Author's Note:

Hi readers and welcome back after the longest update I've ever had between chapters: 2 months! I have never been so stuck with writer's block like I was this summer. I probably thought about this story every day, but couldn't bring myself to go anywhere with it. I think what really helped me to break past the barrier was going back and reading reviews from my old stories and also the stories themselves. The reviews were so encouraging, and I realized that my writing wasn't quite as bad as I'd remembered. So all that to say, your reviews make a HUGE difference in my inspiration level and self-confidence in my writing. Even just a one liner saying you liked it, but if you have time, longer reviews are like an IV line to a writer, lol. Anyway, even if you aren't logged in, it doesn't matter, any comment makes my day. And if you love it, favorite it! That gets me more readers and hopefully more interest which boosts my writing juices :D You guys are the best!

And on a final, more technical note, in this chapter I have invented the names for the Wolfsriver and the Whiteroad, as I have not seen any road on the maps of Westeros which would directly lead to White Harbor, and I have not seen the name for the Western tributary of the White Knife. I assumed that the most logical place for the road would be on the southern side of what I've called the Wolfsriver, because the Kingsroad would likely have a well-maintained bridge there or some other easy crossing. This way they would not need to cross a river again until reaching the harbor, but they'd have access to fresh water throughout their journey by following the rivers. If any of you know information that I was unable to find on these geographical locations, feel free to correct me and I'll edit it ;)

Chapter 7

Vulnerability

-Sansa-

"He's lost the woman he loved," the Hound turned slowly aside from the window to face her, the fierce intensity of his gray eyes penetrating to her core, "I did too, once." His voice was deep and raw as he moved ominously closer to her, his large hands balling into fists.

Sansa's insides coiled with fear as she stumbled backwards, struggling to keep her distance from the man who advanced steadily toward her. She shook her head and choked out a reply.

"I—I didn't know. I'm sorry."

He snatched her wrist without warning, eliciting a yelp of terror from his captive as he jerked her toward him with an iron grip.

"I think you did know," he growled, low and menacing in her ear as his cruel hands crushed her against his armored body, the scent of blood and vomit filling her nostrils. His eyes flashed green and black in the surreal light of the wildfire that raged just outside her window, a violent scene punctuated by the screams of dying men and the crashing of distant trebuchets. Sansa felt as if she had entered the seventh hell.

"No, please, Ser!" Sansa panicked, her nails scraping against the steel of his breastplate as she fought to free herself from his hold, clawing so violently that her fingertips began to bleed. She gaped in horror as thick, red rivulets streamed down the tarnished metal, marring the version of herself which was reflected back at her into an unrecognizable image of gore.

"Ser? Foolish girl, I'm no ser!" His voice had changed, morphing from the deep, rasping growl of the Hound to the maniacal sneer that made her blood run cold in her veins. "I am your lord husband!"

Sansa jerked her head up in horror, her whole body shaking as she beheld the face of the man she thought she'd never see again.

Ramsay.

Where the scars of the Hound had been only moments ago, there was nothing but wasted and worried flesh from where his dogs had ripped into him. The wounds were dripping blood with strips of flesh hanging loosely off of them, but the worst were his eyes; piercing, evil, and so blue they were nearly white.

Sansa tried to scream, but his hand clamped over her mouth, slickened and black with coagulated blood. She gagged as the sickening, metallic taste found its way to her tongue, tearing at the hand with every ounce of her strength. Unfazed by her struggles, Ramsay flipped her around and shoved her face into the bed, laughing as he procured a knife and held it against her throat. Only Sansa knew, inexplicably, that the knife was not a knife, but the severed member of Theon Greyjoy, pressing cold and hard against her trembling flesh.

Thrashing and screaming, Sansa struggled to put distance between herself and the vile object in her oppressor's hands. Ramsay's sick laughter filled her ears, as the room around her slowly lost its emerald glow, replaced with an oppressive darkness. It edged in from all sides until she could see nothing and feel nothing but the weight of him pinning her, immovable, to the bed. All that was left in her senses was the endless cold, cruel laughter smothering her, snuffing out her life as easily as one might blow the flickering flame of a candle into nonexistence.

Sansa jerked her face away from the pillow, her long braid falling over one shoulder from the sudden movement. Her heart was pounding in her chest and her breath was coming in fast, ragged draughts accompanied by little panicked sounds that might have been sobs. The darkness was all around her, but Ramsay was gone. It took only a moment for her mind to adjust to her surroundings and accept that this world was the true one, and not the hell from which she'd just emerged.

It was just another night terror, not unlike the many others she'd experienced since escaping from Ramsay's custody. Only this time it had also featured the Hound. She had not dreamt of him for years.

Shuddering, Sansa pushed herself upright on her cot, wincing immediately as she realized that her left hand must have fallen asleep. The pins and needles sensation of blood returning to it, while not quite painful, was always uncomfortable, so she gritted her teeth until it passed. She'd been lying on it, she realized, had somehow wedged it awkwardly under her neck in her sleep. It felt cold and clammy and Sansa became aware that it had been her own hand which had spurred her subconscious mind into torturing her, as she'd believed it to be a piece of severed flesh wielded by Ramsay.

Blinking away the sleep from her eyes, Sansa squinted through the darkness of her tent and was only just able to make out the brazier in the corner; the coals had all but died out. It must be quite near dawn, though the world was still shrouded in darkness.

She found that she had no desire to try and sleep any longer, telling herself that she felt fully rested, while avoiding the obvious truth that it was fear of being subjected to another dream which actually drove her to arise and dress herself.

She needed to walk, to be alone with her thoughts in a place that made her feel closer to those who'd once protected her. In Winterfell, that place had always been the godswood.

How I wish there was one here, she mused as she pulled on her boots clumsily in the darkness, relying only on the faint glow that the dying embers cast across her sleeping chambers. Even without a godswood, she could walk away into the forest for just a few minutes, enough to put a little distance between herself and the rest of the camp to clear her thoughts and settle her nerves.

Feeling blindly for the cloak which she'd hung over the back of her chair the night before, Sansa's fingers finally settled on the heavy wool garment. She pulled it securely over her shoulders before shuffling toward the opening of her tent, moving slowly lest she stumble over something in the darkness.

It wasn't until she'd already lifted the fabric aside and ducked to move through it that she remembered her night guard. In Winterfell, Sansa had hardly noticed the guards stationed around the castle when she'd traveled its corridors in the night, heading for the godswood after a particularly bad night terror had awakened her. And they'd hardly noticed her; a lady of a castle was free to move about it whenever she pleased and she was safe within its walls.

Out here on her journey, however, she'd been guarded night and day by her two shields, and occasionally, a trusted stand-in. She felt that she could possibly persuade a regular guard (they were usually Unsullied) to allow her to walk alone, with assurances that she would not go far, and thus she found herself hoping that she would not find Brienne at the post, or worse…

"The lady is up early this morning."

He spoke softly yet his voice, deep and gravelly, caused a familiar thrill to travel down Sansa's spine leaving her flesh raised all over in little bumps. She had felt the same reaction from his voice on other occasions, and despite the rather pleasant sensation it caused every time, she always felt deeply discomfited by the experience, given the inducement.

Sansa closed her eyes and sighed at her ill-luck.

"Clegane. I just—need to walk for a bit," she replied in hushed tones, noticing with some irritation that he did not cease whatever he was doing while she spoke to him. "I will not go far and will return presently."

The distinct sound of a knife scraping repeatedly against wood continued piercing the silence of the early morning and Sansa frowned in annoyance. "What are you doing?"

"Whittling," he grunted matter-of-factly from where he was seated somewhere to her right, and by the sound of his voice, he was apparently not even looking in her direction.

Sansa huffed, "How can you carve wood in the dark?" She couldn't say why she was curious, or even why she was hesitating to set out on her walk to talk to him, but his disinterested demeanor was irksome.

He let out a small chuckle through his nose, the rhythmic sounds generated by his activity never ceasing.

whick, whick, whick

"It's not dark. Not to me. There's a moon and I've been out here long enough for my eyes to adjust. But you," the whittling stopped for a moment, and she heard, rather than saw his face turn toward her. "You've been dreaming."

Sansa was so struck by the sudden and unexpected insight into her private experiences that she hesitated in her response just long enough to give him the confirmation that he probably didn't need. He started up again.

Whick, whick, whick.

"Don't bother denying it, Sansa. I know what a night terror sounds like." With a final stroke, she heard the sound of his knife being sheathed and he stood, mail and leather chinking and creaking as he took a step closer to her.

Sansa instinctively drew back to maintain the distance between them, opening her mouth for a retort only to close it in the next instant. To her great frustration, she found that she could not formulate a reply, neither simple, nor witty, nor anything at all. She just stood in place, feeling as if her privacy had been invaded. Even her moments of weakness and fear were not hidden from him, this man who always seemed to have the ability to see straight through her; as a girl, as a woman, as his superior, it made no matter. He always knew everything that she was about. He made her feel completely vulnerable, and this frightened her nearly as much as her dream had. In a desperate attempt to steer the conversation, and gain control, she turned upon him.

"That doesn't surprise me in the least, I'm sure you've had plenty of them yourself," she responded coldly, tucking her arms beneath each other as she withdrew further from him. "With a brother like yours."

He snorted and moved still closer to her. "You're deflecting."

Sansa gasped at his directness, still at a loss for how to defend herself against his intrusions. He stretched out his hand. "Well, you wanted to walk. Walk."

She glared at him, just barely able to make out his features, yet unable to properly read his expression in the light of the half-moon which was already low on the horizon in preparation for the dawn. Snatching up her skirts, Sansa stalked away in the direction of the forest, ready to be left alone.

After only four or five paces, she heard him moving behind her and Sansa whirled around furiously.

"What are you doing? Don't follow me!" She hissed, in a failed attempt to speak softly.

The Hound chuckled again as he reached Sansa and regarded her with some amusement. "Woman, do you really think I would allow you to walk alone in the forest in the darkness? I'm your bloody shield, what do you take me for?" He grinned, an expression that was impossible to miss in any light, and extended his hand again toward the treeline.

Sansa made a sound of exasperation and gave up, quickening her pace to at least put distance between them. If he wanted to follow her, then she would give him a pursuit that would hopefully remove any trace of humor he currently felt at her expense.

They trekked into the woods for a minute or two in silence, Sansa half-jogging and Sandor easily keeping pace with her. She carelessly plowed through drifts of snow that nearly went over the tops of her calf-height boots and ducked beneath outstretched branches. Finally, the Hound broke their silence, startling Sansa with how closely he'd kept up with her.

"Does trampling through snow in the dark on this piss-cold morning make you feel better, Lady Stark?" Sansa heard a branch crack behind her as he followed her into a small clearing where a patch of moonlight filtered through the tops of the trees and reflected off of the smooth, unbroken snow.

"I told you not to follow me," she snapped, not turning around to face him and instead proceeding stubbornly toward a fallen tree of which the trunk would provide a place for her to sit and sulk.

"Following you is my job, but that doesn't answer the question."

Sansa reached the tree and all but slapped it clean of the accumulated snow before seating herself firmly. She glared into the forest ahead of her, hugging herself tightly and doing her best to ignore the Hound.

There were few woodland sounds at this hour and Sansa thought that the world felt eerily silent. Her original plan to be alone with the forest, to feel close to the old gods and the family that she'd lost was dashed to pieces by her stubborn companion. She clenched her jaw and rued the day he'd been named her shield.

Long moments passed until Sansa couldn't tell where the Hound was anymore. The fresh snow had muffled the few movements she'd heard behind her, but she refused to turn around to see if he'd left her alone. She observed passively that the world around her had grown slightly less dark; the dawn was inching nearer.

"You can't run from what's in your head," he said finally, from just a few feet beyond her right shoulder.

"I'm not running from anything," Sansa responded irritably, turning her face away from the direction of his voice. Why had she thought that he might have left? The man would never do anything that might give her pleasure, choosing rather to follow whatever route was sure to irk her the most.

He snorted derisively, "Clearly not. I guess this was just a peaceful stroll through the woods." Sansa felt the trunk move beneath her as he apparently leaned against it.

When no answer came from her, the Hound scoffed. "Guess you have to be drunk to speak to me," he muttered. "Pity I didn't bring a wineskin out here."

Sansa unfolded her hands in a sudden movement and planted them beside her, stiffening her shoulders.

"Why do you insist on aggravating me, Sandor Clegane?" She jerked her head sideways to glare at him, "Ever since the first time you spoke to me on the Kingsroad years ago, you've found joy in taunting me. What ever have I done to provoke you so?"

There was silence for a moment as he processed her outburst, his brows knitted in contemplation while he studied her face.

"I found no joy in taunting you…" he finally responded, without conviction.

Another pause.

"You were just easy to provoke," he rasped with a noncommittal shrug. "You with your fancies and maiden's dreams and 'if you please's.' Needed a reminder of what the world was really like."

Sansa swung her legs over the trunk and jumped to her feet with indignation, swiftly closing the gap between them until her face was mere inches from his own.

"And have I not had that reminder, Sandor?" she spat angrily at him "Shall I thank you for pointing out to me early on that it was less likely I should ever live my 'maiden's dreams' and more likely that I'd end up beaten and tortured? Does it please you that I was taught that lesson by a cruel husband, raped and flayed according to his daily moods?" Her voice broke, but she continued breathlessly, "Are you happy, or do I need yet more lessons? I lost my parents, I lost my brothers. I lost my trust in everyone! Are my constant night terrors not enough? Tell me, Sandor Clegane, what more have I yet to learn of 'what the world is really like?'"

Her chest heaving, Sansa gulped down a sob and covered her mouth with a trembling hand before turning her back to him quickly. She could show him her anger, but she would not show him her tears.

Sansa stared ahead through the vast forest in front of her, her whole body shaking with emotion. The same image of tree and branch and white, white snow continued as far as she could see, until they all began to merge into one as her vision blurred. She fought against the emotion which tore at her insides; the anger, but more poignant, the sorrow which only ever came through in deep, dark moments when she was at her most vulnerable. It was an overwhelming feeling of despair which cloaked her until she felt that she would be smothered by it.

She finally heard movement behind her, and before she could register surprise at the gesture, a large hand gripped her shoulder and turned her around to face him. She gasped softly as the Hound took both her shoulders firmly in his grasp and gazed down at her with unrepressed feeling in the depths of his gray eyes.

"Sansa," he rasped softly, "my biggest regret is not having taken you with me when I left that hellhole—not having done more to spare you from Joffrey's rages." She gaped at him, eyes wide as he placed a large calloused finger beneath her chin and raised her face up to look directly into his eyes. "If I could do it over again I would have taken you with me that night, taken you back to your family. Against your will if I had to. You didn't deserve the hand that life dealt you."

Sansa struggled to recover her composure. Her palms were sweating and her pulse was racing wildly. She swallowed nervously, and responded in little more than a whisper. "And why should you care what happened to me?"

His thumb stroked her jawline for a brief instant while he studied her face before reluctantly allowing his hand to drop. He cleared his throat and moved a little away from her.

"I'm your shield, ain't I? It's my job to protect you," he grinned, and their moment of intimacy was over, but not before Sansa had glimpsed, for the first time, a truth that had been staring her in the face all along.

It was as if a light had been illuminated inside of her as the Hound stepped aside to allow her to retrace their steps back to the camp. She hardly noticed anything on the walk back; not the pink hue of the sky, nor the snow glittering like millions of diamonds beneath her feet. Sansa moved as if in a trance, her mind racing, her hands trembling, and each breath coming out in a shudder. Something had become as clear to her as the day which was spreading rapidly over the snow-white world before her eyes.

Sandor Clegane was in love with her.

-Sandor-

With the dawn came the rising of the entire camp and the onset of acute feelings of regret for Sandor regarding his moment of transparency with Sansa during the early hours of that morning. He was both thrilled and agitated by the intimate encounter, but there was no denying that he was beginning to lose his restraint around the woman. It was not so much his physical restraint, although there was that as well as he'd touched her in ways he probably shouldn't have, but evidenced by all recent interactions with her, he was apparently losing all emotional restraint where she was concerned.

He hadn't intended to provoke her, and he kicked himself for the callousness he'd shown her when faced with his lady's obvious distress. To hear her speak so brokenly and violently about the atrocities that had been done to her had shocked him into unwittingly revealing far too much of his feelings to her.

But Sansa's very nature and person provoked feelings in him, feelings that he'd neither felt, nor dwelt upon for years. Sandor had survived a cruel and unjust life by thriving on a strict range of emotions which varied from hatred to rage, or else just indifference. It was only ever during the unguarded moments in which he traveled to the bottom of a wineskin that he remembered what it was like to feel other emotions; to feel loss and pain, to feel loneliness. And in his darkest, drunkest moments, to remember what it was like to love.

The grown man that was Sandor Clegane had not truly known love, and he'd begun to believe that it was an illusion, nothing more than a story that cunts told to their stupid, impressionable children to groom them for marriage. He'd been duped into infatuations as a young man, fooling himself into believing that women could see more than the scars on his face, but it hadn't taken long for him to learn what they were all about. A woman could only love a man who was either handsome or powerful, and while some were at times drawn to the power Sandor possessed physically, this only lasted as long as a tumble between the sheets before they were off again in search of the only kind of power which was truly bewitching to them: wealth, and with it, influence.

But the boy whom Sandor had once been had known love, if only for a few short years. It hadn't been the fanciful, ridiculous love between knights and maidens, the love that was just a disguise for a man's lust. It was the pure and perfect love from a mother and sister, both of whom Sandor had adored with all his heart.

Lady Clegane had been the image of the Mother herself, with a disposition that was so kind and unassuming, that if Sandor had not known her himself, he would never have believed that such a woman had ever existed in the flesh. She'd left his world too soon, planting a final kiss on his tousled head one cold, wet day in late autumn, her frail hands gripping his chubby ones as tightly as her strength could manage, refusing even to the last to let him go. He'd been all of five years old when she'd reluctantly took up the Stranger's hands in place of his own, following Death into the seven heavens, where young Sandor always knew she would have gone. And when he'd wept for his mother, much to the disgust of his elder brother, he'd been gathered up gently into loving arms and consoled by Elynor.

After his dear mother, there was no one else in the world whom Sandor had loved more than his sister, Elynor. She was four years his elder, but had so cheerfully taken up the role of mothering him ever since Lady Clegane had lost her strength, that his father oft said that she was old beyond her years. Elynor became Sandor's whole world. She'd care for him, play with him when he was wont for a playmate, and when night fell, she would lie in his bed and sing to him the song by which his mother had lulled him to sleep as a babe. And after he had been so terribly burned by the cruel brother they shared, she'd wept bitterly for him, tending both to the wounds on his face and the wounds in his heart.

Elynor had been the only reason he'd fought to stay alive, the only person in the entire world whom he cared for after losing his mother. Until the day that he lost her, too.

Sandor shook his head to clear it of the painful memories as he took up his mounted position behind lady Sansa. He rarely allowed his mind to travel back to those distant reveries which were both sacred and poignant; though so many years had passed, the wounds still felt as raw as the days that he'd watched them both die.

Despite the somewhat unwelcome addition to their party from the night before, Sansa had felt that they could not delay their movements south, but neither could she release the two men without first consulting with those in command at Winterfell. Therefore, she had decided that their prisoners would march south with the caravan, back the way they had come, until a raven returned from Winterfell detailing what action should be taken regarding them.

So the journey continued toward White Harbor with two mouthy knights added to their numbers. Brienne had been instructed to continue to oversee their captivity which left Sandor directly responsible for the charge of Lady Sansa, and thus had him by her side all day. He was uncertain why Sansa had not decided on the reverse, especially when she seemed to loathe his company so thoroughly, but he was not about to voice any complaint either. He was far more in favor of the current arrangement.

The travelers expected to see the fork where the Wolfsriver joined with the White Knife later that same day. After crossing the smaller, western tributary shortly after departing Castle Cerwyn, the caravan had left the Kingsroad to follow the Whiteroad which ran south and east alongside the Wolfsriver and, later, the White Knife, until both road and river would end at White Harbor.

Journeying along the river made for pleasant scenery, and it was easy to pass the time taking in the splendor of the vast Northern landscape. It became almost a game for Sandor to recall certain hills or specific bends in the river from his recent travels in which he'd been riding in the opposite direction along the very same road, heading for Winterfell. Heading for Sansa.

At regular intervals, his thoughts always came back around to her. She had been behaving unusually to him all day, speaking very little to him, and yet he'd caught her eyeing him on more than one occasion with something of a question in her piercing, Tully eyes. He knew, undoubtedly, that it was related to their interaction that morning, but could not determine what she meant by it.

He was passingly annoyed at himself for becoming so transparent with her, even going so far as to stroke her face while he shared his regrets with her. But a very small, often ignored part of his conscious craved release for the secret, formless feelings which he possessed for Sansa. He never fully articulated what those feelings meant, even in his own thoughts, but they were consuming in their intensity as much as they remained as yet undefined. Every time he was alone with her, they seemed to come closer to the surface, almost begging to be recognized and given the validation of being consciously felt and experienced by him, but true to his surly nature, he actively rejected them.

To give validation to whatever feelings he had for Sansa would create a vulnerability in him, an opening for the inevitable loss which always came on the heels of emotions like love or a sense of belonging.

Besides, the last time he had tentatively allowed himself to feel something for the sweet, timid, lady Sansa, she'd rejected him when he'd been most vulnerable, and that rejection had ultimately been the reason he'd wandered through the Riverlands like a drunken fool, coming face to face with death after hearing the news that she'd been wed to the Imp. Ever since he'd regained consciousness after days of fever, nursed back to health by Septon Ray, he'd cursed his infatuation with her and had actively suppressed all further thoughts or feelings pertaining to Sansa Stark.

Of course, all of that was before he'd learned that his path would cross hers again; before he'd laid eyes on her once more in Winterfell's courtyard, so very like that first time he'd ever seen her, and yet so unlike it. For this time she had not been merely a lovely girl toeing the line of womanhood, she'd been a veritable goddess. Her matured beauty had almost struck him dumb, and her sharp tongue had finished the job, rendering him as useless and stupid as a squire on his first day of service.

While there were similarities to his obsession with her years ago in King's Landing, the feelings he had now were also very different. She'd been young then, too young, and so he'd drowned his unwelcome desires in strongwine, determined to forget her, yet failing time and again. Once she'd flowered, he'd convinced himself that she was now a woman grown, and had stopped torturing himself for his interest in her. Yet when the time came, she'd rejected him all the same. He had only offered her protection and a way home, had not even hinted at his true reasons for wanting her to join him, but it made no matter. Sansa had still rejected him.

But now his interactions with Sansa were very different. She was no longer timid, and there was no question anymore of her womanhood; shadowing her day and night was a constant visual reminder of that. Sandor had spent many years in the service of Cersei, one of the most beautiful women in the seven kingdoms, but the passing physical appreciation he'd had for the queen's beauty was absolutely nothing compared to the constant desire he now felt for Sansa. He was loathe to admit it openly to himself, but there was almost no point in denying the obvious. He wanted her.

And now, as he watched her thick, auburn braid swaying methodically across her back as they rode, he realized—with no small bit of humor at the perfectly literal illustration of a figurative truth—how completely hypnotized he'd become by this woman. She'd thoroughly consumed his thoughts and consciousness ever since he'd been reunited with her, had once more reduced him to a state of increased vulnerability and left him with a confusing tumult of mixed emotions.

Sansa was both beguiling and intriguing, both broken and strong. He craved her presence, and yet she consistently recoiled from him. He knew that it was not a reaction borne of fear as once it might have been, but what seemed to Sandor to be sheer stubbornness. She was drawn to him too for some unknown reason, he felt sure of it, but she continued to pull away at every turn, almost as if she was unwilling to be…

Vulnerable.

The realization struck him fully in that moment and he wondered why he'd not seen it before. Sansa, like himself, had been hurt terribly by those who should have loved her, and so she pushed away anyone who might put her into such a position of vulnerability again. They were far more alike than he'd ever realized before, even down to the scars they both wore, inside and out. And while he knew of at least one external scar marring Sansa's lovely skin, he found himself wondering how many more were beneath that gown? How many scars had Ramsay carved into her lovely flesh because of his sick obsession? Flayed, she'd said. He flayed her. The thought enraged him more than he could have thought possible, but for now he pushed it away, not wishing to distract himself from the direction his mind was going.

For now he was still trying to determine what to do about the predicament he was falling further and further into with each passing day. As he studied the perfect lines of her profile, he allowed the reality of his situation to settle fully upon him: he had bound himself in service to a woman who had fully bewitched him, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to control himself with her.

Sansa, seeming to feel his gaze upon her, turned to him suddenly; she'd caught him directly in his intense perusal of her. But instead of sticking her chin out and looking stubbornly in the other direction as she usually did when she caught him looking her way, Sansa's cheeks turned crimson. She chewed her lip as she sometimes did when she was nervous, and hastily tucked behind her ear a few wisps of hair which had escaped her braid.

It dawned on Sandor instantaneously when he had seen her behave that way before; he remembered mocking her for it. First on the Kingsroad, when she'd looked at the prince with stars in her eyes, and later during the tournament of the Hand when the Knight of Flowers rode out onto the lists. He stared at her incredulously as his mind began rapidly piecing together her behavior over the last few days, now seen from an entirely new perspective.

Sansa caught her breath, and in the next moment came back to her senses, forcing a look of indifference onto her countenance. She averted her gaze quickly, but not before Sandor had seen in her reaction all that he needed to know. The slightest breeze could have knocked him off of his mount in that moment.

Sansa Stark was attracted to him.