word and hardly waiting for Mirabelle's response, Sandor started towards the door, stopping as he reached the entrance of the kitchen before turning around and pointing a finger at Sansa.

"You. Watch out for doors. Or walls. Or whatever it is you're running into." Sansa watched as his hardened face, so serious and impassible not moments earlier, softened with a half smile and a wink of the eye.

With butterflies ravaging her stomach, Sansa found herself blushing yet again as a shy grin swept across her face.


As Sandor retreated back to his office with his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, he allowed a small smile to creep across his lips at the thought of Sansa and Mirabelle giggling like a bunch of fucking school girls in the kitchen. It seemed to him there were no hard feelings between Sansa and Mirabelle, although he could have gathered as much. Mirabelle loved Sansa something fierce despite the short amount of time Sansa had been with them. Still, his sister had stayed away last night, seemingly understanding that after finding Sansa, Sandor would want her all to himself. And surely, Sansa didn't want to be inundated with questions either.

After tossing and turning all night just like he knew he would, Sandor had awoken long before sunrise and abandoned his bed for the silence of the parlor. Fueled by two cups of coffee and a resolute need to get Sansa away to safety, Sandor had worked out the details of today's trip which had fallen into place nicely. Still there was one detail that irked him, the same detail that taunted him throughout the night and rendered sleep nearly impossible.

Gregor was alive, more than likely, and undoubtedly raging at the fact that Sandor had swooped in, slaughtered the men Gregor had with him, and retrieved what had been taken from him, the little bird. I should have put a fucking bullet in his brain when I had the chance. For the greater part of Sandor's life, the vengeful desire to murder his brother had been his driving force. It was the force that fueled the unbridled rage that afflicted him throughout most of his teenage years, it was the accelerant that sparked the decision to take over Alberto's place as head of the Moriarti family, and it had now manifested itself as an incessant nagging in the back of his mind which mocked him as it begged the question 'Why didn't you just do it?'

Sandor knew why he had hesitated although that knowledge did little to stave off the traces of regret beginning to form. A greater need, a more eminent desire, had trumped his life-long ambition to kill his brother and avenge the Clegane body count. He had come there to find Sansa and that was what he damn well meant to do. Gregor could wait, Sansa couldn't.

Sandor regretted nothing of that choice, but it had complicated his plans for today. A convoy of his men would need to set out with him. Sandor would have to leave behind his usual car in exchange for something he had never been seen driving before. Seven cars in total would leave the Moriarti mansion, each splitting up and traveling in different directions. If Gregor or his men meant to follow, they would have a one-in-seven chance of finding Sandor and ultimately Sansa. While Sandor wasn't a man who made a habit of gambling, even he knew that those odds were still a bit too high for his comfort and liking.

Settling himself in his office chair, Sandor flipped through the yellow legal pad of his notes. Bronn, Marco, and Alberto had already been briefed on the whole thing and understood their role in almost every scenario Sandor had thought out. If his years in the mafia had taught him one thing, it was to be prepared, to understand that shit could go down at anytime and to have already planned for each and every imaginable scenario. Some might call it overkill. Sandor called it smart.

When a light rapping came at his door, Sandor deduced it was Mirabelle and called her in. His sister peeped her head around the door as she opened it. It was a habit she had gotten into and still did it even when she knew Sandor was waiting on her to come. Shaking his head, he waved her in and motioned his head towards the chair across the desk from him as he silently beckoned her to sit. He leaned back in his chair and with his elbows resting on the arm rests Sandor contemplated Mirabelle over steepled fingers.

She sat silently, refusing to meet his stare and shifting uncomfortably as she crossed and then uncrossed her legs. Sandor didn't know what to say to her. He hadn't the time to really think about what to say. He was angry with her still, yet much of that anger had dissipated once Sansa was safely returned. Regardless, Mirabelle had defied him and it had almost lost him Sansa. His sister was stubborn and strong-willed, that he already knew, but this was pushing it too far. Mirabelle had been around long enough to know that what she had done was stupid.

Crossing her arms about her chest as she pouted her lips, Mirabelle finally lifted her gaze to meet Sandor's before sighing deeply.

"Are you going to hate me forever?"

Sandor stifled a laugh. Mirabelle was a strange creature; oscillating between a ball-busting hard ass and a pouty-lipped child who looked beside herself at the thought that she may have disappointed him. The question was preposterous, but that didn't mean Sandor wasn't going to take the opportunity to fuck with her.

"Don't know," he replied coldly as he snatched up the stress ball from his desk and set about giving it gentle squeezes. "Haven't really decided yet." At that, Sandor threw the ball up in the air before catching it, repeating the process as he saw Mirabelle looking at him wide-eyed with her mouth hanging open.

Throwing the ball up in the air, Sandor let it fall to his desk as he leaned forward and let out a chuckle.

"I'm kidding, Mirabelle."

Relieved and undoubtedly pissed at the same time, Mirabelle pulled her arms tighter across her chest as she shook her head with a small laugh. A silence fell between them and Sandor understood what it meant; she wanted to know what happened last night, but was afraid to ask. Whether she was afraid that he wouldn't tell her or afraid of what he might say if he did, Sandor wasn't sure, but regardless Mirabelle needed to know what happened. Gregor had been stirred and Sandor knew damn well there was going to be backlash. He had set something in motion that wasn't about to end any time soon. With a sense of foreboding suddenly dissolving the small smile that had been on his lips, Sandor knew with a shock of certainty that it was only just beginning. The thought made him want to leave that instant, to pack up his shit, get Sansa in the car, and get the fuck out of dodge. First, though, Mirabelle needed to know.

"I saw him last night," Sandor confessed as he studied Mirabelle's face. Her eyes seemed to widen a bit and the pallor of her skin became ashen, as if she had seen a ghost.

"Did he do that to you?," Mirabelle asked on a whisper of a breath as she motioned her head towards the purple bruise forming about his cheekbone. Sandor had almost forgotten it was there, purposely avoiding mirrors which were a solemn reminder of the scars he wore.

"Yeah," Sandor grumbled as the memories of his spat with Gregor flashed across his mind. Sandor had more or less dodged most of Gregor's swings, but exhaustion had eventually set in and a solid fist had cracked him across the cheek.

Biting her lip with a glimmer to her eyes which suggested she were on the verge of tears, Mirabelle tentatively set a worried stare on Sandor.

"Did he hurt Sansa?," she inquired softly, each of her words delicately formed on a nervous exhale of breath. Sandor hadn't asked Sansa about her interactions with Gregor. He doubted she wanted to talk about it and if she did, he imagined she would have talked about it last night. With a growing sense of uneasiness stirring within his center, Sandor knew that if Gregor had hurt Sansa, he would know about it. There wouldn't be scratches or bruises. There would be broken bones and a lifetime full of trauma.

"No. I don't think so," Sandor offered as he shook his head. At that, Mirabelle exhaled a deep breath, one she had clearly been holding onto thus far in the conversation. Sansa had been lucky. Had Gregor gotten around to doing what he wanted to do with her, Sandor doubted Sansa would be here to talk about it. The thought sent a wave of agitation to course through him as he clenched his hands around the arm rests of his chair.

"Is he…did you…?"

Mirabelle stopped her inquiry short as she let her voice drop off. Reading between the lines, Sandor understood what she was asking. It was the same question Alberto had asked him this morning. He was tired of explaining why he didn't take the opportunity when he had the chance. As with his frantic need to find Sansa, Sandor doubted this was something other people would understand.

"No. He's not dead," Sandor shook his head as he let his eyes fall away, somehow afraid to dash Mirabelle's hopes which were soaring at the moment. "I should have killed him when I had the chance." Pounding his fist against the desk, Sandor let himself succumb to the flush of anger that had been bubbling up within him. "Fuck! I should have. But I needed to get to her. It was kill Gregor or get to Sansa. I had to make a choice."

"And Nestor?"

"I don't know. I left the fucker chained to a pole. Gregor really did a number on him. If Nestor's still alive, then it's just barely."

Mirabelle bit her lip as she nervously twirled a lock of hair around her finger.

"How long will you be away?"

Shrugging his shoulders slowly, Sandor sighed deeply at the question.

"As long as I need to be. As long as it takes to finish this," he offered truthfully. Mirabelle nodded her head with a far-off look glazing her eyes. She understood what 'this' meant.

"And then what?," Mirabelle spoke softly, her eyes lifting anxiously to meet his.

"Then I'll take her home." It was the first time Sandor admitted it out loud, the words somehow holding new meaning as they echoed through his ears. Apparently, the admission troubled Mirabelle as much as it troubled him. His sister exhaled a breath and shot a desperate look towards him.

"She can't stay with us forever," Sandor continued matter-of-factly, the words meant to reassure himself just as much as they were meant to reassure her. "Her father's still alive. I'm sure she'll be wanting to get back to a normal life and put this all behind her."

"What about you?," Mirabelle retorted, her voice thin yet pleading.

"What about me?"

Mirabelle scooted to the edge of her seat and rested her hands on his desk. Her eyes seemed to beseech Sandor to listen, to understand.

"There's something there between the two of you. I saw it in you and now I see it in her. Are you really going to be able to let her go? Let her walk out of your life?"

Sandor let his eyes fall away from Mirabelle as he swiveled slightly back in forth in his rolling chair. Would he be able to let her go? Even when her safety was assured, would he be able to let her walk away from him, just like that? Shaking his head ever so slightly as he stared off towards some invisible spot on the floor, Sandor answered his sister truthfully.

"If it makes her happy and if it's what she wants, then I will have to be okay with it."

Sandor found that he meant it. At some point, Sansa's wants and needs had trumped his own. If it made her happy, he wanted it for her, even if that meant he needed to disappear from her life.

With a heaviness filling the room, Mirabelle reached a hand across the desk towards Sandor, even though she could not reach him. The admission had struck something in Mirabelle, but it had struck something in Sandor too.

"You deserve to be happy too, you know."

Wordlessly, Sandor nodded his head. He wondered if he deserved to be happy. Surely, he was due some semblance of happiness in his life, but he imagined being happy with Sansa and doubted the Universe would allow him that. Not with all the shit he had done in his lifetime. Undoubtedly, he had racked up more bad karma than good and if he was due for any sort of compensation, it probably wasn't going to come in the form of Sansa Stark.

Lifting from her seat, Mirabelle circled around his desk and came to stand in front of Sandor. For many moments she stood there, her eyes searching him earnestly before she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around his neck in an embrace.

"I'm sorry, Sandy. I should have listened to you. It was wrong. It was stupid of me. I'm so sorry."

Lifting his arms around her, Sandor returned the embrace and only then realized how much he hated being at odds with his sister.

"You're my sister, Mirabelle. I'd do anything for you, anything at all. But you can't just go off and do shit like that. Not…" Sandor's voice cracked before dropping off. Sucking in a deep breath and exhaling, he steadied his voice before continuing. "Not with her. Not with anything, really, but definitely not with Sansa."

Pulling away, Mirabelle smiled at him, clearly relieved to bury the hatchet and move on from this.

"You really care about her, Sandor. She's really getting to you."

Unable to look Mirabelle in the eye, Sandor let his eyes fall to his lap and remained motionless. Feeling Mirabelle's curious eyes boring into him, Sandor gave a gentle nod. Even without looking at her, Sandor could feel his sister beaming at his admission.

"She's a sweet girl," Mirabelle cooed through a smile as she gently placed a hand on Sandor's shoulder. "You take care of her. Be gentle. You're all rough and tumble on the outside, but I know that you've got a soft spot for her. Show her that."

Letting his eyes lift to Mirabelle, Sandor wordlessly nodded his head once more, a smile beginning to creep across his lips. Somehow he felt relieved, like a weight had lifted from his shoulders.

Pacing towards the door, Mirabelle stopped short and turned her head over her shoulder back towards him.

"You know, her birthday is coming up," she asserted with a million-watt grin flashing across her face.

"I do know that." Sansa had scribbled her note to Mirabelle on the back of her missing person's flyer, which had undoubtedly been forged by Nestor. Sandor had looked it and spotted her birthday, feeling entirely like a creeper for having learned when her birthday was from a fucking missing person's poster of all things.

Furrowing his brow and crossing his arms about his chest, Sandor stared mindlessly towards the junction of the wall and ceiling. Her birthday was indeed coming up soon, much sooner than he realized.

"You need help figuring out what to do for her, don't you?" Mirabelle's hands went to her hips as she tilted her head to the side and shot him a look. It was a Mirabelle look; mischievous, playful, cocky, and chiding.

Shrugging his shoulders and allowing a full smile to pull at his lips, Sandor cocked an eyebrow at her.

"Might be."

Feigning annoyance with an exhaled breath, Mirabelle giggled as she shook her head at him.

"I guess it's the least I can do. What would you do without me?," she questioned playfully.

"Not quite sure," Sandor replied, swiveling in his chair once more as he snatched up the stress ball on his desk and tossed it from one hand to the other. "Probably suffer from fewer headaches, that I know for sure."

Rolling her eyes, Mirabelle turned and made for the door once more. Narrowing his eyes, Sandor shouted out as she reached for the door knob.

"Oh! One more thing, Mirabelle."

Spinning on her heel, she turned around, her smile still fresh on her lips.

"No more fucking around with Bronn behind my back. If you're going to be with him, at least come clean with me and bring that shit out in the open."

Sandor watched as the smile fell from her lips and she swallowed hard.

"How…how did you…?" Her voice had lowered to a tone just above a whisper.

It was now Sandor's turn to smile and smile he did as he launched the stress ball at her, a devilish grin played about his lips.

"You think you're the only one that gets to know things around here and call people out on it?"

Catching the stress ball, Mirabelle let her eyes fall to the floor as a soft blush crept across her cheeks.


They were on the road by 8:00am. It was the earliest Sansa had been up and moving about doing important things in as long as she could remember.

The first two hours were spent in relative silence; on Sansa's part because she felt as though she were still half asleep and on Sandor's part because he was clearly on edge as they left the Moriarti mansion.

Unbeknownst to her, he had meticulously planned their departure down to a T. Although she was beginning to suspect that she probably shouldn't have expected any less. If she knew anything about him at this point, it was that he was thorough and smart about each move he made. Nothing was done recklessly and without a second thought.

After packing her a bag full of clothes, toiletries, make-up, hair products, and shoes, Mirabelle had dressed Sansa in a sky blue sun dress, curled her hair into soft waves, and applied a tasteful smattering of makeup to her face. She then kissed Sansa on the cheek and gave her brother a lengthy embrace before Sandor led Sansa from the parlor, down the hall of Alberto's memories preserved in pictures, and towards the basement lounge. All at once, Sansa realized that she had not been down in the basement lounge since arriving at the mansion bloody, terrified, and wholly convinced that Sandor- or the Hound, as she knew him then-had some terrible fate decided for her. How things have changed.

When they reached the basement lounge, the smell of stale cigar smoke and day-old alcohol filled her nose and faintly invoked vague memories of the fear she felt when first arriving at the mansion. The men had gathered about the lounge, many looking either tired or hung over with dark bags hanging beneath their eyes and grim smirks tightly creasing their lips. Silently, they stepped aside as Sandor led Sansa through, a few clapping him on the back and offering solemn words of support. Many eyed Sansa warily with stern looks of suspicion, as if she was somehow the cause of chaos that had ensued within the past week or so.

Swallowing hard, Sansa began to feel a flush of fear bubbling up within her. It wasn't the same sort of fear she had felt the last time she traversed the span of the lounge. It was fear that these men-Sandor's men- didn't approve of her presence and were silently questioning her with scrutinizing stares. Sensing her discomfort, Sandor had stopped half way through the room and took Sansa's hand in his own. Now instead of leading her through the room, he was walking by her side.

It was a show of solidarity, she surmised. The questioning looks of his men were met by Sandor leading her through the basement lounge, head held high and his hand wrapped tightly around hers. If his men were hesitant to accept her into the fray, Sandor was meeting their hesitance head on, as if to say 'I accept her and so will you.' It was a simple gesture, but it meant the world to her.

Through the catacomb of underground tunnels, Sandor led her to the garage containing cars at the ready. She had expected to climb into one of the many black Mercedes sedans that seemed to be synonymous with the Moriarti family. Only when Sandor led her to a newer model grey Ford Mustang did Sansa realize how switching out the Moriarti trademark vehicle was a smart idea. Beyond that, it was the safest thing to do. In addition, the license plates were registered in Arkansas, probably the most inconspicuous state in the country. The only thing that bore any semblance to his usual vehicle were the deeply tinted windows.

As they started from the Moriarti mansion, Sansa realized they were accompanied by a convoy of vehicles in all different makes, models, and years, each with tinted windows. Smiling softly to herself, Sansa puzzled out what was happening. She had once heard that the President of the United States has three identical vehicles that set out with him as decoys. Any would-be assassins had a one-in-three chance of actually fulfilling their mission.

Despite the convoy of decoys accompanying them, Sansa could tell Sandor was on edge. His jaw was clenched tightly, his eyes consistently flickering to the rear view mirror and the road around them as he investigated any suspicious cars that hovered around them. At each junction of major highways, a few of the cars would split off and head in a different direction. When this would happen, Sandor would carefully evaluate the road around them, undoubtedly creating a mental catalog of cars that followed them, cars that were not a part of the decoy.

As they passed these cars only to find unassuming people casually going about their business, Sansa could almost see him crossing that particular car off the checklist he had enumerated in his head.

By the third hour, half of the convoy had split off and Sandor had settled in his seat, the tension seeming to dissolve away, and Sansa was awake and now bored by the sights along the side of the highway. Blessedly conscious during this trip, she was now able to discern where they were. The Moriarti mansion was in Nevada and they were now heading north and toward California.

Turning towards Sandor, Sansa tilted her head to the side and gave a small smile.

"Do you want to play a game?," she asked timidly although her excitement was slowly creeping through her.

Sandor shot her a stare, one that suggested he didn't quite know what sort of game she wanted to play. By the half-mocking, half-playful smile on his face, Sansa imagined he thought she wanted to play some dumb road trip game like I Spy or the license plate game. The game she had in mind wasn't necessarily a road trip game. Rather it functioned to not only pass the time, but also to satisfy the growing curiosity she felt blooming within her. She knew some things about Sandor, but wanted to know more of him.

"What sort of game?" he inquired cautiously, not quite agreeing, but not flat-out refusing her either.

"I ask you something. I answer first and then you answer after. Then after you answer, it's your turn to ask me something."

Shifting his gaze towards her, Sandor cocked an eyebrow at her before sighing and shaking his head. Laughing, Sansa realized it was as good a sign of his compliance as she was going to get.

Turning in her seat so that she was facing him, Sansa bit her lip and stared out towards the road in front of them, thinking about which question she wanted to ask first.

"Alright. Favorite movie. Mine is 'The Princess Bride.'What's yours?"

Sandor nodded his head approvingly before offering his reply.

"Mine would have to be 'The Godfather.'"

Bursting into laughter, Sansa propped herself up, pushing her elbow against the seat so that she could shoot him an incredulous stare.

"Really? 'The Godfather'? No, that doesn't count. Pick something else."

Returning her stare with one that feigned offense, Sandor shook his head and let out a chuckle.

"What's wrong with 'The Godfather'? No, it's my favorite. 'The Princess Bride' isn't even from your time. If anyone should pick something else, it's you."

Biting her lip and crossing her arms about her chest, Sansa settled back in her seat and felt a grin crease across her lips.

"Alright. Fair enough. It's your turn."

Narrowing his eyes, Sandor looked at Sansa with a mischievous smile. She had expected him to ask her something scandalous.

"Favorite color. Black."

"Purple," Sansa replied immediately before chewing on her lip trying to think of what else she wanted to know about him. "Favorite...hmmm...favorite food! Lemon pound cake."

"Meat," Sandor declared almost proudly, his voice gruff as if trying to accentuate his masculinity.

Sansa wrinkled her nose at him and burst into another fit of giggles.

"Meat? Just any meat? Not one in particular?"

Exhaling a laugh, Sandor lifted a hand from the steering wheel and pointed an index finger at her.

"Are you going to make fun of every answer I give you? Yes, meat. Any and all. I'm a man. Men like meat."

Sansa acquiesced with a shrug of the shoulders and the game continued on for the next thirty minutes. She learned a great deal of things about him; he liked the White Stripes, but not as much as the Black Keys, hated the summer time, preferred crunchy peanut butter over smooth, which she adamantly disagreed with and that led to a lengthy debate of the pros and cons of both. He liked his coffee black, but didn't like tea, if he could travel anywhere it would be to Russia, and was a dog lover, which was something they both agreed on.

Somehow the game had transformed into him asking her questions about her life in Portland, her childhood, her hopes and dreams for the future. She had heard of his past, knew the dark secrets and painful memories. He wanted to know about her life and she wanted to tell him. Sansa was pleasantly surprised that he listened, really listened, as she spoke, as if he was eagerly and genuinely interested in all she had to tell. Every now and then he would interject to ask questions, but mostly he let her do the talking. She told him of her ballet training and how she had begun at an early age. He asked about her plans for college. She told him of her dream of being a music teacher.

There were no awkward silences or strange pauses, and she never felt pressured to tell him more than she wanted to. When the conversation came to a natural lull, she saw that he had a small smile on his lips and she found that unbidden one had formed on hers too. They were now six hours into the drive and Sansa knew they had a ways to go. They stopped to eat in some little town at the Nevada-California border. She chided him about his love of meat. He jested back about her love of lemons, which he confessed he thought was entirely strange. She had to work to finish her food as she delightfully realized he had a strange sort of humor to him. Somehow she found the things he said to be hilarious even though he had never intended them to be. He jokingly made fun of her for that too, calling her a loony bird instead of a little bird.

Back on the road and an hour into California, Sansa was content to find that they had abandoned the desert landscape for the lushness of forested hills that were gradually giving way to the mountains; not the barren mountains that flanked the lonely desert, but the rare and striking beauty she knew to associate with the Sierra Nevada mountain range. Entranced by the beauty, Sansa set her gaze out the window and absorbed the sense of serenity that descended upon her. Somewhere between Nevada and now, her mind had calmed and her worries were washed away. Perhaps it was the picturesque landscape they were engulfed in or maybe it was the accumulating distance between where they had come from and where they were heading. Although those surely contributed, Sansa sensed it was more. She felt safe. Perhaps it was a facade for now, an illusory vision that could be shattered at any moment, but she relished the feeling and found herself unwilling to question it. Just let it be.

Through the subtle motions of the car and the sunlight streaming through the window and warming her skin, Sansa found her eyelids growing heavy beneath her sunglasses. Pulling her legs up on the seat and turning towards Sandor, she fell asleep. Awaking three and a half hours later, she noticed the sun hovering in the windshield and realized they were now heading west, towards the sun that was retreating slowly towards the horizon.

Stretching her legs and letting them fall off the seat, Sansa reached around and pressed her fingers to her lower back, rubbing out the soreness she found there. He had told her it was going to be a long car ride. Surely, they had to be getting closer. Sandor confirmed as much as Sansa sat up and pulled the sunglasses off her face to set a sleepy gaze at him. Pushing his aviator sunglasses up onto his head, he gave her a soft half smile.

"We're a half hour away," he informed her before pushing his sunglasses back down over his eyes. Silently, Sansa nodded her head as her eyes glanced over to the speedometer. He had been doing an even 75 mph most of the way, sometimes accelerating to 85 in areas where the traffic cleared and the road extended in a straight shot. No wonder we're making good time.

Leaning forward, Sandor flicked off the radio, which had softly been playing in the background. Turning his stare towards her, Sansa saw that a strange sort of smile was playing about his lips, something between curiosity and mischief.

"I have a game for you. It's called 'I ask you a question and you answer truthfully.' Just one question. And you have to tell me the truth."

Sansa pushed herself up as she cocked an eyebrow at him, trying to read his face and puzzle out whether or not she should agree to his game. After considering him for a moment, Sansa sighed as she bit her lip.

"Alright. What's your question?," she relented and immediately felt as though she might regret this decision here in a second.

Nodding towards her forehead, Sandor settled back in his seat as he casually draped his arm over the steering wheel.

"That bruise on your forehead, you said you ran into a door. What I want to know is why you ran into the door. You have to tell me the truth. I'll know if you're lying." At that, Sandor turned towards her, grinning like a mad man.

Feeling a sudden flush of renewed embarrassment, Sansa could feel the heat beginning to accumulate on her cheeks. Unbidden, her hands were wringing nervously in her lap.

"I can't tell you," she responded, not lying, but not exactly complying to give him the truth. "I told Mirabelle that I wouldn't tell."

By the way Sandor leaned forward in his seat and gave a dark chuckle, Sansa knew she had said too much.

"Nope. You have to tell me. And you're blushing so I know it's something good. Go on. Spit it out," he implored as he shifted in his seat with anticipation.

"I can't," Sansa pleaded through a shy smile. "I told her I wouldn't tell you."

With his face dropping slightly in sudden realization, Sandor pulled off his sunglasses and tossed them down in the center console before looking at Sansa through narrowed eyes.

"If this is about her and Bronn, I already know."

A sense of relief washed over her as she saw he was giving her a knowing smile, clearly unfazed that Mirabelle and Bronn were seeing each other. Resting her face in her hands in complete and utter embarrassment, Sansa shook her head as she let out a pained laugh. She had promised to tell him the truth and she supposed she owed it to him to play along with his game since he played along with hers.

"I walked...," Sansa suppressed a nervous giggle before beginning again. "I walked in on them..." She couldn't bring herself to finish the sentence, but didn't have to because Sandor had slapped the steering wheel and shifted his stare towards her.

"Don't tell me you walked in on them fucking?," he exclaimed, his amusement at her embarrassment clearly trumping any sort of residual anger he had about his sister's new relationship.

Pulling her hands away from her face which was now probably beet red, Sansa bit her lip and slowly nodded her head at him.

"I got flustered...and ran into the door frame."

Throwing his head back against the head rest, Sandor let out a deep, low chuckle, a hearty laugh which erupted through his chest and filled the car. When his laughter ebbed, Sandor shifted a stare towards Sansa again and erupted into laughter once more when he saw how red she was.

"That's the funniest shit I've heard in a long time," he confessed through laughter.

"It's not funny," Sansa cried out, suppressing her own giggles. Now that she thought about it, it was sort of funny, but she wasn't about to encourage him. Lifting her fingers to her forehead, Sansa gave a small pout of the lips. "I hurt my head."

Turning his eyes towards her once more, Sandor huffed a small laugh and lifted his hand to the back of her head, gently rustling his fingers through her hair.

"I'm sorry. No it's not funny that you got hurt. It's funny that you walked in on them. And fucking adorable how embarrassed you are about it."

Suddenly forgetting her feigned poutiness, Sansa found herself blushing once more. He thinks I'm adorable. The thought made her stomach flutter with butterflies and forced a shy smile to creep across her lips.

Shaking his head with a smile still on his lips, Sandor removed his hand from the back of her head and draped it over the steering wheel once more. Cocking his head to the side, Sandor shifted his gaze to her once more.

"I may have to wrap you up in bubble wrap, keep you from getting hurt. What do you think about that?" he inquired jokingly.

Feeling her small smile bloom into a sweeping grin, Sansa shook her head and dropped her stare to her hands folded softly in her lap.

"I'd like to see you try," she responded gently, gazing at him through her lashes with a devious smile.

Nodding his head slowly, Sandor shot her a devilish grin in return, apparently spurred on by her playful defiance.

"That can be arranged."

As they turned north on to the 101, Sansa felt a swift tug on her heart strings. The craggy coastline to the west rose from the turquoise waters in jagged edges and rocky cliffs. The beach below was dotted with large boulders standing proudly against the onslaught of foamy waves slamming against them which dispersed into radiant sprays of water that beautifully caught the light of the sun. The landscape to the east of the road slopped in black hills darkened by thick forests, the folds of the land swathed in an ethereal mist that rolled down from the hills. Sansa shuddered as she released a deep breath. She knew where they were. Only one place on earth did forest collide into ocean, abandoning the belief that these forces of beauty cannot coexist and that one must relent for the other to flourish.

The Pacific highway ran along the coast of California and extended well up into Oregon. Having been asleep, her bearings were off and she knew not if they had somehow cut up into Oregon. While she doubted they were heading anywhere near Portland, the thought of at least being this close to home sent a sobering shock straight to her core, stirring something inside of her that had been suppressed since fleeing from home the night of the Royce party.

"Are we in Oregon?," Sansa inquired breathlessly as her eyes fluttered up to Sandor.

Shaking his head, Sandor leaned forward and shifted his gaze through the windshield and towards the paradise of forest and sea gloriously displayed in front of them.

"No. We're about an hour and a half south of the California-Oregon border," he responded on a rasping breath, seemingly absorbing the miraculous view.

Feeling her heart drop slightly, Sansa let her eyes fall to her lap.

"How far is Portland?," she questioned tentatively. She was more than grateful that he had offered to protect her, to keep her safe, and she didn't want him to get the wrong idea. However, the question formed on her lips faster than she could stop it.

"Six hours north," he responded flatly. If he was in any way offended by her question, Sansa could not tell.

Turning left down a small road that jutted off the Pacific highway, Sandor drove the rest of the way in silence, shifting here and there in his seat as they presumably neared their destination. The two-lane road hugged the features of the landscape, rolling over hills and curving around the edges of a craggy cliff. The car slowed towards yet another road to the left, a desolate, tree-lined road that ran parallel to the coast before forking off into two directions. Sandor eased the car towards the left fork and slowly meandered down a gravel road which terminated in a circle drive.

The car slowed to a halt in front of a small house that was fashioned in the style of something between a log cabin and a stone cottage; the elements of both married in planked siding and wooden beams intersected by large portions of grey stone. The area around was wooded, but beyond the thick columns of trees, Sansa could see the ocean rippling somewhere below the cliff's edge the house was situated on. Turning in her seat at once, Sansa saw Sandor staring off towards the home with a beaming of pride.

"This is where you live?," she inquired, bewildered and breaking the stunned silence that had befallen her.

"Yes, this is my home," Sandor replied with a nod of his head.

Sansa didn't know what she had expected. Perhaps something akin to the Moriarti mansion or maybe a bachelor pad penthouse suit in a large city. This was isolated, it was modest, it was rustic, it was simple. As Sansa stared wide-eyed at the house they were parked in front of, she hadn't noticed that Sandor was watching her, absorbing the sight of her admiring something he clearly took a lot of pride in and was anxious to show her.

Motioning his head towards the house with a half smile, Sandor undid his seat belt and slowly peeled himself out of the car with a groan. Sansa mirrored his movements, stretching her legs which were stiff and sore, and arched her back to alleviate the soreness that was there. After pulling the bags from the car, Sandor led her towards the house. A large stone patio expanded in the front, its perimeter made up of a short stone wall that curved towards the stone steps that led to the heavy oaken front door.

With his bag clutched in one hand, Sandor fumbled with his keys before finding the correct one and unlocking the door. Pushing through the front door, Sansa stepped inside and was met with the view of a large open space; a modernized kitchen to the right which flowed into the open living room area. Immediately dropping her bag, Sansa slowly paced towards the living area and let her eyes roam the room, absorbing the sight of exposed wood that was left distressed and unstained to display its age and natural beauty. A floor-to-ceiling hearth was situated on the far wall between two sliding doors that opened up to an expansive deck.

Sucking in a gasping breath, she drank in the view from beyond the deck. Lined on either side with trees, a small backyard cleared and gave way to the sight of the ocean beyond the cliff. The setting sun peered through trees and spilled its light through the room in heavy streams. The room was open to the above save a loft area situated above the kitchen. On the left side of the room an arched opening in the wall expanded into a hallway which undoubtedly contained bedrooms.

"This place was damn near in ruins when I bought it. I got it for a hell of a deal, but it took a lot of work to get it in the condition it's in now. It was well worth it though."

Standing silent in the middle of the room, Sansa's daydream-like reverie was broken as she turned slowly towards Sandor who was leaned up against the back of a large, L-shaped couch. Sansa felt her breath catch in her throat as her voice quivered. Letting her eyes sweep across the room with a newfound appreciation, Sansa settled her gaze on Sandor, a small smile pulling at her lips as she considered him.

"You did this? I mean, you fixed this place up?"

Nodding his head, Sandor ran his fingers through his hair before motioning towards various features of the open space.

"The floors were stripped and re-stained. Kitchen was gutted and re-done. The fireplace was originally small, nothing like it is now. I did the stonework for it with help from one of the street bosses. He's a stone mason in his day job."

Pacing towards the fireplace and running her fingers along the stonework, Sansa imagined the time it must have taken for Sandor to do this himself; the hours spent at the task of puzzling together rough slabs of the stone before securing them in place. The floors below her feet were large planks of wood, stained a dark cherry color which warmly echoed the earthen tones and rustic aesthetic of the house.

Seeing his home, the home he had poured so much effort and pride into, Sansa understood something of the man he was in a way that 20 questions on a road trip would never reveal. Through sweat, blood, and hard work, he had carved out his own piece of paradise, shaping and reshaping until it had reached his standard of perfection. His home was so much like him; rough-around-the-edges, but an exposition of the natural, unsullied beauty which surrounded the place. There were no frills, no façades of wealth and glamour, no superfluous displays of opulence. It was exposed yet warm, pure in its honesty, strong where it lacked beauty, and beautiful where it lacked excess. It was so him.

No wonder he had made it a point to tell her the Moriarti mansion was not his home. Moriarti's home was a good idea on paper; a mansion in the desert replete with all the luxuries anyone could ever hope for. The entire ideology contrasted everything Sandor seemed to stand for. Of course it wasn't his home. It made so much sense to her now she was surprised and admittedly a little ashamed that she had never seen it before. Sandor was not a man of superficiality and status symbols. By the way he seemed to beam with pride, she could tell this was where he felt at ease, where he felt himself. His home was simple, but it was his.

Pushing himself from the side of the couch, Sandor strode over to where she was in front of the fireplace and pressed his weight against the side of it, facing Sansa with a steady gaze.

"This is beautiful, Sandor. All of it. It's amazing." Smiling up at him, Sansa felt a flush of warmth surge through her. The man she had thought him to be and the man he was were at odds with one another. The gentleness he regarded her with contrasted the brutality she had seen in how he handled Leon. His involvement in the mafia was rooted in violence and a rage that stirred within him and yet he seemed to come alive as soon as he found his way back home; a home that was quiet, contemplative, isolated, and rustic. The Hound and Sandor Clegane existed within the same man, both seeming to battle the other for control. In the past few days, Sansa had seen little of the Hound and much of Sandor Clegane, a man who was slowly, but surely beginning to affect her in ways she hadn't thought possible.

"There's one more thing to show you. Come on," Sandor gently urged as he took her hand and led her out on the deck behind the house.

Traversing the distance of the backyard, Sansa could hear the waves crashing somewhere down below, the steadiness of the sound rhythmic and peaceful. At the end of the yard and through a small cluster of trees, an old, thick set of wooden stairs jutted from the soft slope of the cliff's edge which eased towards the beach below.

With a gasping breath, Sansa turned a wide-eyed stare towards Sandor only to find him already flashing a knowing smile at her.

"This is yours too?," she asked on a breathless giggle.

Nodding his head, Sandor took her by the hand once more and began leading her down the stairs towards the sandy expanse below. Carefully, he ensured her footing with each step until they reached the empty beach below.

"You think I would live this close to the coast and not have access to this?"

With a sweeping gesture of his extended arm, Sandor admired the isolated beach that was glowing warmly with the hues of the setting sun. The skies above were painted in hues of lavender, mauve, and beige, the clouds looking like wisps of cotton candy. Reflecting the luminescence of the setting sun, the water shone like metallic ripples of copper against foamy crests of the waves.

Enchanted and at a loss for what to make of it all, Sansa shook her head slowly and smiled wistfully up at Sandor before letting him lead her by the hand towards the crashing waves.


Sandor smiled to himself as he let go of Sansa's hand and took a seat in the sand. He had been gone from this place too long. Too fucking long.

Moriarti had a good thing going with his sprawling mansion in the desert, but that wasn't really Sandor's style nor did he enjoy living in the desert. This was where he felt the most at home. He hadn't been back to his childhood home since fleeing with Mirabelle so many years ago. There was no need to stir up the memories of all that had ensued there. Instead, he had snatched up this place and made it his new home.

If the perpetual smile or glistening of her eyes were anything to go by, Sansa preferred this place over the Moriarti mansion as well. He had guessed as much, but still couldn't help the feelings of nervousness at bringing her here. It wasn't just the nagging worry in the back of his mind as to whether or not he could keep her safe here, but he also wanted her to feel comfortable. The thought that he had brought her all this way and she may feel ill-at-ease had played out in the back of his mind and danced its way to the forefront of his thoughts as they neared their destination.

Leaning back on his elbows and propping himself up in the sand, Sandor watched Sansa slip out of her shoes and tentatively dip her feet in the water. A tiny gasp escaped her lips as the thinning waves rushed over her feet. Swiveling around towards him, she flashed a gleeful smile at him.

"It's a little cold," she announced softly. Despite her declaration, Sansa slowly eased her way out towards the waves, lifting her dress midway up her thighs as she giggled each time the water battered against her bare legs.

Turning around towards him once more, Sandor heard her shout out over the crashing of the waves.

"It's not bad once you get used to it. Come on." Sansa beckoned him to join her with a wave of her hand as she smiled brightly.

"I don't have swim suit," Sandor called out to her. While he enjoyed the view the ocean provided, he wasn't exactly one to jump headlong into the water. Sansa, on the other hand, let go of her dress, which instantaneously was soaked up to her waist as one large wave crashed into her. Laughing on an exhale of breath, she pouted her lip and placed her hands on her hips.

"Please! I don't have a swim suit either. Look! I'm already soaked." With pleading eyes, she cocked her head ever so slightly to the side and gave a sweet smile. Shaking his head slightly, Sandor let his eyes fall to the ground in front of him. Fuck! This girl is already figuring out how to get to me.

Snorting out a laugh, Sandor pushed himself up and emptied his pockets, dropping the contents to the sand below where they plopped softly. Bending over, he rolled his pant legs up to mid-calf, not that he imagined it would make much difference. Reaching with one hand for the collar of his T-shirt at the back of his neck, Sandor pulled it over his head and let it drop next to the contents of his pockets.

Stilling in the water, Sansa seemed to sober at the sight of him, her eyes roaming over him until demurely falling away as if embarrassed he caught her staring at him. He supposed it was all good and well; how many times had he shamelessly leered at her? Besides, he imagined she was probably taken aback by the tattoo work on his upper arms and back which more or less remained covered the majority of the time. In fact, this was probably the first time she had seen any of his tattoos in their entirety.

Sandor sucked in a breath as his feet met the water, shocked at the initial coolness of he found there. As he slowly made his way towards Sansa, effortlessly wading through the waves that seemed to so easily knock her around, Sandor noticed she was standing still in the water, but her chest was heavily rising and falling with each breath. Chewing her bottom lip, she stared at him wide-eyed, her gaze falling over his naked torso. Undoubtedly, she had no idea she was staring. Sansa was too polite to knowingly leer at someone.

"You want me to take my pants off too while I'm at it?," Sandor cut in jokingly as he chuckled a rasping laugh.

With her eyes fluttering up to meet the smug smile creasing his lips, Sansa shook her head abruptly before squeezing her eyes shut. A flush of red emerged on her cheeks, a blush which indicated he had indeed caught her checking him out.

"What? Yes…no! I mean, no…God, sorry." Sansa's slew of disjointed words beckoned a hearty laugh from Sandor. She could stare at him like that all damn day for all he cared. In fact, a part of him was relieved that he wasn't the only one having to do all the staring.

The tension was broken as a wave crashed into them and sent Sansa stumbling forward in the water. In two large strides, Sandor made it to her side and pulled her up, noticing that she was now completely soaked. Her hair from the shoulder down was saturated and clinging to the exposed skin of her arms and back. Erupting in a fit of giggles, she eagerly took his hand until she steadied herself on her feet once more.

"Can you swim?," Sansa asked him as she caught her breath and let go of his hand.

"Well enough," Sandor replied with a shrug of the shoulders before setting narrowed eyes and a half smile on her. "Well enough to save you if need be." At that, Sandor reached down and swept his arm through the water, sending a splash to land across her chest and abdomen.

Squealing as she shielded herself, Sansa let her eyes fall to her side as she mimicked his motions, sweeping up the water and sending a smaller splash of water careening towards him.

"Or maybe I'll save you," she shot back with an uncharacteristically mischievous grin pulling on her lips.

He had considered making it all out warfare, had thought about bounding towards her and dumping her in the water to settle the score. Instead, all he could manage was the murmur of his words, his tone somehow becoming serious and his eyes imploring her earnestly.

"Maybe you will," he replied in a deep rasp with his gaze still heavily upon her.

Something about the sight of her entranced him; the way she smiled at him less like a girl and more like a woman, the way she was looking at him through heavy lashes, the way she would shyly bite her bottom lip and inadvertently drew attention to its fullness. Sandor found now it was him that wanted to drink in the sight of her.

Sansa was sexy without even knowing it. In fact, he bet she had no clue- none- that his blood was now running hot through his veins, causing his cock to grow increasingly hard at the sight of her; the way she laughed breathlessly and gave a little gasp as the waves collided into her, the way her saturated dress clung to her body and offered him a clear sight of every delicious curve of her body, the way her bra and underwear were completely visible through the thin fabric.

Lifting his eyes to hers, Sandor suddenly became aware of the heat rising between them, both of them contributing equally to its radiant flow. Where he was staring at her, she was just as eagerly staring at him. Seemingly well aware of the surmounting tension between them, Sansa let her eyes fall away shyly as she abruptly set about twirling a lock of damp hair around her index finger.

"We should dry off," Sandor finally broke in as he motioned his head back towards the beach. Agreeing with a soft nod of her head, Sansa followed him out of the water and back towards the beach.

Sandor settled himself on the sand which still retained the heat of the setting sun and welcomed him with its warm embrace. Sansa carefully lowered herself to his right and began running her fingers through the ends of her hair. Sitting with his knees pulled towards his chest and his forearms resting on his knees, Sandor set his gaze off towards the sun setting over the water. He couldn't remember the last time he watched the sun set. It always seemed he was too busy to notice, too caught up in other bullshit to take the time.

In the periphery of his vision, he could see that Sansa was stirring next to him, shifting ever so slightly towards him. Turning his gaze over his right shoulder, Sandor saw that she was contemplating the tattoo on his right arm. Lifting her eyes to him, Sansa's lips parted slightly before pulling into a shy smile.

"You have tattoos," she said softly, her voice inflecting delicately as if her words were meant to be half a statement and half a question.

Exhaling a gentle laugh, Sandor nodded his head before rotating his right arm slightly to gaze down at the grim reaper tattooed from the top of his shoulder to right above his elbow. The figure spanned the width of his sculpted bicep and curved with the bulge of muscle.

The skeletal figure of the reaper was swathed in a heavy black robe and clutched a scythe which curved along with the natural curve of his shoulder. Despite being a skull, the face of the reaper appeared almost devilish, its skeletal mouth curled up in a menacing grin.

Sansa's eyes roamed over the ink quizzically, her gaze curious yet seemingly hesitant to inquire about the story of the tattoo.

"I got the reaper tattoo when I was 19," Sandor began as he motioned his head towards his right arm. "I thought I was a fucking bad ass then. Really, I was just out of control. Filled with so much anger and hatred. I didn't know how to channel that. I thought the world owed me something for all I had been put through up until then. I was reckless, put myself in a lot of situations where I could've been killed. For a long time, I was chasing after death. I didn't give a fuck if I lived or died. I wanted to fight, I wanted to destroy shit. I chased the reaper and that's how this particular tattoo came about."

As Sandor finished he shifted his stare towards Sansa, feeling a strange sense of trepidation. He wasn't sure how much he could reveal to her before she'd realize she was sitting on a beach with a mobster and began to fear him again. But instead of fear or hesitation, her eyes were filled with wonder as if she were wholly engrossed by what he was confessing to her. Sandor spun himself around so that he was sitting with his left arm towards her, the arm that contained the tattoo of the Archangel Michael.

With a tiny gasp, Sansa's eyes flickered about the tattoo on his left arm, seemingly admiring the detail. The tattoo spanned the same length of his arm as the reaper, extending from shoulder to right above his elbow. With his sword drawn over his head, the figure of Michael appeared to be engaged in battle. His eyes were pure white, appearing almost foreboding, and tears of blood spilled over his cheeks. The true detail was in his armor and wings which were inked to have a certain grotesque flair to them. In many ways, the figure of Michael appeared more menacing than the reaper.

"The tattoo of Michael I got when I was 22. With Alberto's direction and guidance, I calmed the fuck down by then. I wasn't such a loose cannon anymore. Don't get me wrong, I still have a temper, but I learned to control it a lot better and found ways to channel my aggression. I'm not a religious guy. I think most religions are bullshit, but I liked the idea of Michael the Archangel. He's a warrior. I guess it was my way of counteracting and balancing all the time I spent chasing the reaper. After I got it, Alberto joked that they were like the two sides of my conscience; I had the forces of good on my left shoulder, forces of evil on my right."

Nodding her head and tilting her gaze towards his back, Sansa's eyes flicked down at the tattoo before meeting his stare with a questioning expression playing about her face.

"And the one on your back?," she inquired softly.

"Have you heard of Dante's Divine Comedy?," Sandor asked as Sansa's eyes flicked back towards the tattoo. Slowly she nodded her head and scooted behind him.

"I had to read it for school," she responded as she began tracing the outline of the tattoo on his back with tentative fingers.

"Alberto has a book of illustrations by an artist named of Gustave Doré. The guy did these amazing illustrations depicting scenes from Dante's comedy. There was one picture in particular that drew my attention. It's a scene in Dante's Inferno where Phlegyas is taking Dante and Virgil across the River Styx. I saw it and was drawn to the picture before I knew what it meant. The scene plays out in the fifth circle of Hell where the wrathful are punished by being drowned in the river. I figured if I'm going to hell, I imagine I'll probably end up in the River Styx. It's really the only circle that matches my sins."

Although Sandor was joking, Sansa's eyes went wide as she considered the tattoo with renewed wonderment, her fingers still delicately working across his skin and sending chills up and down his spine. His back piece started at his shoulder blades and extended halfway down his back. It had been fashioned to look as though his skin had been torn away and underneath was the image from Dante's Inferno. Sandor had had to search high and low to find a tattoo artist willing to tackle a replication of Doré's work as well as masterfully create the illusion of the image appearing underneath torn away flesh.

"The back piece was a work in progress from when I was 25 to 26," Sandor began as Sansa adjusted herself next to his side once more and pulled her knees to her chest as she listened eagerly.

"Alberto's whole comment about good and evil stuck with me for awhile. I kept thinking about it and how it related to my life. The thing is, I've known lawyers, politicians, and judges who have done things so fucked up you wouldn't believe me if I told. Hell, just look at Nestor Royce! I've known cops-the people who are supposed to 'protect' and 'serve'-who are leaps and bounds worse than the criminals they put away.

And then there's the flip side to that coin. I've known mobsters who are some of the best guys you'll ever meet. They're family men; love their wives something fierce, make it a point to be great fathers, just all-around upstanding men.

At some point, the lines between good and evil blur and you don't know which side you're fighting for anymore. You don't know if it really even matters; if all the violence, fighting, and death is worth it or was ever worth it."

Sandor shifted his gaze to Sansa who was staring up at him, a look of confusion settling across her brow which was now furrowing under the heaviness of all his words. He wondered if she even understood, if she could even understand. She was a being of light, surrounded by purity and goodness. And how could light understand dark, the other half of itself, its anti-thesis? Sandor imagined it couldn't. Shaking his head as he stared off towards the expanse of beach surrounding them, he began again, his words somehow laced with a sort of jaded cynicism he doubted she would understand.

"Maybe the idea of good and evil are like fairytales we tell ourselves to make our lives more bearable. Someone wrongs you and you get to go to sleep at night convinced that they'll get theirs in the end. That some Universal force is going to sweep in and wreck havoc on their lives. Just like people tell themselves if they do enough good in the world, they'll be rewarded when they die, not even considering that when we die it may just feel like nothing, just darkness.

Maybe the concept of good and evil is something we use to cope with all the fucking horror of the world. We tell ourselves that our lives are just a microcosm of some bigger battle being fought somewhere in the Universe. That way when we hear about a child molester getting off light and roaming the streets because of some shit-stain like Nestor Royce, we feel like maybe it makes sense in some greater scheme of things because it sure as fuck doesn't make sense right here and right now."

Sansa remained quiet for many moments, her thoughts seemingly tumbling through her head as her eyes shifted about the ground in front of her. Slowly, she lifted her eyes towards him and searched his face, her eyes flicking from his lips back up to his eyes which were gazing intently back at her.

"And which side do you find yourself on? Good or evil." The question was posed innocently enough, yet the implications ran deep and right into a mess of unresolved bullshit he hadn't allowed himself to think about for who-knows how long.

Shaking his head as his eyes fell to the ground, Sandor shrugged his shoulders. He offered her as good an answer as he had. It was honest. Perhaps not what she wanted to hear, but it wasn't a lie.

"I don't know. I'm still deciding. Some days I feel like a good guy who does bad things. Other days I feel like a bad guy who does good things. I stopped trying to make sense of it a long time ago. I do whatever I think is right in the moment."

Sighing deeply, Sansa seemed perplexed by his answer and Sandor knew for a certainty it was indeed not the answer she wanted to hear from him. He was at a loss for what she expected him to say. She knew what he was, what he did for a living. It's not like he had ever tried to hide it from her.

"You've never done anything bad to me, though." As Sansa stared up at him with a doe-eyed look of wistful hopefulness, Sandor found himself irritated. He wanted her to see him for what he was, the truth of what he was, not some deluded version that she was projecting onto him.

Turning a deliberate stare towards her, Sandor lowered his voice, punctuating each word forcefully in his own wistful hope that maybe she'd understand.

"I kidnapped you. Held you against your will, let some a goddamn psychopath loose to find you. Took you to Las Vegas when I shouldn't have. Didn't tell you the truth when I should have. I've done more wrong against you than right."

At that, Sansa pursed her lips and adamantly shook her head, clearly not having heard a goddamn word he said or if she did, happily glazing over it.

"But you saved me." Sansa's voice came pleading from her lips as she placed her hand softly on his forearm and squeezed lightly with the tips of her fingers.

Lifting his hands, Sandor ran them slowly over his face in frustration. Lowering his arms once more, Sandor emphasized each of his words with a gesturing of his hands.

"I kidnapped you. Don't fucking romanticize this, Sansa. I'm a mob boss, not prince charming."

Undaunted, Sansa scooted towards him and lowered her head in front of his until she caught his eyes in a sincere stare. He was simultaneously touched and agitated with the way she was looking at him as if he were her savior. Granted he had saved her, she was turning this into something else entirely.

"You're a good person, Sandor," she started in, fixing eager eyes on him as if willing him to accept her words blindly. "You didn't have to come for me during the Royce party, but you did and you didn't even know me. You didn't have to come after me when I left with Nestor. You could have let me go, but you came for me anyway."

Feeling his anger steadily beginning to rise, Sandor turned his stare towards her and grabbed her by both arms, lowering his voice to a deep growl.

"Your head is filled with fairytales, girl. I make a living killing, hurting, threatening, and blackmailing people. I'm a murderer, a criminal. I saw one opportunity to do something good and I took it. That doesn't make me a fucking saint, that doesn't erase all the fucked up shit I've done."

With her brow knitting together in concern, Sansa shook her head stubbornly as she petitioned him to listen to her.

"You've kept me safe this entire time. That's not a fairytale, that's the truth." Her voice was soft, her words sweet, but it did little to quell the growing heat of frustration that was bubbling up from Sandor's core.

Snatching up her wrist, Sandor lifted it up in the air to make visible the healing marks left by the cord Leon had used to bind her up.

"What's this?," he demanded, dark and mocking. "And this?" Cupping her chin in his fingers, Sandor turned her head as he pointed to the bruise that had been left when one of Gregor's men hit her across the face during the botched kidnapping in Vegas. "What are these here?" Letting go of her chin, Sandor motioned towards the fading gashes about her legs where embedded glass had been from the Royce party.

Refusing to meet his stare, Sansa bit her bottom lip to stop it from trembling as tears began to well up in her eyes.

"You call that safe?," Sandor demanded as he tried his damndest to calm himself. "How many times have people tried to take you against your will in the last week? I'm just the lesser of the evils trying to get to you. That's all it is."

Taking deep breaths, Sandor ran his fingers through his hair before resting his forehead against the heels of his hands as his elbows rested on his knees. The last thing he wanted was to lose his cool with her, to scare her back to square one.

"That's all it is then?," she demanded right back at him with tears staining her cheeks, her eyes flooded with hurt. "You still haven't told me why you're willing to do all of this for me. If you say you're such a horrible person, then why are you willing to keep me safe? Why not my mother or Myranda or someone else at the party? Why me?"

Letting his eyes fall to the ground beneath him, Sandor silently shook his head, not knowing what to offer her in the moment. He told her no one would ever hurt her again and yet he had been the one to hurt her. He knew it by the way her lip trembled uncontrolled and tears were now pouring down her cheeks with soft sobs. Pushing herself up off the ground, Sansa abruptly rose to her feet as she swiped at angry tears with trembling hands and began to walk away from him. Instinctively, Sandor reached for her, snatching her up as his fingers easily encircled her tiny wrist with a firm grasp. Sansa yelped in surprise as he pulled her towards him. Tripping over her own feet, she careened towards him.

Cradling her fall with his open arms, Sandor let her collapse into him as her knees fell to the sand between his legs and her weight pressed hard against his chest. With one leg on either side of her, Sandor grabbed her other wrist as she feebly tried to pull away.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?," he rasped as he released his fingers from around her wrists and snaked one of his arms around the small of her back, pressing Sansa against his bare chest. Sandor's other hand reached for the back of her head, bunching up her damp hair that was drying into copper colored waves as it cascaded over her shoulders.

Entranced by the way her lips trembled whenever she cried, Sandor battled against the urge to press his lips against hers, to stifle her soft whimpering sounds with his mouth against hers, his tongue flickering against her lips to bid them to part for him. He wanted to taste her, wanted the warmth of her skin flush against his, wanted to make the crying stop with slow kisses against hot tears, his tongue all too eager to lap up the sorrow.

Pulling her closer against him until their upper bodies were flush, both their hearts pounding in their chests and each beating in time with the other, Sandor unbound his hand from her hair and steadied his stare on her face. Brought on by tears, her eyes shone a brighter blue than he had ever seen them. Her lips were swollen and full from the blood rushing through her body. She was beautiful. So fucking beautiful, even when she cried or maybe especially when she cried. With her face hovering a few inches in front of his, Sandor pressed his nose against her cheek bone and squeezed his eyes shut before letting his lips run lightly over her cheek until they reached her ear, nuzzling softly there. Lowering his voice to a gentle rasp, Sandor rested his forehead against the side of her head, his lips hovering over her ear.

"I came after you because I wanted to. And I kept coming after you because I wanted to. And if you walk away from me right now, even if it's on a fucking beach, I'm coming after you because I want to. Do you understand that? Do you understand what I mean when I say that, Sansa?"

With his eyes still closed, Sandor felt as she nodded her head slowly, stilling in his arms as her breath seemed to steady. He doubted that she truly understood what he meant. His words seem to pacify her for now, yet it was him who was coming undone. Sansa Stark could cry her tears until her lips trembled and her body quaked and he would be here to hold her until a stillness washed over her. But it was him who needed that stillness now as his mind raced and his heart began to damn near beat out of his chest. As if she had read his thoughts, Sandor felt one of her tiny hands press against his chest as she gently pushed herself just far enough away from him that she could look upon his face. Nodding her head, she set her eyes on his, her stare more intense and piercing than any he had ever seen from her. The corners of her lips pulled into a soft smile, a smile which steadied his breaths and sent his body buzzing with a warm flush of calm. How she sensed what he needed, the very moment he needed it, Sandor didn't know, but was content not to question it for now.

Sandor reached for her hand that was pressed against his chest and placed the palm of his hand against hers before softly circling his fingers around her delicate little fingers. Lifting her hand up while setting his eyes to her, Sandor gently pressed his lips to the top of her hand and watched as a tiny gasp escaped Sansa's lips.

"It's getting dark. We should head back," he murmured on a deep breath as he lifted his lips from Sansa's hand.

Silently, she nodded her head and Sandor rose to his feet, pulling her up with him while gathering his shirt and the contents of his pocket in his other hand. He did not let go of her hand, but rather adjusted his hold until their fingers were interlaced and slowly led her back towards the house. He may have told her he was no prince charming, but he sure as fuck felt like one in this moment and was surprised to find he didn't really care one bit as long as it stopped her tears and brought on her smiles.


Sansa washed the sand from her body, not understanding how so much of it had become plastered to every area of exposed skin. She didn't wash her hair though and instead pulled it up in a loose bun while she soaped off the remnants of the beach. Her heart was just now settling to a normal beating pulse and the butterflies had seemed to settle as well.

Lost in her thoughts and relishing the warmth of water rushing over her body, Sansa closed her eyes and gave a soft smile at the remembrance of Sandor's lips brushing across her cheek, his words deep and low in her ear. She had thought he might kiss her then. And she imagined she would have liked that very much.

After stepping from the shower and toweling off the beads of water from her body, Sansa changed into the tank top and pair of shorts Mirabelle had packed for her. Wiping the fog from the mirror, Sansa pulled her hair out of the messy bun and watched as it flowed in waves over her shoulders. She had forgotten how the ocean salt water seemed to elicit irreproducible waves to form in her hair. After brushing her teeth and removing her makeup, Sansa slowly stepped from the bathroom situated at the end of the hall and walked through the dimness of light towards the open living room area.

Seeing her hovering at the end of the hall, Sandor rose from the couch and settled his eyes on her. He too had rinsed off and changed into more comfortable clothes. As he approached her, Sansa felt her eyes timidly flutter away from his gaze as a soft blush crept across her cheeks. Luckily, the light from two side table lamps was far enough removed that he probably wouldn't notice how she was blushing at his approach.

Moving past her, Sandor led her back towards the end of the hall to the guest bedroom, opening the door and turning on the light for her.

"Will this be okay for you?," he asked her as she stepped into the room and swept her gaze over the small bedroom. It boasted a bed which looked comfortable enough, a small dresser which looked spacious enough for the contents of her bag, and the mimicked same rustic décor of the rest of the house which looked inviting enough.

Shifting her eyes towards her hands gently folded in front of her, Sansa bit her lip and Sandor must have immediately noticed her hesitation.

"Are you tired at all?," he questioned her, seemingly trying to puzzle out her trepidation.

Looking up at him, Sansa shrugged her shoulders. She was very tired and she knew he was undoubtedly tired too, having driven nearly 12 hours straight with only a few stops in between. The problem wasn't whether or not she was tired. The problem was that she wasn't sure she could fall asleep, regardless of how tired she was. She imagined she would toss and turn, find herself haunted by nightmares, and wake up at each and every little noise.

Stepping towards her, Sandor interrupted her thoughts as he took her by the hand.

"Alright, I have an idea."

Hand-in-hand, Sansa followed Sandor as he led her back down the hallway towards the living room and plopped down on the couch, pulling her down next to him.

With a puzzled stare, Sansa watched as Sandor rested his head against the back of the couch and turned to look at her.

"I'm going to do something I've never done before, Sansa," he began with his tone low and serious. "Close your eyes. No peeking."

Giggling, Sansa cocked an eyebrow at him before complying, squeezing her eyes shut. With her eyes still closed, Sansa heard the soft sound of shuffling as he shifted in his seat. Suddenly, she felt something on her lap. Instinctively, she opened her eyes and found a T.V. remote resting on top of her crossed legs. Picking it up, Sansa turned towards him with a smile pulling on her lips.

"I don't get it," she declared truthfully as she gently shook her head at him and flashed a confused stare.

"I don't share the remote. Not with anyone," Sandor replied in a low voice as he set a serious stare on her once more. "We'll watch whatever you want until you get tired enough to sleep."

Sighing a contented laugh, Sansa nodded her head in compliance before pointing the remote towards the T.V. and turning it on. A subtle blue glow emanated from the screen as Sansa flipped through channels. It was the typical assortment of late night T.V.; news programs, cheesy reality shows, re-runs of sitcoms from the 90's. Flicking the channel up button, Sansa stopped at what she saw and felt a small, devious smile creep across her lips. Subtly shifting her eyes towards Sandor, she watched as he seemed unfazed by what was on the screen. Slowly, the recognition bloomed across his face which contorted in disdain. Turning towards her at once, he adamantly shook his head.

"Oh no. Not this. Anything but this," he declared definitively, crossing his arms about his chest and snorting out a laugh.

Unable to hold back her giggle, Sansa pointed towards the T.V. as she shifted her body towards him.

"You don't even know what this is."

Sandor shook his head and animatedly mimicked her as he pointed a finger at the T.V.

"I have a sister. I know exactly what this is."

Sansa watched him, thoroughly amused at what she saw. The thought of making him watch this show was hilarious to her. Feeling comfortable around him now, she wanted to see how far she could push this. Crossing her arms about her chest and pouting her lip slightly, Sansa cocked her head to the side as she gave him a doe-eyed stare.

"You said anything," her voice implored gently.

Sighing deeply, Sandor ran his hands through his hair before letting his head fall against the back of the couch with the palms of his hand covering his face.

"Yes, but not this. Sansa, no. Something different. Please."

Sansa bit her lip to stifle the fit of laughter that was slowly threating to burst out of her. If he only knew how he looked right now. It was as if she were asking him to walk across hot coals or lay down on a bed of nails.

Taking a deep breath to steady her voice, Sansa turned towards him and settled an even stare on his eyes which glimmered with a strange sort of pleading.

"Alright. I'll change it if you can tell me the red-headed lady's name."

Pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, Sandor groaned out loud and shook his head before narrowing his eyes at the figures on the T.V.

"Shit. I don't know. Carrie?," Sandor grumbled out as he swiveled his head towards Sansa. While she didn't particularly care one way or another about this show, Sansa found herself loving his response to the prospect of watching it. Eventually, she would relent and change the channel, but for now she had resigned herself to see this through.

"Nope," she announced proudly as she slowly shook her head at him with a smug smile creasing across her lips and her chin held high in the air. "That's Miranda. Carrie is that one, with the curly hair."

Furrowing his brow at the T.V., Sandor threw his arm up towards the screen in a gesturing motion before letting his arm fall heavily in his lap again.

"Who's this fucking loser she's with?," he inquired bluntly as he set a glare towards the screen.

"Mr. Big," Sansa choked out through a burst of laughter as she turned an amused gaze towards Sandor who met her eyes with an incredulous stare.

"Mr. Big," he responded slowly, as if it was the most ludicrous thing he had ever heard. "What the fuck kind of name is that? Is he in the mob or something?"

Erupting with laughter, Sansa gasped for breaths as she doubled over. Of course, he would think that a guy in a suit must be in the mob.

"What?! No! He's the guy she's in love with. And that's not his real name," Sansa informed through fits of laughter.

Shaking his head, Sandor fell silent as he cocked his head at the screen, scrutinizing the events playing out before snorting a mocking laugh.

"Look at this dude! With his fancy suit and his car with a driver. A real man drives himself around. He doesn't know what the hell he's doing." Sitting up slightly in his seat, he pointed an index finger at the screen. "Oh and look now she's walking away! It's like amateur hour with this guy."

Sansa brought her palm up to her face and shook her head. The thought that Sandor Clegane, mob boss of one of the most prolific organized crime syndicates on the west coast, was getting critical of Mr. Big, a fictional T.V. character, was too funny for words.

"It takes him awhile to come to terms with his feelings for her," Sansa informed as the tone of her voice evened out while she worked to catch her breath from laughing. "He goes after her eventually. He follows her to Paris and brings her back home."

"What a fucking sap," Sandor huffed out as he crossed his arms tightly about his chest before turning towards Sansa, pulling one of his arms away from his chest and holding it out towards her, palm facing up. "Okay. That's enough. Give me the remote."

Although his voice intimated finality in the manner, Sansa found herself spurred on by the ridiculousness of the situation.

"No," she replied flatly as she shook her head and wrapped the remote tightly in her arms. Shooting Sandor a taunting smile, she watched as his eyes narrowed threateningly at her.

"Hand it over," he demanded with a voice that feigned danger as he leaned towards her.

"Nope," Sansa exclaimed defiantly as she held her head high in the air, shaking it slowly from side to side.

Swiveling so that he was now fully facing her, Sandor leaned forward and lowered his voice until it sounded akin to a growl rumbling from his throat.

"I'll have that remote. Whether you will it or not."

Feeling a smile pulling on her lips once more, Sansa tentatively lifted her eyes to him and found he was glowering at her. Shyly, she shook her head at him as she scooted away and clutched the remote tighter to her chest.

Trying his hardest to maintain a fearsome demeanor, Sandor pulled his legs up on the couch and began slowly crawling towards her, reaching her in a few short strides of his arms and legs.

Squeezing her eyes shut and shaking her head, Sansa could feel him hovering in front of her as he exhaled a laugh. Giggling madly with anticipation of him reaching her, Sansa curled up into a tight ball on the couch as she felt him gently settling on top of her.

"Give it to me. Now, girl," he demanded with a menacing growl.

Slowly peeling her eyes open, Sansa found Sandor above her, one hand on either side of her head and his legs straddling her on either side.

"I'm not afraid of you," she whispered as she met his eyes, a small smile pulling across her lips.

Smiling devilishly, Sandor narrowed his eyes at her as he cocked his head to the side.

"Is that right?," he inquired through a deep, groaning laugh as he began pulling on her arms to try and loosen her grip.

Squealing, Sansa pulled her knees tighter to her chest and writhed underneath him as he tried again to pry her arms open. Gasping for breath through fits of laughter, Sansa fought like mad against him, squirming and wiggling each time he tried to pull her arms away. Back and forth they went until both of them laughed in turn, demanded the other to relent, pushed, pulled, squirmed, pressed, and struggled against one another until they were both gasping, breathless and winded more from laughing than anything else. Eventually the laughter and movements slowed to a halt.

Sansa stilled underneath him, her heart pounding and her blood running hot through her veins as she met his eyes. His smile had faded away and all that was left was the burning intensity of his gaze as his eyes roamed over her, desperate with a yearning desire. It should have scared her; being underneath this hulk of man, entirely helpless as his eyes eagerly absorbed the sight of her body and lingered over the curve of her waist, the fullness of her breasts, the moisture on her parted lips. True to her word, Sansa wasn't afraid of him and instead she felt her body humming under the pressure of him on top of her and buzzing with an electric shock of her own desire as he stared hungrily at her. Only now did Sansa realize that through their wrestling, she somehow came to straddle him, one leg on either side of his torso and hung wantonly over each of his hips.

Sandor rocked gently into her, subtly pressing his hips into the back side of her legs. Seeing that Sansa was cradling the remote in her hands and pressing it against her chest, Sandor effortlessly encircled both of her wrists with one of his large hands and slowly lifted her arms so that they were situated above her head. With a renewed wave of heat coursing through her, Sansa's breaths were coming wild and frantic, her chest heavily rising and falling with each inhale and exhale. The movement caught his attention as Sandor gazed at the sight of her body on display beneath him. In slow, deliberate movements, Sandor placed his other hand on the side of her waist and gently squeezed his fingers there. A sudden jolt went through her and Sansa burst into giggles at the sensation. Grinning wildly, Sandor squeezed again and watched amused as another fit of laughter erupted through her lips as she squirmed desperately underneath him.

A few more times he did this, chuckling along with her as she laughed until she was breathless and pleading with him to stop the assault of tickles. Although he stopped squeezing her waist, Sandor let his hand remain there and instead set about slowly running his fingers from her waist up the side of her rib cage and back down. With her arms still pressed above her, Sansa watched as Sandor gently lowered himself on top of her, his chest pressing lightly against hers as his lips brushed against the side of her neck.

"Not afraid, huh? You're singing a different tune now, little bird," he groaned on a deep rasp, his breath warm against the wild pulsing of her neck.

For a few moments, Sandor stayed as he was, his fingers still carefully running up and down her side as he pressed his weight against her. Pulling away from her, Sandor sat up and removed his hand from her waist and pressed it against her forearm. Gently, he ran the palm of his hand against her forearm still situated above her head until it reached his other hand encircled around her wrist. Sansa's fingers loosened on the remote which fell from her hands and bounced from the couch. Neither of them cared about the remote anymore and Sansa let her fingers open so that Sandor's fingers could easily interlace with hers.

With the soft glow of the T.V. illuminating his form, Sansa could see he was panting slightly, his breath coming ragged from his lips. The palms of his hands pressed against hers were burning hot, his skin radiating the heat almost as intensely as Sansa's skin was radiating her own heat. Through the dimness of light, Sansa matched her eyes to his and found that the unbridled yearning she had seen there not moments earlier had softened. In its place, something else had begun to flood his eyes, something purer. The lust he had considered her with was now replaced with something deeper, something akin to admiration. He was no longer undressing her with his eyes, but instead looked at her as if she were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, like he was taking in some masterpiece of artwork.

With their fingers still intertwined, Sandor pulled her up until they were both sitting, facing one another. Sansa unwound her legs from his hips and sat Indian-style in front of him. Unbidden, a small frown fell over her lips at the loss of contact between her and Sandor. Her body already missed the warmth and weight of him on top of her. However, Sandor still hadn't unlaced his fingers from hers and instead their interwoven hands were resting softly on the small space between them. Beyond that, he was still gazing at her with that same stare; a stare that spoke more of respect, trust, and admiration than of lustful and aching desire. He still wanted her, she knew, and she also knew now that she wanted him too, but this ran deeper than that.

Sansa stared at their hands folded together for a moment before slowly letting her eyes wonder up until she met his stare. As her eyes met his, Sansa felt him undo his right hand from hers and watched at he brought it up to the side of her face. His fingers pressed gently against the side of her neck as his thumb ran along her jaw line until coming up to caress her cheek.

Unable and unwilling to break their stare, Sansa gazed back at him and allowed her lips to part with a slow intake of breath. Taking that as his cue, Sandor discreetly and unknowingly, most like, licked his lips as he leaned towards her, his head tilting ever so slightly to the right.

Pressing a soft kiss against her mouth, Sansa was surprised at how smooth and warm his lips were as they brushed against hers. Delicately, he massaged his lips over hers until his top lip matched hers and his bottom lip effortlessly found its place. It was a gentle kiss, surprisingly sweet in a man such as him and tentative as if he were testing the waters with her.

When he pulled away, Sandor allowed his forehead to remain resting against hers. Looking up at him, Sansa saw that his eyes were still closed as he took long, lingering breaths. Before he could open his eyes again, Sansa returned his kiss, leaning into him, but now it was her lips searching out his, her lips sweeping across his mouth which parted slightly in surprise.

And just like that, the delicacy and tenderness gave way to the release of passion. Wrapping his arms around her lower back, Sandor pulled her onto his lap with one firm tug, groaning against her lips as she timidly wrapped her legs around his hips. Instinctively, Sansa allowed her arms to drape across his shoulders and encircle his neck. She felt as his tongue ran slow and warm against her lips, begging them to part so he could deepen the kiss. When she did let them part, the burning intensity she had seen in him moments before seemed to manifest on his tongue which slowly swirled about hers, eagerly tasting and taunting her with each pass. As Sansa moaned softly into the kiss and shifted her weight on his lap to gain leverage, Sandor groaned deeply in return and pressed himself further into their kiss while one of his hands made its way to the back of her head, fingers lost in locks of her hair. Sansa felt as Sandor slowly moved his over hand down from her lower back and slid it underneath her bottom. With a push on her bottom that matched a rock of his hips, Sandor pressed her closer against him until their bodies were flush with one another.

When the kiss slowed and the weight of their bodies pressed together released slightly, Sandor let his hand fall from the back of her head and allowed it to meet his other hand which returned to the small of her back. With their foreheads and noses pressed gently together, Sansa's lips curled into a pleasured smile and she felt her heart skip a beat as Sandor returned that smile with just as much pleasure.

After a few moments like this, Sandor pulled away from her just enough so that he could look at her. His eyes flickered with a flurry of silent thoughts while his mouth still held a dazed smile. The darkness and brooding that typically accompanied him had cleared away and what was left behind was a surprising tenderness that even Sansa hadn't expected. Matching his eyes to her, Sandor lifted his hand to brush the hair away from her cheek. Closing her eyes contentedly, Sansa responded by tilting her head towards his hand and pressed her cheek further into his palm before slowly letting her eyes flutter open. When she met his gaze again, a look of pride had seemed to flood his eyes and once more she felt as though he were admiring her.

Wordlessly, Sandor wrapped her up in his arms so that she was cradled against his chest, her head nestled in the crook of his neck. Slowly, he lowered himself, and her with him, to lay down on the couch. With her legs tangled in his and her arms folded against his chest, Sansa looked up and watched as Sandor pulled a blanket from off the back of the couch with one arm and draped it over them.

Situating a pillow underneath their heads, Sandor draped his arm over her waist and gazed down at Sansa as she mindlessly allowed her fingers to graze across his chest and over the fabric of his shirt.

Removing his arm from her waist, Sandor brushed his fingers underneath her chin and lifted her head so that she was looking at him. Pulling her closer, he once more pressed his lips to hers in a kiss. This time it was neither delicate nor passionate, but rather slow and lingering, both of them content to savor and explore each other's lips. The movement of their lips and tongues against each other was sensual and warm; a gentle lick there, a throaty moan here, and the subtle motion of their bodies rocking against one another as they found their rhythm.

As the rhythm of their kiss slowed to a stop, they both pulled away ever so slightly, each with a contented and sleepy smile. Sandor once more brushed the hair from the side of Sansa's face with the back of his hand and leaned forward to plant a gentle kiss on her cheek before settling his head back on the pillow and closing his eyes with a deep sigh. Tucked in his embrace, Sansa fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. She didn't toss, she didn't turn, and she wasn't haunted by nightmares. She was safe.


A/N:

I sincerely want to thank all you lovelies who leave the most wonderful and encouraging reviews I could ask for. You all are the BEST and I could not have anticipated the amount of love you all are sending towards this fic. Thank YOU so much! I have the best readers EVER, hands down :)

I also want to thank everyone who has left a review as a guest. This site does not let me reply to your review, but I do very much appreciate it and want to thank you. Thank you to everyone who favorites and follows this story as well!

I had a few people ask what type of music I write to and request a playlist of sorts. If you enjoy reading to music, these are the songs I had on repeat for each chapter.

Chapter 1

1.) "Gods & Monsters" Lana Del Rey

2.) "Cola" Lana Del Rey

Chapter 2

3.) "In The Clouds" Under the Influence of Giants

4.) "Sometimes the Line Walks You" Murder By Death

Chapter 3

5.) "Folsom Prison Blues" Johnny Cash

6.) "Panic Station" Muse

Chapter 4

7.) "Mama's Room" Under the Influence of Giants

8.) "Undisclosed Desires" Muse

9.) "Pyro" Kings of Leon

Chapter 5

10.) "High" Lindi Ortega

11.) "Hearts a Mess" Goyte

12.) "Gimme Shelter" The Rolling Stones

Chapter 6

13.) "If I Lose Myself (Alesso vs. OneRepublic) NOT the extended version…just the normal one

14.) "Side" Run The Red Light

15.) "Clarity" Zedd ft. Foxes

Chapter 7

16.) "Jungle" Emma Louise

17.) "Paradise" Coldplay

18.) "Mirrors" Justin Timberlake (yeah, that's right. I like JT and I am not ashamed to admit it)